Page 48 of I'm sorry, Princess

But I’ve already slipped through them.

I pull out my phone and shoot a quick message to Francesco:

Me:Send Andres. Now.

The second I hit send, I light a cigarette and stretch out in the leather chair. Being in this private unit, what they generously call a cell, has its perks. It's more of a high-security suite than a prison room. One that comes with a real mattress, decent scotch, and access to the outside world... if you know who to pay. The door’s always unlocked, for “security reasons,” they say. I say it’s so they can monitor every step I take. Not that it matters. They still don't know who’s really pulling the strings here.

A shadow crosses the threshold.

And there he is. Ian Archibald. In the flesh. That face of his, entitled, polished, crawling with daddy’s privilege, makes my blood itch. I lean back in the chair, taking another drag, already imagining how satisfying it would be to break his nose.

“Do you have anything on John?” he asks.

No greeting. No buildup. Straight to the point, but still too afraid to say the full name out loud. Typical. I cock an eyebrow, pretending I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“John Archibald. My father.”

There it is. The crack. He’s pissed, but hiding it poorly.

I blow out a thin stream of smoke.

“Yeah. He’s pretty shit at chess.”

He flinches, his jaw tight, but doesn’t bite back. Wise. He’s come for something he can’t take by force. Of course I have a file on his father. That bastard’s name lives in reports I’ve paid good money to keep buried. Rape. Abuse. Trafficking. More than a dozen reports from women, all buried. He’s not a man. He’s a rabid animal in a silk tie.

But I don’t say that. Not yet.

“I’ll buy it.” His voice cuts through the air, sharp but shaking underneath.

I almost laugh.

“How much do you want?” he adds, desperate.

I smirk. This little prince thinks this is about money? He forgets who he’s dealing with.

“I’m a billionaire,” I say flatly. Cold. Final.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His fingers twitch slightly, and that stupid vein in his temple is starting to show again. I can practically hear his ego crumbling.

“What do you want then?” he snaps.

There it is.

I lean forward slowly, meeting his gaze head-on, letting my voice drop to something deadly.

“Keep your eyes off her.” He stiffens like I just stabbed him.

“Who?” he barks, already knowing the answer.

I don’t flinch. “You know.”

And just like that, his temper hits the edge. Rage flickers in his expression, barely controlled. I can see it in the way his hand hovers near his gun, the way he tries not to lunge across the room. He turns on his heel and storms out before he does something stupid, like die.

I smirk.

Fragile little thing.

I take another drag, relaxing back into the chair, and pull out my phone. Open Instagram. Her profile, of course.