A Seat at the Table

Manhattan headquarters was a monument to excess—all polished marble floors, soaring glass panels, and cold, impersonal efficiency. The Peak Media logo, backlit in sterile white, stretched across the far wall, towering over visitors like a silent declaration of power.

Logan Drake stood in the center of it all, gripping the strap of his leather messenger bag like a lifeline.

His suit—his best suit, the one he’d bought for networking events and “serious meetings”—felt out of place here. It wasn’t expensive enough, not sleek enough. He could feel the subtle weight of judgment from the corporate sharks milling around him, each one exuding confidence that made him feel like an intruder.

But this was his shot.

The dream he had built in his head—the tournament, the fighters, the storylines—it was finally happening. He had to believe that.

“Mr. Drake?”

A voice cut through his thoughts, smooth and measured.

He turned and came face-to-face with Victor Blackwell.

Logan had done his research—he’d seen the press photos, the interviews, read the glowing Forbes articles about the media mogul with a reputation for turning everything he touched into gold. But seeing him in person was something else entirely.

Victor was impeccably groomed, every detail sharpened to perfection—the storm-gray eyes, the charcoal suit, the controlled stillness that made him feel less like a man and more like a force of nature.

Victor extended a hand, his grip firm but not overbearing. A handshake designed to make someone feel important while subtly asserting dominance.

“Welcome to Peak Media. I’m Victor Blackwell.”

Logan shook his hand eagerly, forcing down his nerves. “Mr. Blackwell, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me—and for partnering with me on this.”

At the word "partnering," Victor’s smile froze ever so slightly, though he masked it with a nod.

“Of course, Logan. We’re excited to be working together. Let me show you around.”

Victor turned, leading him through the expansive headquarters, moving with the kind of effortless confidence that only came from owning the space.

As they passed through the sleek hallways, Logan tried to ignore the fact that every employee moved with an air of quiet urgency.

Glass-walled offices revealed men and women in tailored suits, murmuring into headsets, typing at lightning speed. There was no wasted motion here. No casual conversation.

Victor gestured subtly toward the view outside.

“You’ve got quite the vision, Logan. A one-night tournament. Wrestling versus MMA. It’s bold, ambitious—exactly the kind of thing we like to invest in.”

Logan beamed at the praise, his guard dropping.

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell. I’ve been working on this idea for months, and with Peak Media’s support, I really believe we can make it something special.”

Victor gave a small, practiced smile, but his eyes held no warmth.

“We already have.”

Logan blinked, his steps faltering slightly. “Wait—you’ve done all that already?”

Victor turned, meeting his gaze. His voice was as smooth as silk, but the undertone was

unmistakable.

“We’re partners, aren’t we?”

Logan nodded, forcing a grin. “Of course.”

But a small voice in the back of his head whispered that he wasn’t in control here.

Victor led him into the conference room—a high-rise fortress overlooking the city, where

Peak Media’s elite had already gathered.

Sitting in calculated positions around the table were Genevieve Vaughn, Sebastian Greer, and Oliver Crane.

Victor gestured smoothly.

“This is Genevieve Vaughn, our head of PR.”

Genevieve’s auburn hair gleamed under the cool LED lighting, and her deep green eyes held a flicker of something Logan couldn’t quite place. She offered him a polite but measured smile, shaking his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Logan.”

Victor continued.

“Sebastian Greer, head of operations.”

Sebastian rose to shake his hand, a former military strategist turned corporate powerhouse, helping run a multi-billion-dollar empire. His gaze was measured, his presence commanding, leaving little doubt that he is not someone to be underestimated.

“Welcome aboard.” His voice was calm, steady, but carried the weight of authority.

“And Oliver Crane, our CFO.”

Oliver barely looked up from his tablet, giving Logan a thin smile that never reached his eyes.

“Logan, we’re all very excited to be working with you.”

Logan shook each hand eagerly, but something about the room felt… off.

The way they watched him. The subtle glances they exchanged. The quiet amusement lurking beneath their professionalism.

Victor took his seat at the head of the table, motioning for Logan to begin.

“Why don’t you share some of your plans with the team?”

Logan launched into an enthusiastic rundown of the wrestlers and fighters he’d been

contacting, naming veterans, up-and-comers, and crossover athletes.

The room listened politely.

Too politely.

Victor nodded occasionally, interjecting with the occasional approving remark, but Logan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was being left unsaid.

When he finally paused, Victor folded his hands together and smiled.

A cold, deliberate smile.

“That’s quite the lineup.”

His words were smooth, encouraging. But there was nothing behind them.

Logan grinned. “I just want this to be perfect. Something people will remember.”

Victor’s smile widened ever so slightly.

“Oh, they’ll remember it.”

Logan took that as a good sign.

Genevieve did not.

As the meeting wrapped up, Logan stood to shake hands again, practically glowing with excitement.

“Thank you all so much. This means the world to me.”

Victor clapped him on the shoulder as he led him toward the door.

“The pleasure’s ours, Logan. We’re thrilled to be part of this journey with you.”

Logan nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll keep you updated on the roster!”

The moment the door closed behind him, the air in the room shifted.

Silence.

Then, Victor let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“He really thinks he’s in control.”

Sebastian smirked. “It’s almost cute.”

Oliver exhaled a short laugh, folding his hands behind his head. “Almost.”

Genevieve said nothing.

She stood, gathering her things, but before she left, she cast a final glance toward the door

Logan had just walked through.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Then she turned and walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Victor watched her leave, his smirk never wavering.

“Oh, Genevieve,” he murmured, more amused than annoyed.

“Always the bleeding heart.”

As laughter filled the room once more, the wolves of Peak Media savored their latest victory.

And somewhere down the hall, Logan Drake still believed he was one of them.