Page 54 of The Princess and the P.I.

“David has admired your godliness for years, Fiona. He was loyal despite the church demoting me, and if you and Maurice have gone too far, he has indicated that this is…” Kofi struggled for the words. “Not a deal-breaker and assures you that it will be a real marriage in every way.”

Fiona knew she was meant to feel grateful here.

Her father’s status in the church was so low that Fiona knew the offer as well as the promise of the full resources of the church was just about the best she could get with a week and a half left until pretrial.

David was tall, broad, and by all accounts a handsome man.

Fiona knew intellectually that this offer, though mostly a business deal, should have flattered her.

But David’s eyes reminded her of those on a fish head in the seafood section of the grocery store, all clouded over and lifeless.

The thought of him “making it a real marriage” made her shudder.

David had requested a respectful date, and what could be more respectable than a yacht? So, there she was, standing on the Potomac dock with her father, waiting like cargo about to be hauled aboard. The lights of National Harbor sparkled around them, too pretty for how miserable she felt.

This place was becoming a minefield of firsts for Fiona.

The windows of the Gaylord hotel and convention center shimmered above her like a constellation, and she squinted up, trying to count the tiny squares.

Somewhere up there was her suite, and for a moment, she wished she could vanish into it, away from everything.

Maurice’s office was only five minutes down the road.

Maybe he was still there, hunched over his desk, papers strewn around him, solving the case piece by piece without her.

You’re costing me. He’d said it so plainly, she had recognized the fear in it, the vulnerability wrapped as anger.

He’d reached for her brother, thrown Kwesi’s name like a dart, and it had hit its mark.

A cheap shot, designed to provoke, and she, tender and frayed from a night she could never forget, had risen to it.

She’d taken the bait. She’d stormed out, given him exactly what he wanted—a quiet room to sit and brood, to pour himself a drink and try to medicate the ache away.

It was weakness that made her care at all what he was doing right now.

The women dressed her this evening, and the outfit felt like a costume.

Halloween had passed two weeks ago, but she was still dressed as Fiona from three years ago.

The women at the church decided on a white outfit.

They pulled the sash belt out of the thin loops of the loose frock, because they feared it drew too much attention to Fiona’s waist. Was it that the belt made her look too hippy or busty?

The reasoning slipped Fiona’s mind. Somehow, her body was back to being all wrong.

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to block out the cold wind slicing through the harbor.

Her father stood beside her, silent and statuesque, his face set in that inscrutable way it always was when he was deep in thought.

They both seemed to hate having to have this meeting.

But her father’s words didn’t match his demeanor.

“Those are thousands of dollars to book,” her father said by way of persuasion. It was interesting that her father was even going this far to try to persuade her. It made her feel he was more tentative about David than he let on.

“I know this feels sudden, but you have always had an inquisitive spirit.” He squeezed her shoulder. “So, avoid the snares of the enemy.”

It was a strange note to end on, and Fiona followed him with her eyes as he walked away.

Her father didn’t greet David, whom he saw striding up, string lights twinkling behind him.

Fiona smiled in that wide way that Maurice’s sisters did and was surprised to see David stutter back, putting his hand to his chest.

She could disarm with a smile . Good to know.

“Blessings, sister.” He was olive skinned with oily, wavy hair and had the type of body made to strike an anvil. She thought of Maurice’s body, lithe and lean, and how he would look walking toward her, both hands in his pockets, some beanie on his head, eyes twinkling with intelligence.

She wished it were him on this boat. Not having a date but talking about the case in that animated way he did sometimes over takeout—depositing rice wherever his chopsticks pointed.

She was really sick, because she would take Maurice the asshole over this very nice yacht date.

David gave her a tight squeeze. Without greeting her, he answered a call from a friend, presumably asking about the success of the church’s bountiful harvest event.

They were planning on a huge windfall. Fiona would have bet the farm that this call was intentional.

The Potomac rippled beneath the yacht, dark and silent except for the occasional slap of water against the hull.

“Sorry, my love, business never stops. How are you?” Fiona’s shoes clicked softly on the wooden dock as she approached the boat, its deck glowing with strings of fairy lights. From a distance, it could have been beautiful—a dream, even—but up close, it felt staged.

He curled his hand around her waist, positioning his thick fingers just at the hard underwire of her bra. It was indecent, and Fiona collected her breathing and walked in front of him, stepping shakily up the ramp into the dimly lit yacht.

Her instincts were firing off at a mile a minute. Everything in her said, Don’t get on this boat. But David followed behind her so closely she could feel his belt buckle at her backside. And with a few steps, she was on the boat.

The air smelled like salt and some cologne David must have spritzed on. Soft music drifted from hidden speakers. The whole thing felt like a cringe Instagram post.

She said yes!

The yacht was making her nauseated. The food that was supposed to be cold was room temperature, and the food that was supposed to be hot was room temperature—oysters sweating in their shells, Alfredo stiff and gluey.

She pushed the plate away, faintly aware of David’s eyes fixed on her. He watched her so intently. She tried to feign interest in his bountiful harvest event, nodding at appropriate intervals, but…“We plan to use this influx of cash to seed churches all over the—Ah, Fiona?”

Fiona snapped her head back.

“Are you not hungry? You pass on the appetizers, but now you’re not eating the Alfredo.”

“Oh.” Fiona forced a smile, picking up her fork. She twirled a bite of the limp pasta and swallowed it without tasting a thing. Keep playing along. It’s time to get to business.

“So,” she said lightly, “you’re a big man now, congrats! How’d you manage that? I remember you being very loyal to my father. And Dad is kind of…” She let the sentence hang in the air, baiting him.

David leaned back slightly. “There’s no shame in saying it—your dad lost his way. That’s why you’re acting out right now. It’s not your fault. Father Henry always says, ‘As the head goes, the tail follows.’ You’re not being spiritually led, Fiona.”

Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to nod like she was considering his point. Her father had been wrong about plenty. Too many things, really. But the church hadn’t demoted him because he’d “lost his way.” It was because he’d refused to stand down on the Tameka scandal.

Her tone softened as she remind herself to stay sweet. “I don’t think he was demoted because he lost his way,” she said.

David looked at her like he was telling her Santa wasn’t real. “He divided the church, Fiona. We’ve been divided for too long. Tameka had a Jezebel spirit, and she tore the church apart. Your father sees that now. He told me so. He realizes the damage.”

Her pulse quickened. Except he didn’t. Her father had never wavered on his position.

Why would he have changed his mind now? Something wasn’t adding up.

Coupled with what they likely had on Esi, the puzzle pieces began to shift into place.

Maybe her father had agreed to this meeting for another reason entirely.

David’s phone buzzed, breaking the moment. His expression shifted, an eyebrow arched, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He was too pleased to be properly annoyed.

“Ah, your sister,” he said, holding up the phone with a flourish. “Texting at this time of night? I wonder what this is about.”

His reaction had the theatricality of a church play.

“Do you mind if I text back?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” Fiona said, gesturing with her fork.

“Esi,” David said smoothly, texting with his thumbs and reading aloud, “to what do I owe the honor?”

A pause. Then he turned the phone to Fiona.

“Oh…Um, did you know that Esi and that thug guy”—he snapped his fingers—“…um, Maurice, were seeing each other now?”

Fiona closed her eyes slowly, willing the world to reset itself when she opened them again.

The yacht rocked a little harder, sending a clatter through the cutlery on the table. No reset, just reality.

“Oh?” she managed, scooping up another bite of cold pasta. She took a big swallow, forcing down both her irritation and the noodles.

Be curious, not furious , she reminded herself.

Why was he telling her this? Why would Esi be texting him , of all people, to check in about her date—with someone the church would consider an enemy?

Maurice taught her you only needed to drill five layers, most of the time less, to get to the root of something. The Five Whys , he called it.

David’s lips curled into a sly grin, as if savoring her discomfort. “Oh, Maurice is spoiling your sister. Really pulling out all the stops. Can’t imagine he can afford a yacht, though.”

“Nope.” Fiona shoveled the cold pasta in her mouth.

Game on, asshole.

Layer one.

“So, what are they doing?” she asked, keeping her tone light, curious.