Okay, can I just say for my own self-defense that when Samantha Scar, the District Attorney for New York State walked into the offices of The News of the Times, I never really thought that sitting in on the meeting would lead me to getting ready to go on stage at a strip club.

I mean, come on, hello, can we say surreal? This just happens to be the day that I just caught my asshole boyfriend, sorry ex-boyfriend, cheating on me.

But actually, you know, I've got to be honest with you. If I can't be honest with you, there's really no point in this, is there? :)

And if I'm being honest with you, the truth is that I'm really not that sad because of Jake anymore. There's only one thought going through my head right now.

Revenge. Not on Jake. But on Derrick Blaine.

Derrick is the reason why Jake is the way he is. People like Jake look up to people like Derrick. He makes using and losing women look sexy and cool. He made tormenting me look like the popular thing to do.

So when Samantha walked in, I was all ears. I was sitting in Mike’s office. He had also invited Danielle Marlowe, the CEO of the paper to join us.

"We're going to take that man down," the District Attorney said. "And this paper is going to help me do just that."

I was curious at first how this was going to happen, but she just looked at me. "You're the reporter that grew up in St. Livy, right?" she asked. I nodded with a startled expression. She'd done her homework. "Alicia Bayer, right?"

I nodded again, too surprised to even speak.

“Alicia is one of our smartest up-and-coming employees," Mike said. "She regularly writes on Page Eight."

I rolled my eyes. I'd just drafted my first draft of a Page Eight piece that morning - about the antics of Prince Blaine, but I guess that meant regularly when talking to the District Attorney. To date, I could count on one hand how many times I'd been allowed to land on Page Eight - but hopefully that luck would change. People in the industry looked to Page Eight as the gold standard for career launch pads – everyone in the newspaper wanted to be there.

"What are you writing about what happened this morning?" Samantha asked me, her eyes sharply descending on me.

"Well," I said taking a deep breath. "I talked to some people. I'm still waiting to hear back..."

If I bring charges against him, he could lose his visa and be deported from the country," Samantha said, cutting me off. "I want you to include that. Tell them you got it from a source."

I gulped. That was a little extreme, wasn't it? I didn't like him at all, but to kick him out?

"Okay," I mumbled and took down some notes.

"But," Samantha continued, not even paying me any attention, "Before I can deport him, we need to really get some dirt on the scumbag," she said.

I was nodding my head. Okay, I could go along with getting dirt.

"We need to get close to him. We need to get into his head," Samantha continued. Both Mike and Danielle were nodding their heads.

"We need to get him to tell us what his dirty laundry is," Samantha spoke, as if in a trance at this point. "The public still loves him to an extent. They think he's a goofy, self-destructively nice guy just because he's handsome. They love to hate him."

I didn't know where this was going just yet, but I waited for Samantha to finish. "We need to show him that he's dangerous to them," she said, getting up out of her chair. "And with public opinion against him, they’ll beg me to press charges against him. And before you know it, bye bye Prince."

Mike and Danielle looked at her and I thought I saw fear in their eyes. She nodded to them one last time before turning around and walking out of the floor towards the elevators.

A part of me was wondering how one District Attorney could tell a newspaper editors and the CEO what to do and walk out in such a fashion. My questions were answered when Mike turned to me.

“If Samantha owns a majority stake in the paper, I don't care what it is, we're going to have to follow her instructions, no matter how difficult."

So that was it. Somehow, Samantha had a financial control over my employment. Not that it mattered. I looked to Mike and Danielle to see what our plan was going to be.

* * *

And now, 12 hours later, I cannot believe this is the plan that we came up with.

I'm standing off to the side of a main stage in a strip club called "O". It's apparently owned by Prince Sin himself. By the way, I'm actually a bit proud of myself with coming up with the "Prince Sin" moniker as I was writing the piece today. It's taken off pretty fast, going viral along with the video of him waving his dick in the air and his condom flying around smacking those network men with his...

Okay, focus. Yes, it was actually really uncomfortable to sit and watch his fabulous body at work, and yes, maybe I did watch a couple times. And by couple, maybe I mean I spent a good two or three hours watching the video during breaks. And maybe seeing him fuck that reporter and his devil may care attitude, his perfect Greek-god body, chiseled muscles, and twinkling blue eyes got me a little wet. But just because I get aroused whenever I think of him doesn't make him any less of an asshole, okay? I'm serious. I seriously hate him. He made my early life miserable. When he wasn’t ignoring me.

"You'll be fine, kiddo," Mike is saying, standing next to me. He had called in some contacts and managed to somehow talk to the manager and get me an audition in the last half hour.

"But she's not going to get naked," Mike had told the manager.

"What good is a stripper that doesn't strip?" the manager asked, dumbfounded.

"She just needs an audition," Mike said. "If the Prince comes in, then we'll go on stage, but have the DJ cut the music at the two-minute mark. Let the Prince come to her."

The manager smiled knowingly. "Oh, it's one of those things, is it, Mikey?" he asked with a wink and a nod.

And that's when the Prince walked in. More like stalked in.

I still don't know how Mike managed to wrangle this deal as I think back to the last half hour in this club. I figure that when you work in gossip, you know all kinds of characters.

"Two minutes, kiddo," Mike says to me, the manager having told us to get ready. "Two minutes is all you have to get his attention."

I nod. I'm a little nervous. I'm wearing whatever I could find really quick - with a short black skirt, stockings, high heels, and a black tank top.

I'm not sure how I got into this situation.

Actually, wait a second. I take that back. I know exactly how I fell into this situation. I jumped at the chance to get back at Derrick Blaine. I remember back to one afternoon when I was thirteen. I remember it vividly because it was two weeks after the King’s wife had died in New York City. I don’t remember much about the circumstances, but I do know that Derrick was away from school for those two weeks.

When he came back, no one knew what to make of him. But after History, I was walking near a pond when all of a sudden I remember that he was walking next to me. He was staring ahead and I didn’t know what to do. No boy had ever wanted to talk to me. I turned around and looked at him. And he turned around towards me.

His eyes held some sort of longing, it seemed. They seemed to want to say something to me.

At least that’s what I thought at first. But sadly, I was mistaken.

Because that’s when he pushed me. Into the lake.

I remember the kids laughing at me as they gathered around. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. But when I looked up, the evil Prince was gone.

"Alright gentlemen!" the DJ announces to the crowd as the last dancer finishes up. "Put your hands together for an audition from none other than the super sexy...Misty!"

Misty. That's me. That's what Mike decided was my stage name. I hate it! A part of me wants to turn around and run! The other part wants to throw up.

Not that Mike would blame me. It would be perfectly understandable. But I’d be saying goodbye to the fast track that my career was now on then.

And the story would probably go to someone else. And I'd be stuck doing research for Page Eight instead of writing Page Eight like I did today. But if I do this, it advances my career and I get back at the one man who tormented me.

Besides, if Prince Derrick Blaine was a good man, he’d have nothing to be embarrassed about, right?

Yes, I can do this.

Here goes nothing...

I take a deep breath and walk up the stairs onto the stage. The stage hugs the whole back wall of the club and a catwalk juts out from the center of the stage towards the middle of the floor. There's a pole.

Bingo! That where I'll go.

There's actually applause as I walk onto the stage. The thing is, with the lights on me, I don't actually see too many men. I don't actually see anybody as I wrap my hands around the pole.

God! I've never done anything like this before! I'm a good girl! I'm the responsible one! I mean, I'm still a virgin! What am I even doing here?!

Get a grip! I tell myself to calm down as I keep twirling around the pole.

But that's when something really funny happens. Dollar bills start dropping around me and people start cheering and hollering. I can look into the faces finally, and I see desire.

Desire for me! Lust for me! Guys rubbing their crotch looking at me as I bend over and slowly take off my tank top.

I start getting into it and turn my back to the audience, holding onto the pole and trying to remember the three pole dancing classes I took a while back with Jenna. I slowly slide down, sticking my ass out and wiggling it.

The dollar bills start coming down.

I wrap my leg around the pole and run my hands down the material of my bra and over my stomach until I rest them on my ass. I turn my head back and give my ass a smack.

People are loving this and I feel so sexy.

This is exactly what I needed to feel desired and sexy again! And I'm completely sober. Endorphins are rushing through me as I start unzipping my skirt.

I wonder what Mike is thinking. But all of a sudden, I don't really care. There are men out there in the world that want me.

I turn around and face the audience again and nestle the pole against my ass, slowly peeling off my skirt.

I see the mirror up on the ceiling. Mike told me it's a one-way mirror. That's where the Prince went to after he stalked in.

All of a sudden, Derrick’ body is all I'm thinking about. I'm not dancing for the dollar bills, or the various men who revel in the lust that my body arouses.

I'm dancing for the bad boy prince.

As his bad girl.

I peel my skirt off, and I run my hands over the black thong that covers my pussy.

I barely register that the crowd is eating this up. I've probably received more money while keeping my clothes on than the last several girls did taking them off.

I sink down to my knees and begin caressing my body, reveling in the sensation.

I tell myself that the Prince is up there, watching me. And it makes me get wet.

I slip a finger underneath my thong and look up the mirror.

And then...the music stops.

My two minutes are over.

And there is no Prince.