The cold metallic click of handcuffs echoed through the PA system as Jared’s lapel mic caught the sound.

“You can’t do this here,” Jared whispered, his face pressed near the remaining microphone.

“I have a live network broadcast in ten minutes.”

“Your broadcast is cancelled,” the trooper said, pushing Jared’s head down slightly as they guided him toward the steps.

They led him down the aisle, past the rows of stunned reporters.

His eyes scanned the crowd, desperate and wild.

He was looking for someone, anyone, to help him.

Then his eyes locked onto me, standing near the shadow of the exit sign.

I did not move. I did not smile.

I just watched him walk past, his expensive wool suit jacket bunched up around his shoulders.

Behind the stage, Courtney Briggs was standing near the green room door, her face pale.

She was holding her phone, her manicured fingers tapping frantically on the screen.

The screen reflected a pale blue light onto her wide, terrified eyes.

Her publicist, a woman in a sharp grey blazer, was backing away from her.