Page 2 of The Princess and the P.I.

Does anyone still have that schema for the camera locations at the Expo Center? I’ll trade you some police docs of the Rebecca F case.

The plan was simple, in theory. Nine months of meticulous preparation—distilled into five precise minutes. That was all Fiona needed.

The thought burned like coal in her chest. Kwesi had been taken from her in pieces—first, his invention, stolen by the man he loved; and then his life, snuffed out in a cold Walmart parking lot by a stranger’s random cruelty.

In the end, her brother died believing no one loved him enough to fight for him.

To be Asante and die without a funeral…Fiona shuddered.

Fiona had been too cowardly to stand up to her father’s prejudices, too selfish to think beyond her own comfort. She wasn’t that woman anymore.

Fiona had been hollowed out by grief. But as the months turned into years, her sadness had curdled. Fury had taken root. Now, as the third anniversary of his death loomed, Fiona had a new hardness behind her ribs and a singular purpose.

She didn’t have grand plans for the fifty-million-dollar vest. Just a somber death anniversary.

Just a true burial, not that pine box in a county cemetery.

Fiona was already awaiting a check from her meager 401(k) to pay for the entire thing.

She would lay this vest over his grave and burn it.

She would cry for her big brother and mourn him out loud.

She would be who she wanted to be in the quiet peace of the cemetery for hours.

Fiona edged closer to the CortiZone exhibit at the center of the expo floor, where people crowded with the fervor of her father’s religious converts.

They ran their fingers over the display and closed their eyes.

For all its sophistication, it was as unassuming as a cotton shift.

The fabric, a blend of lightweight conductive graphene and rough-hewn bamboo fiber, looked like something one of Jesus’s disciples could have worn. It was all worship.

The quality assurance engineers pulled the case open with the care of a team of archaeologists handling a mummy. They would do one final check before they delivered it to the greenroom.

The announcement crackled over the loudspeaker: “Ladies and gentlemen, the keynote will begin in fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the main hall.” The crowd began to shift, and a river of people flowed toward the grand hall.

Fiona glanced at her watch: 12:57 p.m.

In the crush, she had lost her father.

Kofi insisted on driving her here. He drove her everywhere, so that wasn’t the interesting part. It was that this time, her father stayed.

He was on edge today, though Fiona knew why. For all his hyper-stoicism about his son’s death, her father simply wanted to see what his son built. Not that iVest would give Kwesi the credit.

She glanced at her watch again and then at the thinning crowd. She couldn’t wait. He would have to find his own way to his seat.

12:58.

It would have to be now.

Fiona slipped behind the CortiZone display, intending to take a shortcut behind the stage. The narrow path would save her six precious minutes—if she could fit. But as she tried to squeeze through, her breath caught. The gap was too tight, her body too ample. She checked her watch.

No, no time.

Her nerves prickled. She’d calculated everything so carefully, and now, panic clawed at her throat.

She glanced at her watch again.

12:59. The seconds ticked faster, louder.

Behind her, a group of voices—laughter—was approaching. She pressed herself flat against the wall, praying they wouldn’t notice her.

“Hey!” one of them barked. “What the hell are you doing back there?”

Her brain stopped functioning. Simply stopped. Then kicked back to life. She spun, clutching her phone like a shield. “Excuse you!” she snapped, throwing as much irritation as she could into her voice. “I’m doing a live stream.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “The keynote’s starting. Shouldn’t you be in the main hall?”

She forced a shrug. “I don’t get those talks anyway.” She took a step back, angling herself away.

The men shook their heads, muttering something about influencers as they moved on.

But the moment of relief didn’t come. Panic hit hard and heavy, a punch to the gut. She’d wasted time.

Too much time.

She broke into a run. The greenroom wasn’t far, but it felt miles away.

1:01.

Her breath tore out of her in short, ragged bursts. The crowd blurred. Her legs burned.

How long have I been running? Two minutes? Twenty?

There.

The sign. She lunged for the door, her lungs screaming for air, her vision tunneling.

She burst into the greenroom, her chest heaving.

And stopped cold.

Voices. Heated, fractured, rising like smoke. A group of people—six of them, at least—standing around the vest. Their heads turned in unison, their eyes snapping to her like searchlights.

Her mind blanked.

She’d messed up.

Bad.

Caught. Not necessarily in the act, but close enough to feel the ground tilting beneath her feet.

Each passing second making her presence in the greenroom more suspect.

A customer service rep barging into the room with Swiss water and artisanal pickles?

It didn’t make sense, and it wasn’t supposed to.

But somehow, their eyes bounced off her. Like she was barely worth their notice. Fiona looked around and read the tensions in the room. There was a bigger show in town.

Robert Thorpe, a towering figure with a tiny flattop of impossibly black hair, stood nose to nose with his deputy, Mark. Standing together, Robert so broad and Mark so slight, they looked like a brush and comb set.

Her earliest memory of him was oddly domestic: Robert kneeling on their living room rug, feeding fufu to his dog with his hands, grinning wide enough to show horsey teeth so white they looked radioactive.

He had called Kwesi brilliant, extraordinary.

Had kissed his dog square on the mouth, making her mother gag.

And used his right hand to greet her father.

“This is desperate, even for you. This was supposed to be your retirement announcement,” Mark said.

Mark.

Right here.

Fiona balled her fist to quell the instinctual desire to scratch his face off.

Her brother’s former lover was a vile, despicable man. He had blackmailed Kwesi by threatening to send photos of their intimate moments to the church her father led, forcing Kwesi to sign over his life’s work.

Fiona had never met Mark; she was too busy failing out of two colleges in as many years.

And Kwesi must not have shared too many details about his sisters because, when she showed up for work on her first day, Mark didn’t even bat an eyelash at her last name or the curve of her mouth, so much like Kwesi’s.

How could he claim to love her brother and not see him in her? Kwesi was so much of her.

Mark used to be attractive in a vague way, like a B-list character actor you could never place.

But in the past few years, he had gone under the knife too many times.

Every six weeks or so he came back with a new thing done to his body.

Pec implants, cheek fillers, then ice-blond hair.

He looked like a plastic doll, a bootleg Claymation version of a man.

Fiona looked around for the vest and found it swinging on a lone hanger. She’d never been this close without glass in between.

Behind the vest, publicity director Sara Al Haddad hovered, a human fox stole in a slinky dress.

Chestnut hair curled in flawless waves. Sara inspired rumors she didn’t bother denying.

Everyone knew she was sleeping with Robert.

And Sara liked to let the whispers swirl, her lipstick smudged just enough to confirm the worst.

She and Sara had never even met, but the look the woman gave her now hit like Fiona had poisoned her maame. It was visceral. A hatred so naked that it took Fiona a moment to recover. The intensity of it made her step back, her mouth dry, her pulse erratic.

She knows.

Dead certainty dropped like a stone in her belly.

Sara knows.

“What…the fuck.” Sara shook with unwarranted fury.

This was Fiona’s chance to run. She eyed the vest hanging on the rack, swinging slowly. But when will I ever be this close again?

Should I snatch it and run?

How far would I get before I’m arrested?

Taking a deep breath, Fiona made her decision. She locked eyes with Sara. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m on the committee, and I have an idea.” Her voice shook like she was on those old-fashioned vibration plates. “Let me go out there with the vest,” Fiona said. “All of the presentations have been pretty formulaic—pretty old-fashioned—all male.”

In her short time at the company, Fiona had learned one crucial thing: Robert didn’t fit the mold of the young, hip tech founder. He wanted to, though—desperately. His insecurity was palpable, and Fiona intended to lean on it.

Mark was already turning away from her, dismissive. “Okay, you’ve had your five seconds of fame. Get out.”

But Robert wasn’t ready to let it go. He held out a hand, his gaze sharp. “Hold on. She may have a point.” He adjusted his tie, smoothing it down with practiced fingers. “I need to look fresh. Relevant.”

“And younger,” Fiona added.

Mark, clearly losing patience, stepped in. He snatched the vest off the hanger. “We are trying to convince everyone that we’re a functional company,” Mark snapped. “Please, for once, let’s stick to the itinerary.”

Without waiting for an argument, Mark handed the vest to Sara. She took it triumphantly.

Robert’s attention shifted again, this time to Sara, and his mood darkened. “Take those mics off,” he said abruptly, gesturing toward her lapel.

Sara blinked, momentarily stunned. “What?”

Robert didn’t soften. “Every fucking woman at this expo looks like you.”

Sara’s triumphant expression faltered, but she said nothing. She held the vest tighter, almost protective now. Robert held out a hand for it, gesturing impatiently.

Fiona’s mind raced. The vest had moved from Mark, to Sara, then now to Robert. The chain of possession was dizzying. She had to get her hands on it.

“Robert, you can’t change the lineup at the last minute. If you want to be relevant, keep the schedule,” Sara said. She looked panicked. “It has to be me out there.”

Robert gripped her shoulder. “I can bring anyone up on that stage with me, and they will become relevant. Not the other way around.”

Robert nudged his chin in Fiona’s direction. “Do you see this woman? Dressed like a Jehovah’s Witness? Fifty pounds overweight? She’s the star today. She is coming up onstage.”

“Robert.” Sara’s eyes were wild. “This is incredibly dumb.”

“Dumb? Do you think I got where I am making dumb decisions? I’m a two-time Super Bowl champion. I know how to seize a moment. This is going to go viral, watch.”

The room grew momentarily silent, and every gaze in the room turned on her like a spotlight.

They looked horrified. Fiona didn’t pretend to be offended.

She had never been “the girl”—no point pretending she ever was.

Deep brown skin and thick wild hair braided into a crown around her head.

Dressed in a brown skirt and beige top, she was as dull and round as a half-peeled potato.

The vest was still in play, though, her plan shifting in real time. Now what?

Think, Fiona.

Someone shuffled her along and pushed a dress through her shaking palms. The scrap of fabric was so thin and insubstantial it might dissolve under the lights. Her throat tightened, that sticky, cloying sensation rising again.

The chair in the center of the room spun lazily on its axis, and she sank into it. She could see herself reflected in the darkened glass of the vanity—her wide eyes, her hair fraying from its braid, her face too open, too honest for what was about to happen.

Fiona had always been on the edges, watching others step into the spotlight. A spectator. Never the show.

Well.

Lights, camera—and, finally, action.