Page 4 of The Princess and the P.I.

Fiona inched toward the electrical-taped X, swallowed by a blinding cloud of laser fog. The dress was a warning—a final, desperate gasp from her better angels, begging her not to go down this path.

She should have listened.

When she looked down, all she saw were her boobs pushed high under her neck like two extra-large Milk Duds. The dress stretched and creaked as if it might give way, the peek-and-pull of the material scandalizing her down to the marrow. Especially with her father somewhere in the audience, watching.

She teetered forward on comically high heels.

The fog clung to the ground, reducing visibility like this was the set of a Disney Channel Halloween special.

Her eyes darted to the extension plug at the base of the stage.

She had no idea what this plug controlled, but she was improvising hard right now.

With a subtle movement, Fiona extended her foot, carefully loosening the plug just enough that a gentle tug would disconnect it altogether. The fog swirled around her, muffling the sounds of the convention floor and masking her actions from prying eyes. But she had it.

She gripped that CortiZone vest like it was blowing in hurricane winds. It was thin but heavy, with decorative straps and chevrons that hid LEDs and buttons.

Fiona’s breath came in shallow bursts, squeezed by the body shaper so tight it felt like her lungs were wrapped in rubber bands. The thought of what would happen to her if she got caught made the acid in her stomach churn.

Mr.Thorpe peeled off his blazer and whipped it around his head like an arthritic stripper. He wanted her to make a show, but Fiona kept her smile tight.

Mr.Thorpe rushed her like a bull. He lifted his arms out to make an exaggerated hourglass, and Fiona took that opportunity to shove the vest on him. The strength of her anger, an emotion she rarely allowed herself to feel publicly, surprised her.

With a little too much force, she pushed the power button near his nipple, and the vest went full-on disco inferno. Blinking lights, flashing and beeping like a Christmas tree in the microwave.

With a precise kick, she nudged the loose plug with the toe of her shoe. The satisfying give was followed by darkness—total and sudden.

Within the pitch-black shuffle, bodies jostled and pressed around her. She was only taking tiny little sips of breath because the body shaper the team had melted her down and poured her into was starting to cut off her circulation. She felt multiple footsteps shaking the stage like Clydesdales.

“What the hell? Who? What the…hell?” She heard Robert’s disoriented cries.

“He needs defibrillation,” someone shouted.

“Take off his shirt!”

In the dark and the fog, Fiona bent down and felt for the fabric, any fabric.

Her cold and slightly trembling fingers felt their way through the damp, heavy air.

Her heart raced with fear but also panic that she wouldn’t be able to find it in time before someone reconnected the lights.

Her hands slicked against Robert’s body, suddenly drenched with sweat.

Finally, she found the distinctive rough-hewn texture of the vest. Her fingers closed around it, gripping it tightly as a wave of relief momentarily washed over her.

With swift, cautious movements, Fiona snatched the vest from underneath someone’s heavy hip.

She had her purse backstage.

Fiona raced back and snatched it. She knew she had to move quickly but allowed herself a brief moment to catch her breath. She shoved the vest into her purse with shaking hands, snapping the false bottom closed. The corset of the dress squeezed her ribs like a vise.

Her heel twisted on an errant cord, and she stumbled to her knees, pulling the bodice of her dress down to indecency. The world around her spun in wild, disorienting circles.

The lights snapped back on with a violent burst, and a bloodcurdling scream cracked the confused fog open. Fiona stopped mid-step, her purse clutched awkwardly to her chest, as the room came into sharp focus. Somehow, the whole iVest contingent was on the stage.

Robert Thorpe sat slumped over, legs spread wide and chin resting unnaturally against his chest.

Not breathing.

The only thing around his neck was an expensive black tie.

Mark gripped his hair in anguish and fell to his knees in the best performance of cinematic grief Fiona had ever seen.

“He’s dead!”

Dead? No, people didn’t just die. Their contract ended.

They left the show and turned up on another procedural three weeks later.

People didn’t die, certainly not because of her.

The scene was horrifying, yet Fiona couldn’t tear her eyes away from Robert’s lifeless form.

The front lace of his toupee had lifted, and his widow’s peak was now somewhere above his eyebrow.

That was the thing he would hate the most, she thought distantly, his fragility and his faults, on display.

She should have looked away. She couldn’t.

And then the air shifted.

“Bitch,” Sara hissed.

The word cracked through the haze, sharp and venomous. Fiona flinched, and her head snapped toward the sound. Sara stood just a few feet away, her beautiful face twisted with an inexplicable, seething hatred.

Mark followed, his too-smooth, plastic face contorting with rage. “Open it,” he spat, his hand shaking as he pointed.

Fiona blinked, uncomprehending. “What?”

“You heard me!” Mark shouted. “Open the bag!”

The crowd pressed closer, their faces flickering with confusion and fury, and Fiona staggered back. She clutched her purse tighter, her fingers aching from the force of her grip.

“I—I don’t know what you’re—” she stammered, but she faltered when Sara stepped forward, the look on her face so cold, so resolute, it drained the fight from Fiona’s body.

“Now,” Sara said, enunciating the word with venom.

Fiona’s hands trembled as she fumbled with the clasp, her mind racing, spiraling. There was no way out of this, no way to turn back the clock, no way to make them unsee what was about to come next.

The purse fell open, the false bottom shifting free with cruel inevitability.

The vest tumbled out of her purse like a beating heart.

The room seemed to inhale all at once, drawing the walls in.

Fiona’s knees buckled, but she forced herself to stay upright, her pulse roaring in her ears. The eyes of the entire room bore down on her, a thousand accusations in their silence.

Sara turned to the crowd, with a solemnity that demanded attention. “Call security,” she said. “And get the police. Now.”

Sara turned to look at her. “You’re finished,” she said, her voice so soft—meant only for Fiona, a scalpel of a thing.

Fiona’s chest burned. She wanted to scream, to explain, to plead, but the words stuck in her throat like shards of glass. She had been so close. So close to finally giving Kwesi the justice he deserved.

The whisper of failure crept in, and for some insane reason, she thought of the family WhatsApp—about how her father would frame her latest and most devastating embarrassment to his family.

They had all been right about her. That she couldn’t hack it.

Only a fool tests the depth of the river with both feet.