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. Alway
s 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?