Page 22 of The Princess and the P.I.

Maurice’s Mercedes was immaculate. No crumbs in the crevices, no fingerprints smudging the touch screen.

So different from the chaos of his office back room, where papers sprouted like weeds.

Apparently, he contained multitudes. Fiona shifted in the passenger seat next to him, her hands fidgeting with the sleeve of her thick quilt-like dress.

He had shown his hand the previous night, stopping by with groceries in his arms like a sitcom dad trying to win back his estranged kids.

She sniffed him out immediately, head tilting, eyes narrowing, full detective mode engaged.

“Maurice,” she’d said, drawing out his name like she was already compiling evidence against him. “Why’d you really come by?”

He had no good reason. No plausible excuse. He was trespassing, emotionally if not legally, showing up at her suite like it was muscle memory, the way you zone out on a drive and still end up in your own driveway.

The realization made him queasy. He didn’t want to creep her out. Didn’t want her to think he was…well, exactly what he was: a man who had found himself standing at her door before he even realized he’d made the turn.

Outside, Mark’s apartment loomed—new construction with a desperate sheen.

The construction was so new loose bricks still scattered the sidewalk.

A crooked For Sale sign swung slightly in the breeze.

His older sister had gone to war against one of these faceless development companies and turned the world upside down.

“So, he builds it, then tries to off-load it right after,” he said, breaking the silence.

Fiona nodded. “He was banking on millions. Betting on a windfall that never came.”

Mark was moving around the apartment, pulling a crisp button-down over his shoulders. He danced as he dressed, his movements awkward but joyful.

“Saturday night. Headed out,” Maurice said, raising the camera to his eye. The shutter clicked in quick succession. “Grinding on his chair like that? Man’s hoping to get lucky.”

“Maybe he’s meeting someone,” Fiona murmured, her tone distant.

Then, suddenly: “Maurice, did you see anyone last night? Like, when you left?”

Maurice’s pulse quickened, but his face betrayed nothing.

If any one of those human taints touched a hair on her head, he would start moving furniture at that fucking church.

He kept the camera trained on Mark, zooming in on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Why? Did you see something? Someone?”

Her gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers tightening around her phone. “No,” she said quickly. “Nothing happened. I just…wondered.”

He set the camera down, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He was pushing her too hard. “Look, this is a lot. I don’t think you’ve really processed it. You don’t have to—”

“No.” She cut him off. “I said nothing happened. I can do this, Maurice.”

The lie hung in the air, thin but visible, like smoke curling between them. Maurice let it sit there, unchallenged. Pushing her wouldn’t help, not now. But something was off. He could feel it.

Mark emerged from the building, dressed to the nines, his hair slicked back and shoes polished to a blinding shine.

Maurice leaned forward, pushing the ignition. The car hummed to life, so quiet it was almost imperceptible.

“Where’s he going in a Fiat?” Maurice muttered, pulling away from the curb, headlights off.

They followed him through DC’s winding streets, a slow pursuit. Maurice kept his distance, the matte Mercedes moving like a shadow. Mark parked outside a flashy club with a neon sign that flickered in and out of sync with the pounding bass they could hear from the street.

“Look this place up,” Maurice said, gesturing toward the glowing name above the entrance. “You ever heard of it?”

Fiona was already typing into her phone. “The Lower Decks?” She read aloud. “Reviews say it’s…lame. No one dances. Just a place to stand around and show off.” She glanced at him, her brow furrowed. “Weird.”

Maurice smirked, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Man goes to a bar no one dances at…to dance? Doesn’t track. Maybe be seen. Who owns it?”

Her fingers flew over the screen again. “Elaine Janssen,” she said after a beat. “South African billionaire. Eccentric. Likes to keep her dealings quiet.”

“That’s your buyer,” Maurice said, low, almost to himself. “Mark’s chasing the payout.”

Fiona looked at him, her fringed lashes lowered in a dare.

“Shall we go clubbing?”