Page 6 of The Princess and the P.I.

Fiona’s first time in jail was surprisingly underwhelming.

The place smelled like old newspapers and coffee, with a faint scent of disinfectant mixed with cheap perfume.

The chairs were uncomfortable, probably by design.

Fiona sat on the edge of her seat as fear pulsed through her body in waves she couldn’t suppress.

Just who did you think you were?

She wasn’t the kind of person who pulled off a heist; she wasn’t the kind of person who could return something at Target if it didn’t fit.

She was great on a keyboard, sure, but in the real world?

Whatever people had that made them powerful—grit, confidence, the ability to command a room—she didn’t possess.

Sara’s face flashed in her mind, the way she had looked at Fiona with that cutting, searing anger, as though Fiona had done something to her, specifically to her.

Fiona couldn’t make sense of it. She couldn’t stop replaying the vision of Thorpe’s dead body slumped over, the accusations, the angry faces in the crowd, the rough hands of security yanking her off the stage.

It all moved in slow motion in her mind: the snap of the cuffs, the click of the fingerprint scanner, the humiliating slide of ink against her fingers.

Her arrest felt like it was happening in slow motion.

Every fingerprint, every call that went unanswered.

First her sister, who never picked up, and then her father, who simply didn’t.

She’d stood at the phone, the receiver slippery in her damp hands, and her heart sank with every unanswered ring.

It was a confirmation of what she already knew—they weren’t a family any longer.

As painfully slow as her arrest was, the arraignment had been a blur. They sat her next to a public defender who smelled like a bar but who had done his job well enough to catch her a small break.

The prosecution sounded righteous.

Your Honor, the state considers Ms.Addai a significant flight risk due to the deep connections she maintains with West African associates. We request bail to be set at $1 million or that the defendant remain in custody pending trial.

Fiona’s breath caught in her throat. A million dollars. The words clapped down on her like thunder, so loud and impossible they didn’t even feel real.

But her PD immediately stood.

Your Honor, my client has no prior criminal record and deep ties to the church community. She has a family who will ensure she complies with all court orders. The state’s bail request is excessive and punitive. We ask for bail to be set at $50,000 with standard pretrial conditions.

The judge considered both arguments. Fiona hadn’t realized she was clenching her stomach until the judge spoke again.

Given the nature of the charges and the potential penalties, I agree the defendant poses some risk.

However, a $1 million bail is excessive for a first-time offender.

Bail is set at $150,000. Ms.Addai will surrender her passport.

Any violation of these conditions will result in immediate remand to custody.

Next hearing date will be set for a pretrial conference.

The gavel struck again. It took more time to finish the rose ceremony on The Bachelor .

She had looked around for her father at her arraignment. But he was absent. That her father had seen her being hauled away was sickening—it forced a lump high in her throat and tightened her chest like a fist.

Everything went wrong so quickly.

Fiona got on her knees and prayed. There were three other women in the holding cell with her.

In Acts, when Paul was in jail, the Lord sent an earthquake, and all the doors were opened and everyone’s chains were loosened.

I’m not Paul, Lord, I know, but if you deliver me out of this prison, I will be the person you called me to be.

I will not hide. I will not shrink. Please take this cup from me—

The cell doors slammed open with a twisted metal sharpness.

An angel or a cop blocked the light. “Addai. You posted bail.”

Fiona’s arms shook as she pushed herself to her feet. The other women clapped softly as she shuffled past them, her legs unsteady. The door closed behind her with a clang, and she forced herself to straighten, to walk like she wasn’t falling apart.

The hallway was long and cold, and her borrowed county blues hung awkwardly on her frame.

At least they had taken that ridiculous dress, and with it, those treacherous heels.

Her face was damp, but she couldn’t tell if she was crying or just leaking the stress from her body in whatever form it could manage.

She felt hollow. Empty. But somehow still so full of nausea and fear and shame that she thought she might burst.

She was starving. And sick. And utterly unrecognizable, even to herself.

She walked into a holding room and squinted into the light.

The sensory difference from the oppressive darkness of her cell was dizzying.

The buzz of radios, the sharp, tinny ringing of old-time phones, and the murmur of officers whispering would have felt routine to the innocent.

But the mundane activity took on a hint of the ominous to her guilty heart.

The officer shoved a stack of papers in front of her face. “Since you’re no longer in police custody, you need to appear in court on November fifteenth for your pretrial hearing. Missing this date could result in a warrant for your arrest and forfeiture of your bail.”

“But why do I need to go to court if I didn’t kill anyone?”

“Sign here.” He stabbed the paper with his pen. “You must adhere to the conditions of your bail. Make sure the court has your current contact information so you can be notified of any changes to your court dates or conditions of release.”

“Got it.” Fiona nodded; obedience came automatically to her. But she didn’t get it. And she was not shrinking anymore. “I didn’t kill anyone…”

He was already looking down at the paperwork.

A shift in the atmosphere. A sound, faint but rising, from somewhere beyond the door. Fiona swiveled in her chair.

A man emerged from the blur of blue uniforms. Long legged, purposeful, his stride slicing through the crowd. His clothes were dark—black leather jacket slung over a hoodie—a beanie cocked at a ridiculous angle atop his head. He moved with a kind of kinetic energy, barely contained.

Is he…

Was he—? No, surely not.

But then his eyes locked on hers, and warmth, slow and thick, finger-walked down her spine. Her body was half out of her seat.

Now this was a lawyer.

The officers across from her turned, craning their necks.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

The man in black leather kept coming, cutting through the navy blue–clad crowd like a rip in the fabric.

Her heartbeat was a wild, erratic thing now, and she didn’t know what exactly she was perched on the edge of her chair for, but she was.

She could see him playing Judas in some Nollywood production of Passion of the Christ coming to kiss her on the cheek for thirty pieces of silver.

“Remember that the investigation is ongoing. Any actions you take can still be used as evidence against you,” the cop said.

Her eyes volleyed between the paperwork and the man in the hallway—the way his gaze didn’t waver from hers for even a second.

“Ms.Addai, sign.” The cop tapped the paper.

She had lost sight of him. But now she and the cops on the other side of the table were fidgety.

“Avoid any actions that could result in new charges,” the cop said.

But Fiona’s attention had already drifted, and her eyes scanned the room for him. The man who seemed to push the wind around him as he moved like an airbender.

“Uh, Officers.” A voice, deep and heavy, like a weighted fog, unfurled behind her. “We’ll have to chat some other time.”

The sudden touches on her arm and the small of her back was too familiar, too possessive—like he owned those parts of her. Fiona didn’t turn around.

Breathe, Fiona.

A sudden fear gripped her, the irrational sense that she was under some kind of tender arrest. He smelled like incense smoke—like he’d doused a small fire with cologne.

Breathe and stand.

The sound of the chair scraping the tile floor was loud enough to turn every head in the precinct, and his hands ghosted over the blossoming bruises at her wrist. Fiona took it as a point of pride that she didn’t swoon when she stood.

He was handsome in the way she swore she didn’t like—smooth faced like he couldn’t grow a beard.

He looked more like a cat burglar than a savior.

But her pulse ticked up anyway when he looked down at her.

Some lawyer trick—to convince clients by intense eye contact and leather alone that you were the most capable man in the room.

“You should have received the release authorization. My client has posted bail. Can we pick this up another time?” It wasn’t a question, though his voice lifted at the end. His dark eyes were on her now, scanning her face, her posture, her bruises. It was unnerving how much they seemed to see.

Fiona swallowed hard. How?

Her father? No. That couldn’t be right. Had her sister somehow scraped together $150,000? Or had they actually hired a lawyer?

“Cut the shit, Bennett. Take your suspect and go,” the cop warned.

The man they called Bennett cleared his throat. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Fiona’s gaze snagged on a small tattoo behind his ear, a swirl of red and black ink. Akatsuki clouds . An anime boy? Seriously? The detail jolted something loose in her brain. She knew him! Her dad called tattoos a billboard for the devil, and he may have been right. She knew him from somewhere.

“You really shouldn’t talk to the cops without a lawyer,” he said.

“How do I know you?” she asked.

His eyes flicked down. “High chance you don’t.”