Page 37 of I'm sorry, Princess
Somewhere beneath all that confidence, my stomach twists at the thought of seeing him again.
His voice.
His eyes.
His hands.
I stand in front of the mirror, my heart racing as I inspect myself one last time before leaving for the appointment. My outfit is simple but polished, the kind oflook that says I belong in the room, even if every part of me is screaming otherwise.
A crisp white blouse drapes softly over my body, the fabric light and delicate against my skin. The top buttons are left undone, just enough to loosen the stiffness, but not enough to be inappropriate. The sleeves are rolled up slightly, casually elegant, giving me room to breathe. The material is sheer in some lights, but tucked into my skirt it looks professional, barely.
My skirt is a black high-waisted pencil skirt that hugs my hips and curves like a second skin. It’s tight. Maybe too tight for a prison visit, but it’s all I could grab without overthinking. It ends mid-thigh, exposing just enough to make me question my life choices, but I don’t change. I can’t bring myself to. I need the armor. I need to feel like I have control over something tonight, even if it’s just my outfit.
My legs feel longer in the high heels I forced onto my feet. Black stilettos, pointed toes, sharp enough to stab. The clicks they make when I walk are part of the act, the role I’m playing. Confident. Put together. In control.
Yeah, right.
My blonde hair falls down my back in soft, loose curls, the kind I do when I don’t want to look like I tried too hard but still need to look... presentable. The blonde highlights catch the light as I tilt my head, and for a second, I pretend I’m someone else. Someone less nervous.
I slip on my glasses, oversized, black-rimmed, a thin barrier between me and the world. They make me look professional, smarter, detached. They hide the way my eyes dart when I’m anxious, the way they always seem to give too much away.
I leave the house and drive straight to the prison, my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than they need to.The city blurs past me, but it’s not like I’m paying attention to traffic. My playlist is blasting through the speakers, “Worst Behavior” by Kwn ft. Kehlani repeating for the fifth time since I left the driveway. It’s stupid, I know, but I keep hitting repeat anyway. The lyrics seep into my skin, curl around my thoughts, and settle low in my stomach like a storm that refuses to pass.
Of course my mind drifts to him.
To Lorenzo freaking Moretti.
By the third repeat of the song, my thighs press together unconsciously. By the fourth, my lips part just enough to let out a shallow breath. By the fifth, I know I’m setting myself up for disaster, but it’s my favorite song for a reason. Kwn has a way of making you question everything, your morals, your limits, even your sexuality. She knows exactly what girls like to hear, and right now, I hate how much of myself I see in every line.
Twenty minutes fly by.
I pull into the staff parking lot, shutting off the engine but leaving the song stuck in my head, echoing in my veins like a taunt. I grab my bag, slam the door shut, and head straight inside, my heels clicking against the concrete with more confidence than I actually feel.
All eyes are on me the second I step into the building.
Some of it is curiosity. Most of it is envy or lust. I don’t need a mirror to know that. The women? Their eyes cut sharp, wondering who the hell I think I am, walking in here like this. The men? Their gazes are heavy, lingering in places they shouldn’t be, as if they’ve forgotten what professional boundaries are.
And they all know exactly who I am.
Thomas Beaumont’s daughter. The new FBI recruit. The pretty little nepo baby playing doctor with the criminals.
Let them talk.
I don’t really care.
They’ll talk anyway. May as well give them a good view while they do it.
At the reception desk, a new guy is fumbling, clearly lost. His face is flushed as he struggles to locate Lorenzo Moretti’s file.
Before I can offer to help, Ian materializes behind me like a shadow. He’s holding the file, apparently the reason the rookie couldn’t find it.
“Looking for this?” Ian’s voice is smooth, but there’s an edge beneath it. He hands me the folder, his eyes scanning me from head to toe like I’m a shiny new toy he’d love to unwrap.
“You look gorgeous.”
There it is, the trademark Ian smile, perfect white teeth flashing like he’s posing for a campaign ad. His eyes stay a beat too long on my body, and the warmth in his tone sours when he adds, “You should be careful with that brute.”
That brute.
