Page 49 of The Princess and the P.I.

“You never did anything, sweetheart,” Sara said, suddenly soft, mocking. “That was your problem. Your brother never told you about Mark, your sister’s probably still not talking to you. Because they know who you really are…Winner of the ABBEY obedience pageant three years running.”

Fiona swallowed. “But I read a few bits of your manuscript, the sneak peek you let out for People ? And you held the title five years before me. We have so much in common.”

Sara’s confident facade slipped for just a moment.

Good, Fiona. Sara had tried an emotional jab, and Fiona swerved and found her target. Damned good.

Maurice caught the flash of fear in Sara eyes too.

“Have you been receiving little notes?” Fiona pressed.

Sara exhaled sharply, glancing away. “Of course they try their shit. But they only send you notes when they want you back, sweetheart. So congratulations, I guess. When they’re done with me I’ll be swimming in the Potomac.”

“Have they threatened you directly?” Fiona asked.

Maurice was impressed with Fiona’s resolve.

She was holding her ground. She had been remarkable all night, while he felt himself unraveling—falling in love with a woman he didn’t deserve.

He always did this—wanted a crown his neck couldn’t hold up.

He was starting to see the impossibility of what they were up against, and it scared him.

The church was an endless resourceful network of devoted people.

Once again he had led someone out on a limb; once again he couldn’t deliver.

“When you know what I know, you get used to threats.” Sara ran her hand over the top of the glass.

“Sara,” Fiona said gently, reaching out. “Are you scared? Do you need help?”

Sara recoiled, her hands trembling as she backed away. “Look,” she said, “are we getting lubed up or not?”

“Not,” Fiona answered firmly.

Maurice spoke carefully, his eyes locked on Sara. “We can take you somewhere safer.”

She laughed again. “Run along, boys and girls. I’m not leaving. I’m not scared. And if you think you’re calling the cops, go ahead. I mean it. Call them.” Her smile returned, sharp and venomous. “But you don’t want to. That’s a promise.”

—

The car ride home was as quiet as a grave. Fiona had her coat double tied around her waist, and she was staring out the window, watching the city smear past in streaks of neon and shadow.

Sara had no compunction about telling them everything. She was so sure they wouldn’t go to the cops.

What is her insurance? Why is she so sure?

But that wasn’t what stuck. What really lodged under Fiona’s skin, sharp as a splinter, was Sara’s laughter. That cutting, knowing laugh when she called her Miss Obedience, how her brother and sister never really trusted her with their secrets. How they feared she would betray them.

Obedience. The word slithered under her skin, curling around her ribs.

What she did at that club was not obedient.

When Maurice kissed her, wild, passionate, reckless—everything felt hyperreal. Now she felt electric, skin hypersensitive. It was all pretend at that play party until it wasn’t—all meaningless until it started to mean everything.

Sara’s laughter kept cutting through her head. You can shoo, honey. So she wasn’t some sex goddess. Did it have to mean Maurice would reject her?

Maurice drove one-handed. His left knee bounced in an unconscious rhythm, a restless, ticking energy. He hadn’t spoken since they left the party.

She knew what he’d said in the wardrobe, something like We can’t, we shouldn’t, not like this . But Lord in heaven, Lord , it felt like he’d flung every word out the window the moment his mouth found hers.

“Do you think I’m obedient?” she asked.

Whoa. Fiona’s voice was barely making it across her vocal cords, but she held his gaze, waiting.

Maurice tilted his head, considering. Then, after a pause, he said, “I think…” He let the words hang for a beat, dragging his knuckles lazily across the wheel of the car.

“You could survive in any environment you’re thrown into…

Black Americans did it for four hundred years.

It’s called shucking and jiving. Yes people to death and then do what you need to do. ”

Fiona exhaled, something tight inside her loosening. She reached for the belt of her coat, fingers toying with the knot.

Maurice continued, voice dipping lower. “Did your dad know about Princess_PI?”

“Well…no.”

“Did he know about your karate shit?”

“Jujitsu,” she corrected, her lips curving slightly, “and no.”

“Did he know you planned to steal his son’s vest?”

“Obviously not.”

“And I sure as hell didn’t know about this outfit you planned tonight.” His eyes raked over her now, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “That’s not very obedient, Fiona.”

Her fingers pulled at the belt, her coat slipping an inch, just enough to make his gaze flicker lower.

“In fact,” he murmured, slowing the car down to park, “I’d say you’re damn near insubordinate.”

While Maurice parked, Fiona looked around for her sister’s car and prayed a silent prayer.

Dear God, please let her have an appointment, or a date, or literally anything else to do tonight.

Could you pray to God to help you lose your virginity? Was that a thing? Was there a patron saint for that? A St. Deflowerus?

No silver sedan. Nowhere in sight. Fiona took that as holy confirmation that the timing was right.

They walked up the hotel hallway together, his fingers grazing hers.

Okay, we’re at the door . Fiona, woman up !

So it would be the suite. Here lies Fiona’s virginity. She died a good death.

At her door, he slid his key into the lock with practiced ease, and the metallic click felt deafening in the quiet.

“This was…a lot,” he said softly, eyes flicking over her face, assessing. “You can take some time if you need it. Process.”

“I don’t.” Her voice was steadier than she felt.

His gaze didn’t waver. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” she whispered.

His mouth crushed hers, setting fire to any resistance she had left. She was falling, spiraling into him—this was what inevitability felt like. Her fingers twisted in his collar, pulling him closer.

She felt like someone had pressed the fire alarm in her stomach and run. There was no way around it. If Maurice had laid a trap for her she was willfully falling into it.

His kiss stopped so abruptly Fiona was left gasping. She followed his line of sight. The space was chaos: couch cushions gutted, plates smashed.

Across the couch, someone had spray-painted JEZEBEL in blocky, red letters. The color bled into the fabric, jagged edges still drying, raw and fresh. It smelled like chemicals.

Maurice stood still with his face locked into place, but his breathing—shallow, uneven—gave him away.

“This is in my case files,” he said, the words slow, strangled. “Fiona…do you…do you see this?”

Fiona blinked. “Maurice.” She stepped closer, cautious. “Of course I see this. Someone broke in.”

But he wasn’t hearing her. He was focused, spiraling down some deep well in his mind. His eyes flicked from the couch to the walls, tracking something invisible, something not here.

“This is exactly how Tameka’s home looked,” he whispered. “These words. This is…it was like this.”

Fiona’s stomach flipped. “Maurice. Are you okay? We should report this—”

Fiona moved toward the bedroom. The mattress was off the base, the stuffing slashed open, goose feathers thick in the air like dust. The bed looked like a gutted animal.

Maurice was still in the doorway, not moving, eyes scanning the destruction like he’d seen it before. Like he was waiting for something worse.

And then suddenly he was behind her. His hand clamped around her arm, not hard, but urgent. “Fiona—don’t touch anything. We have to go. Now.”

A chill rolled down her spine. His grip, the low, raw note in his voice—panic.

“This isn’t about you. It’s me. They want me to stop. They don’t even know you’re here. Unless your dad talked to them. But that’s not something he would advertise.”

Maurice was rambling, running through theories, patching together a story, trying to force the chaos into something that made sense. He was only half-right. This was about her. It had been about her from the start.

She saw it—the flicker of fear that cut across his face, quick and sharp. And she wished, for the first time, that she had told him about the notes earlier. Wished she had laid it all out instead of holding it close, like a losing hand in a rigged game.

“Maurice, I—”

“Let’s. Fucking. Go.” His voice was tight, clipped, leaving no space for argument.

He wasn’t letting her talk. Wasn’t letting her explain. Just moving, moving , gripping her wrist and pulling her toward the door, urgency thick in the air. His hands weren’t rough, but they weren’t gentle either.

But her phone was buzzing like crazy and so was Maurice’s. He looked at her, and a whip cracked between them.

Fiona fumbled for her phone, hands trembling. The notification flashed. Her subreddit was lit up.

brEAKING NEWS: Tech Publicist Sara Al Haddad Found Dead in Apparent Homicide

Sara Al Haddad, whom she and Maurice had just seen fifty-seven minutes ago, had just been found dead.