I'm sitting behind my large, mahogany desk. My top staff officials are standing behind me, poised and smiling. This is a big moment. I have a stack of documents splayed out over the desk, and a heavy pen resting between my fingers.

I'm signing my way through documents as reporters snap pictures.

I'm hoping this action sets my campaign back on track. It's recently gone off the rails since Kate Meelios showed up unexpectedly at Amy's apartment.

This is city legislation I'm signing today that will make it illegal for sex offenders to work in our public school system, and I'm proud of this. It's about time it's happening.

"This legislation is long overdue," I say proudly, looking up from the documents. "I'm fulfilling a campaign promise that I've made to the citizens of New York City. This is a historic moment for all of us."

I smile and get up from my desk, preparing to leave now that the documents have been signed, and waving to the press, when one reporter speaks up, stopping me.

"Mr. Trask," he says, one arm outstretched to slow my exit and capture my attention, "with your stepdaughter facing charges of sex trafficking as her business is being closed down, will her being labeled as a sex offender cause a strain on your family?"

What the fuck?

I can hardly believe the words coming from his mouth. My head is fucking spinning.

"What did you just say to me?" I ask, turning to address him.

I'm being civil. Hiding frustration and anger that's bubbling to the surface. But honestly, I could wring his neck.

Is this a blatant question to sabotage me in front of the press? Or is there a nugget of truth to this? Is Amy hiding something from me?

Your guess is as good as mine.

The reporter looks at me with a confused look on his face. "You do know about this, don't you?" he says.

"Excuse me, but I don't understand the question," I say. I can feel my pulse increasing, and the room is beginning to feel twenty degrees hotter. What's going on? I think to myself. Is Kate behind this?

I'm having a full-body reaction to this reporter's accusations, but before he has a chance to speak again, Megan places her hand on my elbow.

"Let's go Parker," she whispers, gently guiding me out of the room so that no other exchange of words can transpire. I can tell she's trying to make a strategic exit.

I raise my shoulders and shake my head. "I really don't know what the fuck is going on Megan," I say to her, leaning in and whispering. And that's the truth.

"I know, but right now, we need to get out of here," she replies, her face serious and stoic.

She continues to lead me out of the building, as a few reporters try to follow behind us. I can hear the continued snap of cameras and raised voices, all vying for my attention and for more information. They're clamoring for my thoughts—anything to grab onto and throw into tomorrow's headlines, I'm fucking sure of it.

"Here we go," she says, pointing to our black limo waiting for us at the curb. The drivers is holding open a rear door of the car and we both slide into the cool leather seats, reporters nipping at our heels. The door slams shut behind us, and we are now completely shielded from the outside world.

The windows are deeply tinted, and while we can see out, we are safe from the prying eyes of all of the photographers. Even their shouts are muffled, and almost a distant memory at this point.

I turn to Megan. "What the fuck was that all about?"

She doesn't say anything, and just shakes her head, her curls bouncing.

I continue. "I'm serious, Megan. I need to know what in the hell is going on," I say again. "That reporter made one hell of a statement back there."

I watch as she pulls her cell phone from her purse.

"I don't know," she says, holding up a finger to silence me, "but I'm going to find out. Just give me a second."

She's holding her phone to her ear, and I watch as she begins speaking to whoever her source is on the other end of the line.

And then it hits me. I don't have another second to give.

I need to see her. I need to see Amy for myself—right now.

"Mike," I say to the driver, "I want you to turn this motorcade around to 43^rd Street and 8^th Avenue."

"Sir?" he asks. "You're redirecting us near Port Authority. Am I understanding that correctly?"

"That's right," I reply. "And hurry. We need to get there quick."

"Yes, sir," he says, and I watch as he presses one foot on the brake and turns the steering wheel, making a sharp U-turn. Cars are honking at the sudden maneuver. No doubt he just cut a bunch of people off. Megan and I slide to the right side of the car with the momentum of the turn.

If Amy's really going out of business, I need to see it for myself. I'm going straight to the source, her place of business—Kinky Amy's.

"Okay," Megan says, ending her call and breaking my train of thought. "I just got off the phone with the State Attorney General."

She stops for a moment and pulls a stick of gum from her purse, carefully peeling off the wrapper and placing it into her mouth.

Way to leave me hanging, I think.

"And?" I say. "Don't hold me in suspense. What did he fucking say?"

"Well, it's true—the State Attorney General has charged Amy as a sex trafficker," Megan says.

"So, the reporter was right?" I ask, slowly putting everything together in my mind. "Fuck, I can't believe this." My head is spinning.

"And not only that," Megan continues, "but the state troopers are coming right now. They're on their way to shut her business down."

Fuck. We have to hurry. I need to be there.

"Mike," I call out to the driver. "Step on the fucking gas now!"