The press are lined up in the front. The photographers are snapping pictures. I can’t understand how they even manage to look like they’ve gone through a full day when it’s still only 10 am.

Yeah, hon, you guessed it. I’m so nervous. I almost decided to call the whole thing off today when I woke up.

I mean, can you blame me? I’m going to go in front of 8.5 million people in a few minutes right now and tell them that I’ve been a bad wife. That not only that, but I’ve seduced my own stepson. Talk about chickens coming home to roost.

I was literally five seconds away from sending Michael an email today.

But then I felt Lance’s arms around my shoulder. He pulled me closer to him in bed and I felt his cock grind against my ass. We’ve been sleeping naked every night I’ve spent at the Plaza now that Michael knows. It suits Michael just fine—Kenneth and he have been romping around I’ll bet.

This marriage is over. That’s for sure. But we’re not out of Michael’s crosshairs until we get this sorted. Lance and I can never be happy until I go do this.

All that doubt that I was feeling in the morning? As soon as I felt Lance’s strong arms hold me tightly against him, as soon as I felt his hard, cut body behind me, as soon as I thought about how much he loved me and stood by me while I figured this entire situation out, and yes, as soon as I felt that massive cock of his, I knew that I had to be in his life.

And there’s no way I can continue to be in his life if I don’t do this.

I take a giant sigh and walk to the podium.

Michael and Lance have gone over all the details. For the purposes of this press conference, Michael has felt it absolutely essential that Lance not be there while I speak.

“We need the media to focus on Jocelyn,” Michael apparently told Lance. “We have one chance to come clean and get them on our side. If it looks like we’re trying to play them, this could spiral out of control. And being there with her makes this whole thing look way more orchestrated than we want to let on.”

Of course, Michael was orchestrating this. Of course every detail had been gone over with painstaking detail. Literally, the election for mayor of the greatest city in the world is lying as the stakes.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Lance asked this morning as we dressed. There had been a savage protectiveness to his lovemaking in the shower, as he bent me against the wall and took me from behind as the water pelted our bodies. “Or stand by you when you go on in front of the press?”

“Michael said it was for the best if neither of you guys…” I had started but Lance wouldn’t let me finish.

“Fuck what anyone else says, Jocelyn,” he cut me off. Then he brought his arms around me and made me take a step closer. “All that fucking matters to me in this whole world is you. Fuck everything else.”

Honestly, just him telling me that at that moment made me realize that no matter what, I had to be brave and get this done. Because this was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So what if he was 15 years younger than me? So what if he had been my stepson? All my life, I’d gone from man to man, being told how beautiful I was that I never really knew what it meant to be cared for by someone. Michael gave me neglect and contempt under a shield of status and power.

Lance gave me love. He gave me his body. And I wanted to give him my soul.

That’s literally all I’m thinking about as I get onto the podium. How after this, I want to go bury my face in Lance’s chest. How I’ll be able to do that without having to worry.

Maybe we’ll get some lunch at The Spotted Pig. I hear they make a great burger. Maybe after that some shopping. Bergdorfs? No, I know just the place. Saks Fifth Avenue. Maybe we could go back to the dressing room where it all started…

The flash of a photographer brings me back down to the here and now. I need to focus. There won’t be any lunch with Lance if I don’t do this. There won’t be any dressing room shenanigans if I mess it up.

“Thank you for coming today, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, looking down at the prepared notes I have. I’ve memorized them, but it helps to look down. The press in the front grow silent. I can see a large crowd assembled behind them. Ordinary New Yorkers, coming to see what the big deal is. Hoping to find a moment in history. I continue. “I will have a prepared statement, after which I will take any questions from the media.”

More photographs. People must be speculating what I’m going to say. Well, I’m about to drop it. I wonder who will be left after the dust clears.

“As many of you know, I’ve recently found out and am overjoyed by the fact that I am pregnant,” I say into the microphone and take a deep breath. “Despite reports and statements made to the press, I am here today to set the record straight. Michael Anders is not the father of my child.”

If I had told them that I was a Martian who had been secretly gathering data about the human race in preparation for a future invasion, people may have looked less stunned.

In fact, there’s maybe a second or two where the photographers are too stunned to do anything but look at me. Of course the cameras are rolling, but the flash bulbs literally die down.

And then they come back. With a vengeance.

It seems like the brightness of a thousand suns descends onto the steps of City Hall as the photographers furiously begin to take pictures. I can hear the reporters right behind the photographers decide to dispense with my earlier rules and shout out questions. I feel overwhelmed.

But there’s only one way through this.

“Like all marriages, Michael’s and mine faced troubles,” I begin and seeing that I’m continuing, the camera flashes begin to die down. The reporters also eventually stop shouting questions, realizing they won’t be getting answers. “Unfortunately, the problems we faced seem at this point to be insurmountable.”

I pause and look to the audience. They’ve settled down a bit. Their still chomping at the bit, waiting for me to finish, but they’re giving me the courtesy now.

“I have moved out of our townhome for the time being, in an effort to allow Michael the utmost concentration in his bid for re-election,” I say into the microphone. “At the end of the day, it was the job that came above all else for him. While it was bad for our marriage, I believe it will only lead to good things for our city. While he may not be my husband, he shall continue to have my vote.”

The last bit was put in by Michael himself. Slick. Way to turn every last thing about our sham marriage into a political point. Even as I announce how I’m leaving him, this is bound to get him a few points in the polls with people who think how dedicated he must be—that he’s willing to sacrifice everything.

“Michael and I are thus planning an amicable separation,” I conclude. “With a termination of our partnership to be decided at a later date.”

If I could, I would divorce him today. But Michael wants to do it quietly. A year or two into his next term. Lance and I will have to stay under the radar, but at least we’ll be able to openly see each other. We won’t be able to get married though. His child won’t have a father.

It’s the price we have to pay for our love, I guess.

“That concludes my statement, and I am now ready to take questions,” I finish and close my eyes for a second. Here it comes.

There’s a cacophony of voices but eventually one emerges.

“Ms. Anders, who is the father of your child?” a reporter for the New York Herald asks.

I’m fully prepared for this question and we’ve rehearsed it a thousand times. “At this time, I’d like to protect that information and would ask you to respect my privacy as I transition to becoming a private citizen,” I say calmly. I can’t show them if I get flustered. That only feeds the beast, apparently. “Next question?”

“Mrs. Anders, any date on when you and the Mayor plan to finalize your divorce?” a reporter from the Tri-State Gazette asks out.

I shake my head. Prepared for this one too. “At this time, I’m focused 100% on helping Michael win this election and then transition into his second term. While we both agree that we shouldn’t stay married, I want to stress that I still believe in him as mayor and the tremendous good he is capable of doing for this city.”

“Mrs. Anders, will you have any role in the new administration if the mayor is re-elected?” another faceless reporter asks.

I shake my head again. “The public spotlight is partially to blame for the collapse of our marriage and right now I want to transition to being a private citizen again,” I answer.

I’m starting to calm down. These questions were all predicted and prepared for. I may get out of this thing alive.

That’s when a reporter raises his hand from the front and asks a question.

“Mrs. Anders, what is your relationship with Lance Anders, the Mayor’s stepson?”

I freeze for a moment. The reporter is looking at me, and I realize this might just be a standard question that a curious journalist might ask.

“The Mayor’s son has been helping his father campaign after moving to the city,” I answer a bit weakly. I remember the advice Michael gave me. If I can’t answer the question, answer something and attempt to move on. Don’t get bogged down.

But I get bogged down and pause a little too long. The reporter follows up immediately. “The two of you have been seen on numerous occasions outside of campaign events. What is the nature of your relationship?”

Now I pause, thinking back to the advice desperately and as quickly as I can. Michael instructed me to not lie. Always be as truthful as possible. Don’t answer if I have to, but do not lie. But he also said to keep it focused on the election and do not let anything else dominate the discussion, otherwise this could spin out of control. Fast.

“I think that Lance is a fine young man…dedicated, strong, and more than capable…” I start, not knowing what else to say before I’m interrupted. I realize I broke another rule given to me. Always know what you’re going to say before you answer the question.

“Yes, but let me rephrase that question,” the reporter interrupts and everyone around him quiets down. They sense the blood in the water. “Is your relationship with the Mayor’s son platonic?”

There’s murmuring from the crowd. Of course there’s murmuring from the crowd of reporters.

“I…I don’t understand the question,” I somehow say. The truth is I understand the question completely, but I’m stalling for time. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to say!

“Let me rephrase again,” the reporter says, obviously aware that he is the center of attention at this point. “Are you having an affair with the Mayor’s son, Lance Anders?”

Now the photographers just let their fingers fly and if it was ten thousand suns before, the glare is just too strong now. It hurts my eyes.

I need to fight back.

“I don’t think that’s a fair question…” I start. But again, I’m interrupted.

“It’s a fair question because it begs the question as to whether the child you’re carrying is from a sexual relationship with the Mayor’s son,” the reporter cuts me off.

“Stepson,” I say and quickly add. “He’s not related to the Mayor.”

There’s a pause and I see the reporter smile. He’s got his story.

And I’ve just well admitted to sleeping with Lance while married to his father.

This situation is now out of control. I’m about to be burned at the stake—figuratively, but hell, maybe even literally.

“Is the child Lance’s?” a random reporter shouts out.

“How long have you been having sex with Lance?” another reporter yells out.

“Did the Mayor know?” yes another reporter asks.

They’re all clamoring for the juiciest story in years. And I just handed it to them on a silver platter.

How could we not have prepared for this question?

And then I see him.

Michael. He’s standing at the back of the crowd, but I can recognize him.

Did he set this up?

Did he set me up to crash and burn? Is this some twisted game to win the election and get rid of me?

I can tell I’m panicking on the podium. I’m frozen.

I have a lawyer who’s with me, but that’s it. I don’t do public appearances. I don’t have a PR person or Chief of Staff. Kenneth set everything up for me.

Where is Kenneth?

I’m about ready to faint, when I hear another voice.

“Jesus fucking Christ, do you think you guys could learn some fucking manners?” the familiar voice says out and I snap my head to the right.

Dressed in an impeccable suit that hugs his body like a glove is the 21-year-old love of my life and father of my child. Lance Anders.

He apparently didn’t bother to listen to his father or to me and he’s here anyways.

“If you’re done picking on my girlfriend, I’ll take the rest of her questions and tell you whatever you want to know,” he says with the confidence of just being a superior human being to most men. Then he turns to me and says, “Don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything is gonna be all right.”

And I just know that no matter what happens, I’m going to be okay.

We are going to be okay.