A/N: So I know I said I was gonna update every Monday. But I'm greedy when it comes to reviews/favorites/follows and I think I may get a better response when I post on a Friday vs. a Monday. That being said, please take a second to review at the end. It means a lot to me - and there's a lot going on in this chapter!

Speaking of what's going on in this chapter: to clear up any confusion, while Brad Maddox is no longer a potential romantic interest for Hannah, their kayfabe engagement is still very much a part of the story. He was a central part of the Shield's early storyline, and I try to keep my fics as close to reality as possible :)

Chapter Four

Friday, January 25, 2013
Sheraton Phoenix Downtown
Phoenix, Arizona

Hannah had been going a mile a minute since Monday, and it was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, she didn't have any time to think about Phil or AJ; but on the other hand, she hadn't had any time to sleep, either.

After RAW had wrapped in San Jose, California, Monday night, Hannah had driven the two hours north to Sacramento for the SmackDown taping Tuesday night. Then from Sacramento she'd flown six hours back across the country to Stamford, Connecticut, where she'd spent two hectic days at WWE headquarters. And then she'd boarded another plane in Stamford to fly five hours all the way back to Phoenix, where she'd only just arrived some two hours ago. But while most of the WWE roster and crew were taking advantage of their night off to catch up on some much needed rest and relaxation, Hannah was doing no such thing. It was the eve of Royal Rumble weekend, and she had work to do.

She was sitting alone in the hotel's restaurant, snacking on mozzarella sticks and sipping a glass of merlot, watching YouTube videos of independent women's wrestling matches on her iPad. Just the other day WWE had put out a casting call for models—and Hannah had nearly flipped a table. WWE didn't need any more models. What they needed were real women wrestlers, and to that end she'd decided to compile a crop of match highlights from the most talented, eye-catching women she could think of and send them off to Paul and his minions. If no one else in the company was willing to go looking for female talent on the independent scene, Hannah would do it herself.

She had just finished watching Allysin Kay vs. Mia Yim in a Fans Bring the Weapons Death Match—admittedly, not quite the aesthetic WWE promoted for its women's matches, but she couldn't not watch a fight like that—when she felt it: someone was watching her.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The restaurant was packed, but it felt like she was entirely alone in the room, left at the complete and total mercy of her voyeur. Discreetly she raised her eyes from her iPad; it didn't take long to spot the culprit. Dean Ambrose was sitting at the bar, and he was staring right at her.

Immediately she looked back down, her pulse racing. How long had he been there? How long had he been watching her? A shiver ran down her spine. From the moment she'd met Dean Ambrose, something about him has just unsettled her.

It went back to the very first time she had ever watched him wrestle. Ambrose was cut from the same cloth as hardcore legends the likes of Terry Funk and Mick Foley, pushing his body to its absolute brink—and then pushing it even further. His independent career was a highlight reel of matches that ended with him covered in his own blood, and that was exactly the way he seemed to like it. Hannah figured one of two things: either he couldn't feel pain, or pain was the only thing he could feel. It was hard to say which was worse.

But while Ambrose's matches were absolutely brutal, it was his promos, as arresting as they were, that could be downright deranged. Prior to his Insanity Pro Wrestling World Title defense against Drake Younger in 2009—yet another "Fans Bring the Weapons" match—he had actually said, verbatim, "Believe me when I tell you, I never lie. Believe me when I tell you I would just as soon slice open every one of the fans here tonight, as I'm going to Drake Younger." Normally, Hannah wouldn't have taken his word for it; having grown up in the business she automatically filtered kayfabe from reality. But with Ambrose, sometimes she just couldn't tell—and that was exactly what made him so sinister. On the surface, he scared her because he had proven to be a little bit crazy. But deep down, it was what he might be capable of that disturbed her the most.

She cautioned a glance back up at him. He was still watching her. She could just get up and leave; her bill was already paid. Then again, the last thing she wanted was for him to know just how uncomfortable he made her. So she turned her attention back to searching for videos—until out of the corner of her eye she saw him get up from the bar. The next thing she knew, he was standing right in front of her. She looked up at him, unsure of what to do.

"I didn't mean to stare," he said. "I wasn't sure if it was actually you. I almost didn't recognize you."

Hannah's shoulders relaxed; she could see why he would say that. Her long chocolate-colored hair, which usually fell in perfectly undone waves over her shoulders, was pulled up in a messy bun atop her head, and her blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of tortoise shell Ray-Ban eyeglasses, whereas she normally wore contacts. She was even dressed down in an oversized t-shirt, a dark red hoodie, and comfy leggings. No one in WWE was used to seeing her like this.

But just because Ambrose had given a valid reason for staring didn't mean she was willing to let her guard down just yet. "How long have you been here?" she charged.

"Just got here," he answered. "I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and then I saw you. I haven't even taken a sip yet."

Hannah's eyes shot to his glass. It was full to the brim, foam and all. Maybe she was acting a little paranoid, after all.

"What're you watching?" he asked with a glance at her iPad. Hannah yanked her headphones from her ears, suddenly feeling rude.

"Oh, I'm compiling a bunch of match portfolios to send to Paul," she explained. "Right now I'm working on Allysin Kay. Do you know her?"

He shook his head. "I know of her. I know other people that know her."

"Yeah, that's how it goes. Everyone in this business seems to be connected somehow."

Ambrose's eyes sharpened. He was doing it again: gauging her, dissecting her with his gaze. Hannah fought an overwhelming urge to down the rest of her wine and leave. But then he slid down onto the opposite bench of the booth.

"You can't stop working, can you?" he asked. "I mean, I'm assuming you don't have to do that right now, at 11 o'clock at night. But you are. Why?"

Hannah stared at back at him, shocked by his frankness. She had absolutely no qualms about the fact that she was a workaholic, but no one had ever thought twice about it, let alone bothered to ask her why. And now that someone had, she found herself unable to come up with a good answer. "I don't know," she admitted rather sheepishly. "Even when I'm not on the clock, all I can think about is finding the next big thing, or changing WWE for the better. I can get pretty single-minded about it sometimes. It's kind of pathetic, actually."

She frowned down at the screen of her iPad—it was pathetic. She didn't have much of a life outside WWE. Truthfully, WWE was her life, and she hadn't allowed room for anything—or anyone—else in years. Even she and Phil had been brought together because of business. Once upon a time, she'd thought that was what made their relationship so strong. But hindsight was 20/20, and now she wondered if maybe it was why they had been so easy to tear apart.

"It's not pathetic," Ambrose interrupted her thoughts. "It's just what you love to do."

Hannah looked back up at him. His penetrating gaze had softened. The cold calculation had vanished from his blue eyes and been replaced with something else entirely: empathy.

"I'm the exact same way," he shared. "Wrestling made life tolerable. So it's become my entire life."

She offered a halfhearted smile. "I tend to dive into my work when I need a distraction. And I've needed a lot of distractions the last few months." She abruptly stopped, catching herself. She couldn't open up to Dean Ambrose, of all people, about something so private; they were complete strangers. This conversation had to end—now.

"But you're right. I should get some sleep." She scrambled out of the booth, nearly dropping her iPad in the process. "Have to get up bright and early for the fan fest tomorrow."

Ever so subtly, Ambrose smirked. He had gotten to her, and he damn well knew it. "All right. Goodnight, boss."

Hannah forced a smile and bolted out of the restaurant. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, Dean Ambrose had gotten inside her head—and she didn't like it one bit.

Saturday, January 26, 2013
Royal Rumble Fan Fest
U.S. Airways Center – Phoenix, Arizona

The inaugural Royal Rumble Fan Fest was in full swing. There were live matches, musical performances, panel discussions, autograph signings, and thousands upon thousands of fans eager to see and do everything—and Hannah was running on nothing but coffee, adrenaline, and the mantra I love my job.

She had risen with the sun after a night of restless sleep. Her encounter with Dean Ambrose in the hotel bar had plagued her thoughts, and even now she couldn't stop recounting it in her head. What had made her open up to him like that? She'd tried to pawn it off on the wine and just stop thinking about it, but she couldn't. All she could do was keep busy—just like always.

She was making another coffee run when her iPhone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out with a huff—it was probably Paul ordering her around some more—but was surprised to find a text from one Brad Maddox.

Where are you?

Hannah's brow lowered at the abrupt and unprofessional tone of the text. Who the hell did Maddox think he was? He may be her fake fiancé, but she was still his actual boss. Why? she fired back. His reply came not a minute later.

Come backstage near the ring entrance. I have a present for you ;)

A present? Her nose crinkled in disgust; that winking emoticon was practically leering at her. She didn't know what Maddox could possibly have for her, but it couldn't be anything she actually wanted.

What present? she returned. Her phone buzzed a few seconds later—and she couldn't help but roll her eyes when she saw his answer.

You have to come get it, sweetheart.

He wasn't going to let this go. Fine, she sent back and marched off toward the ring entrance. But if this "present" was anything even remotely suggestive there was going to be an ugly red handprint across Maddox's mug.

She found him a few feet from the Gorilla position, looking dapper as usual in a too-tight shirt, his elbow propped casually atop an electrical box. But he also looked suspiciously empty-handed.

"Well?" she impatiently charged as she approached him. She did not have time for games. "Where's this present?"

Maddox didn't say a word. Instead, he straightened up and glanced around, pulled a tiny velvet box out of his pocket, and bent down on one knee. Hannah froze, mortified. This was not happening.

"Hannah McMahon, will you marry me?"

Loud clapping, whoops, and hollers burst from all around as Hannah's face slowly burned a brighter and brighter shade of red. And then she noticed the ring. "Is that real?!" she shrieked. She snatched the box out of his hand, much to the displeasure of their audience. "Please tell me this isn't real."

Maddox winced. "Will my answer affect yours?"

Hannah rolled her eyes. "Get up," she ordered as she jerked him to his feet. She pulled the ring out of the box to better examine it. Tiny micro-pavé diamonds sparkled from the silver band, and an impressive cushion-cut rock sat in the middle of a gleaming halo setting. This ring couldn't be real. A real ring like this would cost thousands upon thousands of dollars.

"It's a knock-off," Maddox confirmed. "Cubic zirconia. Hunter picked it up at a department store for 90 bucks."

Fucking Paul. It was just like her stupid brother-in-law to pull a stunt like this. Hannah would be sure to send Stephanie roses when she murdered him.

"You could have at least said yes, you know," Maddox moped. "I mean I went all out here."

"I already did say yes," Hannah shot. She shoved the ring back under his nose, but he didn't take it. He was too busy doing his best impression of a sad puppy dog.

"You're not going to wear it? But it's a symbol of our love…"

Hannah couldn't rightly tell if he was being sarcastic or obnoxious, but there was no chance in hell she was putting that ring on her finger, at least not while there weren't cameras rolling. "I'm not wearing it now. If I wear it now everyone will see it and fawn over it and think it's real, and then what am I supposed to say?"

"The truth: that we're madly in love and eloping in Vegas on Monday. Just like Stephanie and Triple H."

She nearly gagged. "Was that Hunter's idea, too?"

"No, that was all me," Maddox grinned. "But Hunter did say you have to wear the ring."

Hannah paused, an incredulous look in her eye. He was just pulling her chain. Right? "Um, what?"

"It's kayfabe," he returned matter-of-factly. "There are thousands of fans here. It'll make the big reveal more realistic if you're seen wearing it around. According to Hunter, anyway."

Hannah bit down on her jaw. Fucking. Paul. "And when did he say that?"

"Like half an hour ago, when he gave me the ring."

"And did he tell you to propose, too?"

Maddox bobbled his head back and forth. "Not in so many words. But basically, yeah."

Hannah swore she saw red. Paul was a dead man walking—but she was far too busy to deal with it now. "I don't have time for this, and I'm not wearing the ring. I'll wear it for TV, but that's it."

Maddox gave a nonchalant shrug. "All right. But take it up with the boss, not me."

Hannah rolled her eyes again as she stormed off. Oh, she'd take it up with the boss, all right, and she'd shove the ring right up his ass. "I love my job, I love my job…"

Later that evening the last of the events had finally wrapped, the thousands of fans were filing out, and Hannah was dead on her feet. Stephanie had invited her out for a late dinner, but she had declined—all she wanted was room service, a giant glass of red wine, and a steaming hot bath. Actually, a steaming hot bath with a giant glass of red wine sounded ideal. She knew what her plans were for the rest of the evening.

"Hello, Hannah."

She stopped gathering her things and tried not to audibly groan. There was only one person whose slimy, smug voice that could be. "Paul," she returned with a forced smile. Hannah didn't trust Paul Heyman as far as she could throw him—a fact that had become a lingering point of contention between her and Phil during the last months of their relationship. Of course, now that Heyman was Phil's manager she had even less reason to trust the former ECW promoter.

"Long day?" he asked.

"Yes," she bit. "Do you need something?"

Heyman pushed out his bottom lip and shook his pudgy face. "Oh, no; I just wanted to check in. Are you excited about tomorrow?"

Alarm bells went off in Hannah's brain; she didn't believe for one second that he "just wanted to check in." With Heyman, there was no such thing as small talk—he always had an ulterior motive. But even so, she was far too exhausted to care. "I am excited. A little nervous, but excited."

"Oh, well we all get nervous every now and again," he dismissed. "Honestly, I'd be surprised if you weren't nervous. Especially since…" he trailed off. "Actually, never mind. I shouldn't get into that; it's not my place."

Hannah shot Heyman a sardonic grin as she pulled on her jacket. That bait couldn't have been more obvious if he'd thrown out an actual fishing line. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to urge you to tell me anyway?"

Heyman's lips curled into an ugly grin; the lines around his beady eyes deepened. Paint him green, and he could have passed for the Grinch. "Well, if you really want to know, I'm just surprised you agreed to do it. You know, considering your rather contentious relationship with my good friend CM Punk."

That woke Hannah right up. Suddenly she was hyper-aware—and she could feel her blood beginning to boil. "You're right, Paul. My relationship with Punk isn't your place."

That should have been the end of the conversation, and for a respectful person it would have been. But Heyman didn't have any respect. "Perhaps not. But here's the thing, Hannah: I've known Punk for a very long time. He trusts me. He tells me things, and I've always had his best interests in mind. That being said, I know what it's like to work with someone you can't stand and vice versa, and how tempting it is to use your power to screw them over. Trust me, I've been there myself many a time before. So I just wanted to speak with you, businessman to businesswoman, and make sure that you won't not… act on that temptation."

Hannah's hands balled into tight fists inside her jacket pockets. It was all she could do to keep from slapping the grin right off Heyman's doughy face. Who the hell did he think he was? "Well, let me assure you, Paul," she grit, "you have nothing to worry about. I'll tell you the same thing I told Punk on Monday: if I was planning on using my power to screw him over, I would've done it already." She turned and left as fast as she could, still digging her fingernails into her palms. Now she wanted something stronger than a glass of wine—and a punching bag with Heyman's face on it.