"Name, please?" The receptionist of maybe the largest waiting room I've ever been in (which pales in comparison to the building itself), asks me through a forced smile, as if I am some annoying fly she can't manage to shoo away.

"Um, Mia McHenry," I mutter nervously, hardly able to keep contact with the receptionist's—Rachel, her name tag reads—dark blue eyes.

Next to me, Charlie stiffens, nudging my shoulder. I turn to look at her over my shoulder momentarily, eyes wide and silently asking: what was I supposed to say?

Charlie narrows her gray eyes back at me, her expression clearly reading: anything but your actual name. Duh.

I turn back to the receptionist, feeling immensely nervous and impatient. I know what I'm about to do, and I'm still terrified just thinking about actually going through with this plan that I've been conjuring with Charlie for what feels like years now. Really, I've only been planning this . . . visit . . . for a few days, almost a week considering I came up with this idea the day Thorne was arrested.

He's been in jail for nearly a week, a bitter voice says in my head, reminding me what I'm here for. You have to get Thorne out of there. You're doing this for him.

"Do you have an appointment?" Rachel the receptionist asks, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. I shift uncomfortably, wondering how this woman even got the job as the face of the company she represents. I mean, she's not very pleasant, to say the least.

"I don't," I state calmly, telling my nerves to fuck off so I can focus on the task at hand: Getting an audience with Mark Baxter.

Yes, you read that correctly. The grand plan I've been creating for the past few days? Going to Thorne's dad to beg him to pay his son's bail and help release him from jail. Seriously. Under the circumstances, it was the best I could come up with. I understand that Thorne and his father have never been on the best terms (understatement of the century), but I'm hoping Mark Baxter will find it somewhere in his pea-sized heart to care about his son for however long it takes me to convince him to pay his son's jail bail.

This has to work. It has to.

"Well, not exactly—" I start, only to be cut off by Rachel practically the second I open my mouth to speak.

"Sorry," Rachel snaps, not sounding very apologetic at all. "If you don't have an appointment, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"You don't understand," I try, playing the this is an emergency card that Charlie had me practice for. I remember to make my hazel eyes wide and try to look as frazzled as I can, because even Rachel the Rude Receptionist has to comply to emergencies.

Right?

"It's really important that I see Mr. Baxter today," I drone on, trying to sound desperate. "There's been a—"

"You don't have an appointment," Rachel interrupts, rolling her eyes and not bothering to try being discreet about it. "So I'm sorry, but you can't see Mark Baxter today. He's a busy man. I'm sure you can understand that." Rachel shoots me a withering glare that makes my nerves come back with a vengeance, and if I didn't care about Thorne as much as I do, I totally would run away right about now.

But I do care about Thorne. I somehow ended up falling for the attractive yet massive pain in my ass I met what feels like years ago in my fourth period class, and now that very boy that I love needs me. He was there for me when I needed him most, and I can't let him down now.

"If seeing Mark Baxter is really that important to you, however," Rachel starts, and I feel relief flood through my veins. Maybe she's coming around. Even Rachel the Rude Receptionist couldn't be completely heartless. "I may be able to book you an appointment," Rachel finishes, turning to the computer in front of her. I watch in anticipation as Rachel frowns at the computer screen, scrolling with her mouse.

"Mr. Baxter's next opening is in . . ." Rachel trails off, peering closely at the computer screen. Her dark eyes find mine as she offers me a fake smile, adding, "July."

July? This girl has got to be joking.

Unfortunately, one look into Rachel's emotionless stormy blue eyes tells me that she is not joking at all. What part of "it's important" does this woman not understand?

Well, clearly phase one and phase two of my plan are not going to work. (Asking to see Mark calmly, and then playing the desperate it's-important-I-see-Mark-Baxter-today card.) I was hoping things wouldn't have to come to this, but I guess I'll have to move on to phase three . . .

On cue, Charlie slams the palms of her hands down onto the desk that separates us from the receptionist so forcefully Rachel the Rude Receptionist flinches. I watch, trying not to smirk, as Charlie leans forward until her face is merely inches away from the receptionist's, giving Rachel a glare that would have me trembling in fear.

"Listen here, Rachel," Charlie snarls, somehow making the receptionist's name sound like the world's worst insult. "I don't give a shit if my friend and I don't have an appointment to see Mr. Bastard—excuse me, Baxter—or not. We're going to see him today under important business, and you're going to help us, got it? Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Rachel swallows hard, backing away from Charlie slightly. At first, I think that Charlie's threats have actually done the trick, because Rachel looks pretty terrified. I can already see Charlie's lips starting to curl up in a smirk of satisfaction.

Then Rachel's fearful expression morphs into a stone-cold sneer as she glares at Charlie, then focuses those midnight blue eyes of hers on me. Through gritted teeth, Rachel mutters, "You. Don't. Have. An. Appointment!" And then, before either Charlie and I can react, Rachel lunges for a walkie-talkie sitting on her desk and cries into the mic, "Security!"

Charlie turns to face me, wide-eyed. Thank God we prepared for something like this.

Charlie shoots me a little nod, muttering, "Time to run?"

"Time to run," I confirm. I can already see two large men dressed in black heading our way from the opposite end of the waiting room, however, and I have to admit that the odds do not seem to be in our favor.

Charlie must read the worried expression on my face, because she quickly shoves me toward the elevators. "Go!" she exclaims, waving me off. "I'll cause a distraction!"

I want to protest, but my feet are already on the move. I lunge for the elevator, frantically pressing the up button and praying to whatever gods are listening that I will never sin again so long as they let this elevator open in time.

The waiting room erupts into a commotion behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Charlie fearlessly kicks one of the security guards where the sun doesn't shine, then simply offers him a silly me smile and shrugs. Just as the elevator makes a dinging sound, Rachel the receptionist starts pointing the security guard still standing in my direction.

Just as the security guard starts barreling toward me, the elevator (way too slowly) starts to open. I force myself inside, heart ramming against my rib-cage as the bald security guard continues to run in my direction. I slam my hand against the close doors button inside the elevator, crossing my fingers as I wait for my impending doom.

The elevator doors are only open a small crack as the guard reaches me, extending his hand out to make the doors open. I make eye-contact with the man for maybe a second as I watch the doors in front of me close completely, relieving me so much I actually cry aloud, "Yes!"

I lean against the wall behind me to catch my breath, wishing my heart would stop racing. Then I realize I've yet to push any buttons, and it's kind of important that I reach Mr. Baxter before Rachel the spawn of Satan can send any more of her little demons after me. I mean, Charlie compromised herself for this mission. I have to succeed.

Thankfully, Charlie and I aren't complete idiots. Before deciding to just drop into the building Mark Baxter owns, we made sure to locate his office number beforehand. Of course, I didn't get the information from Thorne, because I knew he'd never agree to having his father come to his rescue. I'm planning on working on that later. Instead, Charlie and I had Asher hack into the building's security cameras and database records until he found what we needed most: the location of Mr. Baxter's office.

I press the button for floor 18, squeezing my eyes closed as the elevator begins to ascend. I can't believe that I'm actually doing this. I'm going to beg my boyfriend's father—whom he hates—to bail the son he abandoned out of prison.

I'm crazy. It's a good thing I've already accepted this fact, or I'd probably find myself in the middle of some sort of identity crisis right about now.

Too soon, the elevator dings open. I have to hurry on my way down the hall, looking for the door marked 20, the room I will come face-to-face with Mark Baxter in (did I mention the man kind of terrifies me?). The entire walk down the hall, I find myself cautiously checking for scary security guards and praying that this plan actually works.

This has to work. Mark has to agree to help Thorne. If he doesn't . . .

Don't go there, Mia. This is going to work. It has to.

When I reach Mark Baxter's office door, I take a moment to collect myself and go over what I'm going to say. There's no guarantee that I'll be able to say anything to win this man over, but this is the only plan I've got at the time.

Without bothering to knock, I burst open the door in front of me. Barging into the office, I find Mark Baxter sitting behind a long glass desk in a completely empty room, staring at a large TV on the wall across from him as he eats Chinese takeout.

The sight in front of me has my anger shooting through the roof, so much so that I hardly feel nervous any more. A million thoughts race through my head as I stare at Mr. Baxter, but the two that stick out the most are: Wow, I can see why this guy is busy until July, and I can't believe this asshole is seriously eating Chinese takeout while his son is stuck behind bars.

Mr. Baxter lifts his green eyes that resemble Thorne's way too closely to my hazel, raising his eyebrows in an expression that resembles surprise. He drops his fork into his noodle container as he glances at me, clearly confused.

After a long moment of nothing but awkward silence, Mr. Baxter questions, "Can I help you?"

"I'm hoping so," I mutter breathlessly, walking up to Mr. Baxter's desk. I know I'm working on a time limit here, considering Rachel the Rude Receptionist no doubt has her little Security Slaves rushing after me. And even though I know this, I can't seem to make myself speak. I'm nervous all over again as I stare down Thorne's father, my throat dry and constricted, my mind blank of any activity.

Mr. Baxter has the nerve to shoot me a cold glare, looking simultaneously bored and annoyed as he says, "You interrupt me in the middle of a work day to stare at me?"

That snaps me out of whatever daze I was in pretty quickly. I shoot Mr. Baxter my scariest glare, deciding to skip the good girl act and get straight to the point: Thorne.

"I take it you don't remember me." I cross my arms over my chest pointedly, glaring at Thorne's father. "I'm Mia McHenry, your son's girlfriend."

Mr. Baxter looks surprised, and I watch carefully as he leans back in his chair, getting comfortable. "Right," he muses. "I remember meeting you once before. I'm amazed that you've found it in yourself to stick with my son. I myself found him a lost cause a long time ago."

That does it. I'm not just "angry" anymore. I'm downright murderous.

I take a stride forward, slamming my palms down on Mr. Baxter's glass desk without worrying about breaking it. Dangerously close to snapping, I mutter, "I'm sorry to interrupt you, as you're obviously very busy," I hiss, glaring at Mr. Baxter, "but this is important. That lost cause you're talking about—you know, the son you clearly love so much?—he's in jail. His bail was posted two days ago, and you're going to pay it."

For a moment, I seem to have made the infamous pristine businessman Mark Baxter nervous. And then, as I pretty much expected, he starts to laugh. Mark Baxter laughs, right in my face, as if I have just told him the world's funniest joke.

When his laughter subsides, Mark shoots me a suspicious glance, like he's unsure whether to laugh at me some more or threaten me with a law suit. "And why would I do that, exactly? If my son has done something to land himself in jail, don't you think he deserves to be there?"

I grit my teeth, telling myself to let that last snarky remark slide. Deciding it's now or never, I drop my purse down on Mr. Baxter's stupid little desk with a thud, reaching into its contents and whipping out the manuscript I'd shoved in my bag this morning before I headed off with Charlie.

The papers in my hand consist of a lengthy exposé that took me, Charlie, Jay, Wells, and Asher days to write. In it consists of every illegal thing Mark Baxter has ever done from the minute he became a "well respected" businessman to the present day. With Asher's excellent hacking skills and a little further researching, it didn't take long to dig up some pretty dirty stuff on Thorne's father. Mark Baxter may condemn his son for being trouble, but the man is certainly no angel himself. In fact, he's pretty far from it.

"You're going to bail Thorne out of jail"—I toss the manuscript onto the desk in front of Mr. Baxter, watching as he reaches for it cautiously—"or I release this to every news station within the state."

Mr. Baxter quickly begins to flip through the exposé, his eyes widening as they scan over sentence after sentence pointing out every damning thing the man has ever done. I watch, a smirk playing on my lips, unable to stop the triumph I'm feeling from flowing through my veins.

"I particularly like section 10 A," I taunt, "you know, the part exposing your multiple tax evasions. But 12 B also comes close to being my favorite. You know, Mr. Baxter, I had no clue you owned an illegal underground fighting ring where you prompted underage boys to beat each other senseless. I wonder what the head of police down at the station would have to say about that . . ."

Mr. Baxter drops the manuscript back down on his desk, massaging his temples, clearly distraught. I swear his green eyes are gleaming with fear as they timidly look up to meet mine as he mumbles, "How much do you want?"

"I don't want your money," I spit, repulsed by the idea of even blackmailing someone into giving me cash. As if I'd ever expect this man to give me one of his so clearly hard-earned pennies. "All I want is for you to help release your son from prison."

Mark Baxter and I have a staring competition for what feels like forever. It's clear that the man feels caught in the crossfires of ruining his reputation or helping his son, unable to decide which is worse. Until today, I don't think I've ever had it in me to actually hate anyone. But as I look down at Mark Baxter with a seething glare, I can't deny that all I feel toward the grotesque man is pure hatred.

With that thought in mind, I cross my arms over my chest, ready for an answer. "So, what do you say, Mark? Are you going to help me, or not?"