Chapter 4 - Derek's Side
Derek Whitfield had not slept in 48 hours.
He was sitting in a hotel room—a different hotel, a Marriott near the airport—with the curtains drawn and his phone on silent. Baxter was curled up on the bed beside him, snoring softly.
Derek stared at the ceiling.
The video had 3.2 million views. He'd stopped checking hours ago, but the number kept climbing in his head.
His phone buzzed. He looked at it. His lawyer again.
He didn't answer.
It had started with a phone call.
Derek had been in the lobby, checking in, thinking about the conference. It was his fourth year running the MedLine regional sales meeting—his chance to impress the VP of sales, his chance to secure the promotion he'd been chasing for two years.
Then his ex-wife had called.
He'd ignored it. She'd called again. He'd answered.
"Karen, I'm checking into a hotel."
"I don't care. We need to talk about the kids."
"Can it wait?"
"No, it can't wait. You missed Emily's recital."
"I had a work thing—"
"You always have a work thing."
"Karen—"
"I'm filing for full custody."
The words had hit him like a punch. He'd stood in the middle of the lobby, phone pressed to his ear, Baxter pulling at the leash.
"You can't do that."
"I can. And I will. Unless you start showing up for your children."
"I show up—"
"Once a month? Twice? They notice, Derek. They notice that you're not there."
"Karen, please—"
"I'll have the papers sent to your office."
She'd hung up.
Derek had stood there for a moment, phone in hand, trying to remember how to breathe.
And then the hotel worker had started talking to him about the dog.
He knew, in some part of his mind, that she hadn't deserved it. She was just doing her job. She'd been polite. Professional.
But something had snapped.
The rejection. The failure. The years of pretending everything was fine while his life fell apart.
He'd looked at her—young, calm, secure in her little rules—and he'd hated her.
Not because of the dog. Not because of the policy.
Because she was standing there, telling him what to do, and he had no control over anything anymore.
So he'd taken control.
The kicks.
He didn't remember deciding to kick her. He remembered the first one—the satisfying shock of impact. The way she'd crumpled. The way the lobby had gone silent.
He remembered thinking, I made that happen.
Then the second kick. The third.
He remembered telling her to apologize to Baxter.
He didn't know why. It didn't make sense. The dog hadn't been hurt. The dog didn't care.
But the words had come out anyway—somehow, in his twisted brain, it had seemed like the only thing that mattered.
Apologize to Baxter.
Like the dog was the victim.
Like he was the victim.
And then the father had arrived.
Derek didn't remember the father's face. He remembered the voice. Low. Controlled. Terrifying in a way that Derek hadn't expected.
"Who put hands on my daughter?"
And Derek had frozen.
Because in that moment, he wasn't a regional sales manager. He wasn't a father fighting for custody. He wasn't a man with anything left to lose.
He was just a guy who'd kicked a woman on the floor of a hotel lobby.
And everyone had seen it.
Now he was in this room, waiting.
His lawyer had told him to stay put. To not talk to anyone. To not post anything online.
His boss had called—once, twice, three times. Derek had answered on the third.
"This is bad," his boss had said.
"I know."
"The video. The company. Everyone's seen it."
"I know."
"The conference is canceled. The hotel chain—they're our biggest client. They're threatening to pull their contract."
"I know."
"Jesus, Derek. What were you thinking?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have an answer.
"HR wants to meet with you. Tomorrow. In person."
"I'll be there."
"Will you? Because right now, I'm not sure you should be anywhere near our company."
The call had ended. Derek had sat on the bed, staring at the wall.
Baxter had put his head in Derek's lap.
"Hey, buddy," Derek had said.
The dog had wagged his tail.
Derek had started to cry.
Not because he was sorry.
Not exactly.
He was crying because his life was falling apart. Because his wife was taking his kids. Because his job was gone. Because he'd just handed his lawyer a retainer he couldn't afford.
He was crying because he was going to lose everything.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered: You did this.
But Derek pushed it away.
It wasn't his fault. It was Karen's fault—for threatening custody. It was the hotel worker's fault—for provoking him. It was everyone's fault except his.
That was what he told himself.
That was what he had to believe.
Because if it was his fault—if he was the one who'd done this—then there was no one to blame but himself.
And he couldn't face that.
Not yet.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a text from his lawyer.
"Offer has been made. She hasn't responded yet."
Derek stared at the screen.
"Offer has been made."
"To the hotel worker."
"To the woman you kicked."
He thought about her face. He hadn't really looked at it—not before. She'd just been an obstacle. A rule. A voice telling him what he couldn't do.
But now he remembered her eyes. Dark. Steady. Not angry.
Not afraid.
Just... watching.
Like she was seeing him.
Not the version he pretended to be—the successful manager, the charming dad, the guy who had it all together.
The real version.
The version that kicked people when they made him feel small.
Derek set the phone down.
He looked at Baxter.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The dog wagged his tail.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into this."
The dog licked his hand.
"It's going to be okay."
The dog didn't answer.
May you like
Derek looked at the ceiling.
He didn't believe it.
