29. ORLANDO, FLORIDA
ORLANDO, FLORIDA
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Silas was completely buried beneath the heavy white duvet, his massive frame sprawled across the mattress like a fallen god, his hair a wild, tangled web against the pillows.
I stood by the edge of the bed, already dressed in a sharp, tailored black button-down shirt and dark charcoal slacks.
My body was a map of agony. I hadn’t slept a single second.
I’d spent the remaining hours of the night sitting in the dark, watching the slow, even rise and fall of Si’s chest, my mind running through the blueprint Jim and Tate had laid out.
I reached down, my hand gripping Silas’s bare shoulder, shaking him with a gentle pressure. “Si. Wake up, baby.”
He let out a long, miserable groan. His shoulders tensed beneath the sheets as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. He was notoriously, spectacularly grumpy in the mornings, and the fact that the clock on the nightstand read exactly 6:45 AM wasn’t helping his mood whatsoever.
“Cal… no.” His Southern drawl was thick with exhaustion. He reached out blindly, searching the empty space beside him for my warmth.
“We have a schedule to keep, champion.” My tone shifted into that authoritative register that usually made his posture straighten.
He peeked out from beneath the duvet, his brow furrowing into a frustrated scowl. “A schedule for what? The rehearsal block isn’t until noon. Why the hell are you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?”
I didn’t answer his question. I couldn’t. If I gave him even a single hint that we were heading into a high-stakes ambush, his brain would instantly short-circuit into a manic, over-calculating loop of panic. I needed him moving, and I needed him moving now.
I strode over to his open suitcase, digging through the neatly folded piles of clothes until I found a pair of dark jeans and a fitted black sweater.
I yanked them out, tossing them onto the mattress beside him.
But as I turned back toward the bag, my fingers brushed against a slippery, elastic piece of fabric hidden in the side pocket.
A wicked smirk formed at the corner of my mouth. I turned back to the bed holding the thong between two fingers and tossed it directly at his bare chest.
“Don’t think I fucking forgot.” My voice was a low, suggestive purr as I turned on my heel and walked toward the bathroom to grab our travel kits.
Behind me, the sheets rustled as Silas sat upright in bed.
The horny, submissive beast inside him woke up in a fraction of a second.
He didn’t know what the day held, but that single gesture likely gave him hope that whatever bullshit we were about to endure would inevitably lead to him getting thoroughly railed into the mattress later tonight.
“I’m moving!” Si called out, his voice pitching up with a sudden excitement as his bare feet hit the floor. “I’m moving.”
The drive through the palm tree-lined avenues of Orlando was an exercise in total composure.
The morning sun was beginning to break over the horizon, bleeding a soft, pinkish-gold light across the humid Florida landscape.
Si sat in the passenger seat of the car, blissfully unaware of what was waiting for us at the end of the highway.
He looked entirely at ease, his posture relaxed, his legs splayed wide.
His fingers were lazily tracing patterns onto the center console, occasionally reaching over to touch the edge of my slacks.
He thought we were heading to an empty arena to run through the physical sequences for the Man Overboard program, completely isolated from the main roster.
But beneath my tailored clothes, my heart was hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs.
My palms were damp against the leather of the steering wheel.
Silas had no idea what he was stepping into.
He had no idea that he was walking straight into a closed-door meeting that his own fucking father and uncle would be sitting in on.
He didn’t know the entire hierarchy of the United Wrestling Federation was currently gathered in a single room, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I kept my eyes glued to the highway, my jaw locked so tight, the muscles in my cheeks were jumping. I looked at the silver band gleaming on my left hand, the metal a cool comforting weight against my skin.
“Cal?” Silas’s soft voice cut through the quiet hum of the engine, his eyes looking over at my profile with a sudden, intuitive concern. “You’re quiet today.”
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t let him see the sheer panic I was hiding. I just reached across the console, my hand finding his knee, squeezing firmly through the denim.
“I’m fine, baby.” I lied smoothly.
“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, resounding BOOM that 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. ”