Page 125 of Big Dick Energy

“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?”