“Alright. If you say so, husband.”
The second I steered the car into the underground parking garage of the Amway Center, Silas’s easy, relaxed demeanor rapidly fractured.
He looked out the window at the concrete pillars, his brow furrowing. “Why are we here? The text from the office said we were supposed to report to the Performance Center. We’re not supposed to be around the live show.”
“We’ll discuss it later, baby.” I killed the engine and yanked the keys from the ignition.
“No, Cal, wait—” His voice pitched up with an instantaneous surge of anxiety, his hand grabbing my forearm. “Presley is going to fire us. If he sees us before call time, he’s going to use it as an excuse to extend the suspension. We shouldn’t be here.”
“Get out of the car.” I shoved my door open, stepping out into the damp, concrete chill of the garage, not waiting for his response.
He scrambled out of the passenger side, running around the hood to catch up with me. I reached out, my fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, and I dragged him toward the heavy, steel security doors of the talent entrance.
The fluorescent-lit hallway was completely silent. But standing directly in the center of the corridor, his arms crossed over his chest and a serious, razor-sharp focus in his eyes, was Tate Martin.
“Boys.” Tate’s voice was a low, urgent whisper that cut through the silence like a knife. “Follow me. Keep your heads down. We’re on a tight clock.”
“Tate? What the hell is going on?” Silas whispered.
Tate didn’t answer. He led us up a private concrete stairwell, bypassing the main locker rooms, the catering halls, and the production offices where Presley usually held court. We reached a long, carpeted corridor on the executive suite level of the arena, a section of the building that the UWF production team surprisingly wasn’t occupying today.
He stopped in front of a set of doors. He turned back to us, his eyes zeroing in on Silas’s face, and gave a single, firm nod. “Step inside, son.”
Tate pushed the doors open. My husband stopped dead in his tracks. Every single drop of color drained from his face, his jaw dropping in an expression of pure, unadulterated, mind-bending shock.
The boardroom was massive, bathed in the sharp glare of a polished crystal chandelier. A long, oval conference table stretched across the center of the room, and sitting around it was a lineup that looked like a physical manifestation of the industry’s entire history.
At the head of the table, his arms crossed over his pristine silk vest, with his silver hair perfectly coiffed, was Mark Murran, the billionaire Chairman of the United Wrestling Federation.
And sitting directly to his right were Maverick and Scott. Maverick’s eyes locked onto his son with an intense, silent fire. Scott sat beside him, a thick manila folder spread open in front of him.
But the visual that shattered Si’s equilibrium was the man sitting at the far end of the table. Julian Martinez. His sharp, intelligent eyes fixed on Silas. A stack of photographs and manifest sheets rested in front of him.
To top off the ambush standing against the back wall were all three of the company’s brand General Managers alongside Jim, who was currently leaning over Mark’s shoulder, whispering into the Chairman’s ear. Mark’s face was a mask of thunderous fury, a look of pure, unmitigated rage that made him look even more confused, stunned, and dangerous than Silas was right now.
“What the fuck is going on?” Silas whispered, his voice shaking with a surge of panic as I grabbed him by the elbow, ushering him toward the two open chairs situated directly next to Scott.
“Sit down, babe.” I pulled the chair out for him.
He dropped into the seat, looking at his father, then at his uncle, his voice a hushed stream of questions. “Dad? Scott? What is this? Cal, please, tell me what’s happening.”
Before I could formulate a response to quiet his mind, the doors at the back of the room swung open with an echoing bang.
Every single eye in the room snapped to the doorway.
Silas’s skin turned nearly as translucent as I was naturally, his breath freezing in his throat. Walking into the boardroom, a coffee cup in his hand and a smug,completely arrogant smirk plastered across his face, was Presley. He had walked into the room expecting a standard production briefing with his brand GMs, but the second his eyes scanned the table, the moment he spotted Maverick, Scott, Julian, and his own father sitting at the head, his smirk evaporated.
“Dad?” Presley faltered, his voice losing every ounce of authority. “What… what’s the meaning of this? This is a private production block.”
Mark didn’t look at his son. Instead, he slammed his hand onto the table with a violent, resoundingBOOMthat made the crystal glasses rattle.
“We’re here to review metrics, Presley.” Jim stepped forward, his voice filling the cavernous room like a roll of thunder. He opened his clipboard, his sharp eyes locking onto Presley through his spectacles. Jim’s tone was cold. “Tate, the other GMs, and I have spent the last seventy-two hours compiling the data from the previous six months of your administration. And the numbers don’t lie.”
Tate stepped up to the table, tossing a thick stack of analytical papers onto the wood. “Your ability to market and bring the world of professional wrestling back into the mainstream media was a feat none of us ever believed could be achieved again, Presley. We grant you that. The buzz was there.”
“But with all of your good,” the Showdown GM, Rob Harlow, chimed in, “the backstage execution has been extremely detrimental to the health of this company. The product is suffering because of your personal vendettas. The audiences are annoyed by the constant, erratic script changes, and the television ratings have been dropping steeply for three months straight.”
“Unless,” the Demolition GM, Kayden Michaels, added, glaring at Presley, “the segments involve Reed and Kincaid. Together or separate. They are the only two draws on your payroll that are maintaining the margins, and you just threw them into a closet.”
