Chapter 37 Fired
FIRED
DALLAS
Sam's office occupied the top floor of a glass-and-steel tower in downtown Tampa. All white marble and sharp angles and a reception desk that looked like it had been carved from a single block of imported Italian stone.
I'd been here a hundred times, but today, it felt different.
Today, I wanted to put my fist through the wall.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. The receptionist, a young woman with perfect posture and a headset that probably cost more than my first car, looked up and smiled.
“Mr. Dodger. Mrs. Spencer is expecting you. Go right in.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The fury that had been building since I'd left Davina, since I'd held her while she cried and listened to the poison Sam had poured into her ears, sat like a live coal in my chest. Hot. Dangerous. Barely contained.
But I needed answers first. I needed to understand what the hell had possessed my publicist to try to destroy my marriage.
Sam's office was exactly what you'd expect from someone who built her career on image management, sleek. One wall had floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the Tampa skyline, and a single desk in the middle of the room, with two chairs in front of it.
She stood as I entered, her smile the same professional weapon I'd seen her deploy in a thousand crisis meetings.
Today she wore a cream blazer over a silk blouse, her dark hair pulled back in that severe ponytail that made her look like she could negotiate a hostile takeover between breakfast and lunch.
“Dallas.” She gestured to the chair across from her desk. “Right on time. Come in, have a seat.”
I sat.
The leather was cold. Expensive. The kind of chair designed to make you feel small while the person behind the desk felt powerful.
I didn't feel small. I felt like a bomb with a very short fuse.
“So.” I kept my voice even, neutral. Curious, even, like I had no idea what she'd done. “What's up?”
Sam settled into her own chair, her tablet already in hand, her expression settling into that satisfied look she got when she was about to deliver good news. “I wanted to touch base about how well everything has gone.”
“Has it.”
“Absolutely.” She pulled up something on her tablet, turning it to show me graphs and charts that meant nothing to my rage-addled brain.
“Your fan base has skyrocketed. The podcast episode alone generated more positive press than your last three championship wins combined. Social media engagement is up 400%. Brand interest has tripled.”
I nodded.
“The protective husband narrative has been particularly effective,” she continued, apparently mistaking my silence for interest. “Women love you now. The demographic that was previously lukewarm has become your strongest supporter base. It's remarkable, really.”
I nodded again.
Sam set down her tablet. “Which is why I wanted to discuss the next phase. I spoke to Davina today.”
Anger mixed with outrage twisted inside me. “Did you?”
“Yes. We had a lovely conversation about how well everything has gone with this arrangement.” She folded her hands on the desk, the picture of professional concern. “And she brought up the divorce.”
I went very still. “Davina brought up divorce,” I repeated slowly.
“She did. She feels it's a good time to start hinting that there's trouble in the marriage and to lay the groundwork for a clean separation.” Sam nodded, as if this was all perfectly reasonable. “I have to say, I agree with her assessment. The timing is ideal.”
“Davina said that?”
“She's ready to get back to her real life, Dallas, and she wants the divorce to go smoothly for both of you.” Sam reached for a folder on her desk. “Which is why I've already found two lawyers who can represent both parties. We could have everything finalized within…”
“Did Davina really say all of that?”
Irritation flickered in Sam's expression. A crack in the professional facade. “Of course she did. We had a very productive conversation about…”
“See, that's interesting.” I leaned forward, and she squared her shoulders, her body stiffening as she realized that something was wrong.
“Because I talked to my wife, too. About an hour ago. Right after I found her crying in our bedroom, surrounded by suitcases, because someone told her I was planning to divorce her.”
Sam's face went pale.
“She told me everything, Sam. Every word you said to her. Every lie you fed her about attorneys and timelines and movers.” My voice was still calm and controlled.
But there was steel underneath, a cold fury that had been building since I'd walked through that bedroom door.
“Including the part where you told her she was never my type.”
“Dallas, I can explain…”
“Can you?” I stood, and the movement was sharp enough that Sam flinched.
“Can you explain why you went to my house, without my knowledge, and told my wife that I wanted a divorce?
Can you explain why you told her I'd called you, which I didn't, and asked for attorney recommendations, which I also didn't? Can you explain why you made a woman I love more than anything in this world believe that our marriage was a lie?”
“It was a lie!” Sam's composure cracked, her voice rising. “That's what this was, Dallas. A PR strategy. A strategy to erase the rumors that you don’t date women over the age of 23, and it worked! It worked beautifully!”
“It stopped being a strategy months ago.”
“Oh, please.” She laughed, but it was sharp. Ugly. “You can't seriously expect me to believe you've fallen in love with her.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Sam stopped herself, visibly struggling to regain control. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. More calculated. “Look, I understand the appeal, but Dallas, you have to think about the long term here.”
“The long term.”
“Your career and your brand. Your entire future.” She stood, moving around the desk like she was about to deliver a pitch.
“Marrying a plus-size woman was great for publicity. It appealed to a certain audience, generated sympathy, and humanized you. But now that the narrative has done its job, you need to let her go.”
“Let her go,” I repeated flatly.
“There's a lot of talk about her on the internet, Dallas. About you being with someone who looks like her and all of that affects you. It affects your career, your endorsements, your long-term earning potential.” Sam's expression hardened.
“Not to mention…” She paused. “There’s no way she can keep up with you.
It's my job to protect your career. That's what you pay me for, and right now, that means ending this marriage before it damages everything you’ve worked for.”
I stared at her.
This woman I'd trusted for years. Who'd guided me through press conferences and contract negotiations. Who I'd thought understood me, at least professionally.
“Did you call her fat?”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“When you were telling my wife all the reasons I couldn't possibly want to be married to her, did you use the word fat?”
“I may have mentioned that your physical preferences have historically trended toward…”
“You told her she wasn't my type because of her weight.”
“I told her the truth! Dallas, look at your dating history. Look at the women you've been photographed with. Models. Actresses. Women who fit a certain…”
“Women I didn't love.” The words came out hard.
Final. “Women I dated because they were easy and I was too scared to want anything real.” I stepped closer, and Sam backed up against her desk.
“Davina is the first woman who's ever made me want to be better.
The first woman who's ever looked at me like I was more than a paycheck or a photo opportunity.
The first woman I've ever wanted to build a life with.”
“Dallas…”
“You're fired.”
Sam's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You can't be serious.”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life.” I pulled out my phone, already composing the text to my lawyer. “You'll receive formal notification within the hour. Any ongoing contracts will be handled by my legal team. Please remember the NDA you signed. Oh, and Sam?”
She stared at me, her face a mask of shock and fury.
“If you ever come near my wife again, if you ever say another word about her, to her, or to anyone else about her, I will make it my personal mission to ensure you never work in this industry again.” I smiled, and it wasn't pleasant before I turned and walked toward the door.
“You're making a mistake!” Sam's voice followed me, sharp with desperation. “Your agent, Chris, is working on a brand deal worth millions. Millions, Dallas! And they want the single, available version of you. Not the married-to-a-fat-girl version. You're throwing away your future for…”
I paused at the door, looking back at her over my shoulder.
“For the woman I love?” I finished for her. “Yeah. I would give it all up for her, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”
The door closed behind me with a satisfying click.
The receptionist looked up as I passed, her professional smile faltering at whatever she saw in my expression. I didn't stop to explain. Didn't stop for anything.
I had a wife to get home to. A marriage to protect. A future to build with the only woman who'd ever made me want one.
Sam's voice echoed in my head as I stepped into the elevator.
Marrying a plus-size woman was great for publicity.
You need to let her go.
It's my job to protect your career.
The elevator doors closed, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Protecting my career had never been the point. Protecting my heart, protecting Davina, that was all that mattered.
And anyone who threatened that would learn exactly how far I was willing to go.