Chapter 27 *

Chapter 27 *
Logan's POV
The meeting was quarterly contracts for Ironridge's women's division. The other side had sent three people — two attorneys and someone from their media rights team.
Damon was running it. He had the revenue framework open on his tablet and was walking them through the distribution split.
I leaned back in my chair. One arm on the armrest.
It kept doing fine until the other side's lead attorney started softening the language on the percentage cap.
"Rewrite the page," I said.
She blinked.
"The regional adjustment clause. Take it out. Fixed percentage, no conditional language." I picked up my water glass. "We'll wait."
She looked at her colleague. He looked at the table.
They rewrote the page.
My phone vibrated.
I looked at the screen. Keaton Remington.
I hit decline and set the phone face-down.
Damon kept talking. They kept nodding.
Ten minutes later. Vibration.
Keaton Remington.
Decline.
The third attorney was mid-sentence about the sponsorship window when it happened again.
Keaton Remington.
Decline.
Damon's eyes moved to me, just once, then back to the table.
The fourth time, I picked the phone up. Hit record first. Then answer.
I stood up, gave the room a single gesture and pushed the door open into the corridor.
I sat down on it, took out a cigarette. Then I put it to my ear.
"Where the fuck have you been?" His voice hit the line before I could say anything. "I've been calling for twenty minutes."
I didn't answer.
"Listen to me. My mother had a cardiac event this morning. She's in the hospital. I need you back at the pack house tonight — before six, you understand? Handle the staff, make sure everything's covered. Alora and I can't get back until tomorrow." A beat. "Don't make me say this twice."
I stared at the far end of the hallway.
I need you back. Not would you be willing. Not I know this is a lot to ask. Like she was still sitting in that pack house waiting for the next set of instructions.
I picked up the lighter. I let the cap click open — a clean metal sound. Then I lit it, slow, and took the first drag and let the exhale go steady against the phone.
Three seconds of silence on the other end.
He'd heard it.
"The fuck—" His voice had changed. "Who is this?"
"Who are you talking to?" I said.
"Where's Emery?" The edge in his voice had gone sharp. "Why do you have her phone?"
"You called her number and got me," I said. "That should probably tell you something."
"She doesn't have a man who—" He stopped himself. "Put her on the phone. RIGHT NOW."
I pulled the cigarette away from my mouth and looked at the ash building at the tip.
"I'm her employer," I said. "Training contract. During the evaluation cycle, athlete communications go through the team. Standard protocol."
A beat.
"I don't know who you are," he said, "but her personal life has nothing to do with any employer."
"Agreed." I let the ash fall. "Which is why what you just said before that makes me very unhappy."
"Excuse me?"
"You called this number and gave me a list of instructions," I said. "For someone who is, by any reasonable measure, your ex-wife. That's either a serious misunderstanding of her current situation, or it's something else." I kept my voice level. "Either way. Not a great look."
"Look." His voice came down about one register. "My mother is in the hospital. Cardiac event, this morning. She's stable, but it's going to be a few days. The pack house needs someone who knows the staff, knows the routine." He stopped. "Emery knows the house. She knows my mother. I'm not asking her to do anything complicated. I just need someone there."
"I'll pass that along," I said.
A silence.
"Tell her to be there before six," he said. The instruction was back, but thinner now.
He hung up before I could answer.
I lit another cigarette. The disgust sat in my chest like a slab of iron, heavy and sharp, pressing harder every time I thought about what they'd done.
After my mother died, I went through her things alone. A cracked phone I almost threw away. I opened it, and found a recording.
My father's voice came through the speaker calm as still water. He was telling her to handle something for his mistress.
Not asking. Not even pretending to ask. Because "she was the most suitable person" to deal with it.
I remember sitting there with that phone in my hand, every muscle locked so tight I could barely breathe.
That same logic. That same tone.
I took a drag until the smoke scorched my throat.
I hate them for what they are. I hate them for what they take. And if hell has room left, I'll make sure they find it.
Emery won't face them alone. Not while I'm still breathing.
Damon pushed open the conference room door about thirty seconds later. He looked at my face and went still.
I stood up. "Easthaven Fight Stable," I said. "Permanent exclusion. Ironridge, every Blackstone-affiliated card, any venue that runs through us. Matchmaking, facility use, co-promotion. All of it. Closed."
"The independent promoters on the regional circuit," I said. "The ones Keaton burned on his way up. Don't name names. Just make sure they understand it's worth revisiting their risk exposure on anything connected to Easthaven." I paused. "The circuit's small enough. One conversation each is fine."
"Understood," he said.