Drew McIntyre pulls his hair back into it's signature pony tail after buttoning his baby blue dress shirt back up, smoothing out his black skirt that was far from a kilt while he heads toward the ring that he had not been seen in for months - for all due reasons of his own.
He links his arms and fawns adoringly over his lover and boss, but The Chairman leaves him at the Gorilla position like a faithful dog in waiting. The Scotsman can hear Mysterio being introduced to the crowd as he fixes his lovers mauve and silver striped tie perfectly straight and smoothes out the lapels of his orchid-purple blazer. He understands that his man has something important to do, and would be back just as quick as he left; not one to argue against him, Drew nods like the perfect office-pet that he was and stands back in wait while McMahon's music is cued. Vince heads out to the ring; interrupting Justin Robert's announcing duties. The Chosen One combs his fingers through his long brunette locks and watches the nearby monitor intently, smirking while Vince postpones the WWE Title Match and the San Diego star gets out of the ring, he suppresses a fake laugh that was only mustered up to make himself look more like a jerk as the Luchador passed by on his way to the locker rooms; mumbling something in Spanish that the brunette was certain he didn't like the sound of; but he'd discuss that with Vince later. Now was his time to be tossed into the title match. He intently listens to the boss' words and nods in agreement to each statement made about his decisions about the company and what he was doing for the business - Drew knows that he is perfect for the top tier spot that Cena is holding onto. Having sat on edge of the man's desk - or laying straight across it with his gorgeous muscular legs swinging idly off the edge - he knew very well what was going down tonight.

From the footsteps storming up the corridor, he turns with an un-amused look and doesn't take too kindly to Cena heading his way, knowing what he had in mind to ruin the night. He blocks the Superstar's way immediately, with his hands on his perfectly sculpted hip bones. He demands an explanation and is just met with a childish insult about his womanly outfit; and granted, while dressing his lover in drag wasn't the greatest venture in fashion sense McMahon had been making lately- his own pink-looking sport coat included with the gray pants just about pulled the tie in and brown loafers that only matched his tanned skin, Drew wasn't about to take the insult right to his face. He reaches up with all intention of smacking "The Champ" with every ounce of force he had, in turn he just ended up caught in the behemoths grip and shoved out of the way, stumbling in his blue suede Louboutins.
He growls and rubs at the disappearing ache in his forearm and narrowing his blue eyes at the monitor at the perusing argument ready to occur. He could literally feel his anger boiling inside of him with each passing minute; and the second Cena goes to leave the ring, Drew settles himself into his obnoxious heels and happily awaits the words "You're Fired" when Triple H storms past him; not giving him so much as a glance. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms; not exactly sure where this was about to lead; especially when Hunter was asking him to come backstage and somehow Drew feels completely responsible for his actions both backstage and in the office setting and loses himself in his self absorbed thoughts.

"They have filed an injunction against you with a vote of No Confidence," Hunter's voice rings in Drew's ears, ending every thought he had about what he could have done wrong to start something new between Triple H and Vince - everything from making prank calls to Hunter's office in Titan Towers with Wade Barrett, to spilling red wine in a fax machine and starting a small but containable fire in the lobby.

Drew's arms drop to his sides and he just stares dumbfounded at the screen for a moment, but there was no way this was going to happen, and was more angry at the idea that Cena wasn't going to be fired tonight. Vince looks just as shocked and confused, and Drew starts to shake when he starts realizing that all of this was really, really happening; and perhaps it was all his fault, that perhaps the McMahon family was finally coming against Vince for his actions with him for the past three years.
With a ring on his finger and the promise of the World Title, he was certain nothing would have stopped them as a power coupleā€¦ but this could have been it. He moves out of the way for Cena to pass with a nasty little smile on his face directed at him, but he could care less about their fight with his husband in tears in the ring in front of millions of fans worldwide. Drew just about misses it as Helmsley walks by him, his blood pressure surging as he loses himself, and he's quite thankful for his daily manicure appointments that leave a nasty scratch across Hunter's face before he's tossed on his ass onto the floor - heels were just too hard to fight in. He stays put as he gets up, fixing his girly-getup and inching closer to the curtain to wait for Vince to come back.

Immediately as the dismissed CEO passes through the curtain, Drew makes his best attempt at linking himself around his arm; simply shocked when he's pushed off and McMahon carries on his way; refusing to look at anyone in particular and hurriedly walking off to his limousine. Drew follows as quickly as those obnoxious blue designer pumps will carry him, ignoring the thought at the back of his mind that he had just left his bag of gear behind and gender-appropriate clothing for being in the public eye. He slips himself back around the man he still considered his boss no matter the current circumstance, and he nuzzles himself gently into his side, even if the affection he attempted to provide wasn't very long lasting; he's shoved off and the cursed thousand-dollar heels have his perfect tight ass colliding with the harsh pavement for the second time tonight. When he gets up and dusts himself off again on the platform of the staircase, assured that the seams on the side of his skirt had broken open several stitches to match his broken scraped skin, the tail lights of the limousine are already almost out of the parking garage. He pries off the intolerable footwear and takes off after the luxury stretch, angrily tossing each shoe in the direction of the black Lincoln as it leaves him behind.

He quietly fetches his scuffed up shoes, walking barefoot back into the arena to find a ride to the hotel. He sits, staring at his phone that was buzzing with everything but a phone call or simple text from the one person he wanted to hear from, or just yell at.