I didn’t sleep a single second. The rest of the night was spent lying rigid in the dark, my arms wrapped securely around a sleeping Silas, watching the shadows slowly turn to a mocking gray. I didn’t dare look at my phone. I didn’t want to see the comments, the betrayal, or the corporate fallout. All I did was hold him, listened to the steady, even rhythm of his breathing, and prayed time would just stop.
That is, until my phone started to vibrate against the nightstand at exactly 7:00 AM.
It was Tate Martin, and the second I saw the name, my blood turned to ice. Silas slept through the vibration, his body still spent from the adrenaline crash. He didn't budge an inch, didn't even skip a breath, when I carefully peeled myself out of bed.
I quietly walked out of the room, gently pulling the door shut behind me, and padded down the hall in my bare feet, answering the phone as I stepped into the kitchen.
“Hello?” I said flatly.
“I’m assuming I don’t need to inform you of what’s going on?” Tate said on the other end of the line. His voice was accompanied by a long, weighted sigh. He soundedexhausted.
“Nope.” I walked over to the counter and prepped the coffee maker on auto pilot, knowing I’d need the fuel to get me through this conversation.
“And I’m assuming you know this shit is everywhere,” Tate added.
I let out a dry laugh that scraped against my throat. “I haven’t personally looked, but I can imagine.”
Tate sighed again, and a profound moment of silence passed between us. “What the hell happened, Cal?” he finally asked. Surprisingly, his tone was soft. He sounded more like a concerned parent than a corporate agent. “The video… There’s no spinning this.”
“Si has panic attacks,” I started, my voice hardening into a blade that demanded attention and respect. “And he was having one.A severe one.I wasn't about to let him sit there on a public sidewalk and drown in it just to protect a storyline, Tate. I’m not doing it.”
Tate groaned. “Look, I don’t have to tell you about the explosion that’s happening on my end. The sponsors, the network, the Board… I’m sure you can envision it well enough.”
I rolled my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cold stainless-steel of the refrigerator. “Yeah, I can.”
“Presley is going to be calling you and Silas at eight sharp.” Tate’s voice dropped into a serious, urgent register. “He’s in a full-on uproar, and there’s no cooling it down. Right now, all he sees is his company has been thrown into a frenzy he can’t control. So, when you speak to him, be guarded. Go in like you’re tiptoeingaround an active fire. He’s got a temper, and exacerbating it when he’s like this will only make shit worse for you and Si. Understood?”
I slammed my free hand against the marble counter, the sound echoing sharply through the quiet kitchen. I shook my head. “Understood,” I said between gritted teeth. The unfairness of it all was suffocating.
“I’ve got your backs, okay?” Tate assured me gently. “But we’ve gotta tackle whatever Presley is going to throw at you guys first. Make sure you record everything that fucker says. Do not take that call without it. We’ll need the paper trail. Talk soon.”
“Yeah. Talk soon,” I mumbled in response before the line went dead.
I stood there, leaning against the counter, trying to brace myself for the agonizing thought of having to wake Silas up for this. Might as well rip off the proverbial band-aid. With a deep breath, I finally looked at my notifications. There were thousands of them from social media. Tags on posts, DMs, trending alerts, and countless phone calls and texts from people I actually knew.
Then, there were the messages from Evan, Maverick, and Scott.
Evan:Dude, Presley is blowing up my phone looking for you guys.
Evan:Be ready. I think Scott and Maverick are in war prep mode.
Scott:Are you two okay? I’ve been getting phone calls from UWF people since 6 this morning!
Scott:Presley is calling both Mav and I
Scott:What the fuck happened?
Maverick:What the fuck happened last night
Maverick:Tell Silas to answer his fucking phone
Maverick: If one of you doesn’t respond in the next 30 minutes I’m coming to the house
A rush of intense, white-hot irritation hit me like a physical blow from Maverick’s texts. Not a single word asking if we were okay. No fatherly concern after watching a video of his son having a very public breakdown. Just an angry demand for an explanation, and a threat to invade our space because his precious legacy was being threatened.
I closed my eyes and tried to force the anger down. It was useless to waste energy being mad at Maverick right now.
As I turned to walk down the hall and wake up Si, my hands shook so bad, I almost dropped the phone. When I got back to the bedroom, Silas was still curled up in the exact same position I left him in. His face was relaxed, and his breathing deep and even. The morning sun was just starting to peek through the blinds, casting strips of golden light across the bed. He was beautiful, peaceful, and the ball of guilt in my gut grew.
