29. ORLANDO, FLORIDA #2
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.”
Presley’s face went a dangerous, ugly shade of red. “They violated policy. They brought their private lives onto my broadcast! They showed an absolute lack of respect for the corporate structure—”
I stood. “Shut your mouth, Presley.” The entire room went dead silent. Every eye snapped to me as I adjusted my glasses, blood heating to a lethal simmer. I stepped away from the table, walking directly into Presley’s personal space, my frame towering over him.
“I take full responsibility for the retaliation,” I said. ”I’m the one who posted the picture with the middle finger. But let’s talk about the real policy violations in this building.”
I looked back at Mark, opening the manila folder Scott had handed me.
“For the last month, this man has subjected my husband and me to a targeted campaign of professional harassment.” My voice boomed through the boardroom.
“He explicitly informed us that we could not present ourselves as married. He banned us from wearing wedding bands, claiming it distracted from the storyline. He threatened our contracts over our jewelry. And to top it off, he forced us out of the main talent locker room, restricting our physical presence to a literal, filthy storage closet in the B-block of the arenas to ensure the rest of the roster didn’t feel uncomfortable around our dynamic. ”
Mark’s jaw dropped in unadulterated horror. He stared at his son, his chest heaving under his silk vest. “You… you put them in a closet?”
“It was for the good of the locker room!” Presley screamed, his voice pitching up hysterically as he panicked. “They were a distraction. They were—”
“That’s not the only thing he did, Mark.”
Julian Martinez’s raspy voice cut through the shouting like a guillotine. He lifted the stack of photographs, sliding them across the polished wood until they rested right under Mark’s nose.
“Look at the manifests from eight years ago.” Julian’s voice shook with devastating emotion.
Silas sat frozen in his chair, his head snapping over to look at Julian, his entire frame going terrifyingly still. This was the first time my husband would hear this revelation.
“Silas didn’t slip,” Julian revealed, the words dropping into the room like lead weights.
“The equipment manifest proves that the backstage production department, managed entirely by Presley, recycled a set of old, damaged aluminum ladders from a hardcore match three weeks prior to save fifteen percent on the technical budget line. The top step of the ladder sheared off the second Silas put vertical pressure on it to launch his jump. He didn’t cause the botch, Mark.
The faulty, cheap equipment did. He spent years blaming himself for breaking my back, because your son wanted to save a dollar to impress the Board. ”
Silas stood up from his chair. His eyes were wide and burning with a sudden, and murderous Reed rage. He stared at Presley, his chest heaving against his fitted sweater, his long fingers twitching at his sides.
“You mean to tell me…the only reason any of us got hurt that night… That Julian never walked right again, and the only reason I lost seven years of my fucking life…was because of the fucking ladder? Because you wanted to save money?”
And that was all it took. The fuse had reached the powder keg.
Mark flew out of his seat with a violent, earth-shattering roar, a sound of pure, patriarchal fury that I had never heard come from a corporate executive in my life. He kicked his chair backward, the chair slamming against the wall, and charged around the table like a rabid dog.
“You stupid, arrogant, vindictive little piece of shit!” Mark screamed at the top of his lungs, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple as he cornered Presley against the doors.
Presley stumbled backward, caught off guard by the sheer velocity of his father’s rage. His coffee cup slipped from his fingers and spilled across the carpet.
“Dad! Please, listen to me, it was a budget correction, it was for the margins—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the margins!” Mark roared, his finger poking violently into Presley’s chest, driving him back against the wood.
“The ladders?” Mark shouted, his eyes bulging.
“You used scrapped equipment in a main event stunt block! You crippled a star and destroyed a generational legacy to save fifteen percent on a manifest? You lied to me, Presley! You told me it was a talent execution error. You are a liability to this family, and you are a disease to this business.” Mark was on a rampage now, his breathing ragged as he loomed over his son, his voice shaking the drywall.
“And you put my top guys in a storage closet because they’re married?
Do you have any goddamn idea what you’ve done?
That is a clear, textbook human rights violation, you moron!
They could sue this fucking company for everything it’s worth, walk into a federal courtroom, and win the entire empire because of your pathetic, small-minded ego! ”
Mark stepped back, pulling his silk vest down with a sharp, final yank, his face cold.
“This is over.” Mark hissed. “Effective immediately. You are fired. Get your things, leave this building, and if I ever see you near a UWF camera again, I will call the cops. I’m taking the company back.
I am the acting Chairman again, effective immediately until my daughter Sasha can arrive from London to take your place permanently. Get him the hell out of my sight!”
Tate didn’t wait. He signaled to the door, and three massive, uniformed arena security guards pushed through.
They grabbed Presley by the arms, ignoring his high-pitched, hysterical screams of protest, and forcefully escorted him down the concrete hallway, his voice fading into the distance like a dying animal.
The room was dead silent. Everyone stood there, completely speechless, the sheer magnitude of the executive coup leaving the air thick.
Mark turned on his heel, his face still flushed with rage, and sprinted straight out of the room toward the stairwell. “Jim! Rob! Follow me to Gorilla right now! We have a live broadcast to format, and I’m tearing up every single script that idiot signed off on!”
Jim and the General Managers bolted out behind him. My head was spinning at a million miles an hour. Silas stood beside me, still rigid, his eyes staring blankly at the coffee cup on the carpet.
But before I could check on him, our attention was immediately pulled to the sound of Maverick’s voice.
“Tate,” Maverick called.
Tate paused near the doorway, his clipboard under his arm. He turned slowly, his sharp eyes finding Maverick’s face. A soft, knowing smile touched his lips. “Good to see you, Mav.”
Maverick stepped forward, extending his hand in the space between them. He looked at Tate with profound, vulnerable disbelief.