Page 67 of The Princess and the P.I.

Fiona had always believed that if you dug deep enough, if you pushed hard enough, if you refused to let go, the truth would eventually rise to the surface. Like oil in water. Today, she was ready to test that theory.

After stopping by the office to pick up bags of evidence and case material, Fiona slung it all into the backseat.

She had an appointment with Mark, and she would get something out of him.

She wasn’t sure what, exactly, she expected to hear, but something in her gut told her that if she pressed in the right places, he’d confess— something , anything.

She hated how empty the condo felt without him. How exposed she suddenly felt.

After everything, she showed him every piece of herself—and it rattled her to be left like this.

No word. No check-in. Just…gone. She knew she hadn’t rocked his world or anything last night.

She didn’t have a bag of tricks like the other women he must have been with, but goodness she had given him everything.

That should count for something. But the way he walked out of this condo just didn’t sit right.

Maurice told her all the time to trust her gut.

Something was off. Way off.

But she had no time for speculation. The only way to know was to move forward, to drill down, to pull truth from the wreckage.

Fiona parked a few houses down from Mark’s condo, remembering Maurice’s advice.

Note your exits, check for backup or suspicious cars.

In the elevator, Fiona took a deep breath to steady her wild heart.

Finally, down a long corridor, she saw the Open House sign in the front door, taped with swaying balloons.

Her mind ran through the plan she had hastily put together. It was a risk, but she had come this far.

The door creaked open, and Fiona slipped inside, her steps hesitant on the bare wood floors.

The condo felt stripped, hollowed out of anything personal.

The walls were newly painted, the sharp smell of it mingling with a faint whiff of cleaning supplies.

A couch, a coffee table, and a few scattered boxes were all that remained, lonely sentinels in the otherwise empty space.

Her breath felt loud in her chest, and when she called out, her voice sounded small. “Mark?”

He appeared from the kitchen doorway, a glass of water in one hand.

Surprise flickered for a moment, then a slow smile curled his lips. It wasn’t welcoming. “You must have a death wish, walking in here uninvited. Do you even want to see the outside of a jail cell again? Because all it would take is one call.”

Fiona swallowed but didn’t falter. Her hands shook slightly, but she laced her fingers together to steady them. “But you won’t,” she said. “You just inked the biggest tech buyout of your life.” She flashed the post from some tech blog. “You’re not going to ruin that.”

His smile faded. “No, I won’t,” he said, and Fiona understood it properly as a threat.

“Sara is dead,” Fiona said. The words were blunt and raw out of her mouth.

Mark’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was a flicker. “A pity,” he said flatly.

“She wasn’t kind,” Fiona admitted. “But it does mean there are fewer people who know the truth about your company. Founded on the back of my brother. That’s convenient for you.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “Careful,” he warned.

Fiona leaned against the doorframe. “What part of Ghana are you moving to?”

He let out a short laugh. “Why? Afraid I’ll charm my way into your family?”

She didn’t smile. “Just make sure you don’t get swindled. They can spot a foreigner with a wad of cash from a mile away.”

He stared at her, his face unreadable, then let out a long sigh and slumped into the chair across from her. “You and the church coming to claim my pittance,” he muttered. He looked exhausted.

Her brow furrowed. “Pittance? You just sold your shares for millions.”

Mark gave her a bitter smile. “Fifty million of those ‘millions’ went straight to Pink and Pearls Limited. The rest was split one hundred ways between the rest of us peasants.”

Her stomach dropped. “?‘Pink and Pearls’?”

Mark nodded. “They came out of nowhere, bought up controlling shares in the vest patent right before the sale. Nobody knows who they are. They were threatening people. Sara…She, uh, she said they were…” He didn’t finish. “God, when is this all going to be over!”

“Mark, that’s what I want to do. I want this all to be over.”

Fiona watched him carefully. The black roots were growing in, stark against the faded dye. His King Tut chin had a dark five-o’clock shadow. His house was stripped, and it was clear now—he wasn’t flush with cash. He was clawing his way out, fighting just to leave it all behind.

“Maurice and I were doing some digging. We saw you were trying to find out who they were. Did you find anything out?”

Mark folded his arms and kicked a shaky box toward her. A few papers feathered out of the box, and Mark didn’t bother to pick them up.

“Fiona, take the documents. Seriously, take them. But I’m not interested in playing Sherlock Holmes with you. I’m done with their sick, twisted world.”

Fiona hesitated, her hands already reaching for the stack of papers. They were heavy, unwieldy, and she clutched them to her chest like armor. “I can respect that,” she said quietly, though the words felt thin, brittle.

Mark leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples like he was holding his skull together. “Help me piece this together, though—just for my own sanity. Why steal the vest? Why now, three years later? Why suddenly play his avenging angel?”

Fiona swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. Her voice came out trembly and soft. “He needed an angel.”

Mark let out a dry laugh, tilting his head back. “Day late, dollar short.”

Maurice’s words came rushing back to her, unbidden: All this energy trying to be the person you should’ve been three years ago . She felt the mean truth of it.

“I was trying to turn back the clock,” she admitted. “Three years ago, I was scared of my own shadow. My father’s will felt unbreakable. I wanted to be the person Kwesi needed me to be—just once. I wanted to bury him in a way that showed the world he mattered. In Ghana, death without a funeral…”

Mark nodded slowly, his expression softening. “Yeah, Kwesi and I saw a few funeral billboards in Accra. ‘Intense’ doesn’t even cover it.”

“And the vest is his,” Fiona said. “I don’t care who claimed it, who thought they owned it. You bury someone with meaning. Kwesi’s vest could’ve changed the world.”

“I’m sorry.” Mark’s voice was gentler now, almost hesitant. “I…Wow. I thought you were trying to sell it. Sorry about the…uh, the brick. I was in a state.”

Fiona managed a faint smile. “No problem. I think we all were.”

“At least the murder looks like it’s not going to stick,” Mark ventured.

Fiona didn’t respond, only pressed her lips together.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, a spark of something lighting in his eyes.

“I think I have something better.” He stood, moving to one of the half-packed boxes, rummaging through its contents.

“The prototype, the one the lab produced, was slick—professional. But Kwesi and I were working on this thing for months. This…” He pulled out a lumpy piece of cloth, its edges frayed and uneven. “This is what we started with.”

Fiona took it from him, her fingers brushing the rough fabric. It was clumsy, homemade, and ugly as sin. Her throat tightened.

“Kwesi measured this with his own hands, sewed every piece himself,” Mark said. “It’s not sleek, not polished, but it’s his.”

“And you’re giving it to me?” Fiona whispered.

“To you, yes,” Mark said. “I have a few others, but if you’re going to give him a Ghanaian funeral…he’d want this one. Not the Frankenstein vest it became.”

Fiona held the vest close, and the faint lingering scent of oil and fabric glue brought a tear to her eye. “Thank you,” she choked out.

Fiona looked up. “Mark, one thing I can’t understand—if you loved my brother, how do I reconcile what you did? Sending those photos to the church? You destroyed him.”

Mark’s brow furrowed. “Those two things are hard to reconcile because I didn’t send any photos.”

Fiona shook her head. “What?”

He leaned forward. “Some assholes high up in the church wanted to marry him off—or marry one of you off. Kwesi refused. They resorted to the church’s favorite pastime: blackmail. And Kwesi didn’t budge.”

The words crashed like glass at her feet. She knew without asking.

Her jaw clenched so tightly she thought her teeth might crack.

David—the so-called family friend. Always lurking, always watching, collecting secrets he could use to bend people to his will. Kwesi had resisted him. Esi had stood firm. Even her father, bound by his faith, had found a way to slip from David’s grip. And now Fiona would finish it.

Fiona took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus.

“There’s something else you need to know,” she said. “Kwesi’s death wasn’t an accident. We’re looking into Sara’s documents, searching for payments to private security firms. We think Robert was involved.”

Mark’s face went still. He sank back into the chair, his hands resting limply on his thighs. “I wouldn’t let myself think it,” he said finally. “My therapist kept accusing me of spiraling.”

The silence was heavy. Mark stared at the white wall in front of him, his eyes distant for so long Fiona thought she might just see herself out.

Finally, he spoke.

“There’s one thing I can still do for you. For Kwesi. As acting CEO.”

Fiona frowned, tilting her head. “What?”

He didn’t look at her, his gaze still fixed on some invisible point in the distance. “Watch the news.”

—

Maurice was watching Tony work his way through the long line to get viral sandwiches at a chain restaurant when Fiona called.

Maurice picked up on the first ring.