Chapter 12

12

THE HEARTbrEAK HEARTTHROB

Posing in Armani ads, wearing Tom Ford on Parisian runways, or doing silly dances for millions of social media followers, chances are you've seen (and secretly crushed on) eighteen-year-old Léon Barnard. He's the son of a prime minister, an occasional model, and the ex-boyfriend of a certain rebel prince. Here's all the tea we have on the world's favorite new heartbroken heartthrob!

"How is he even here?" I shout.

Thankfully, this Palisades house is in a secluded neighborhood. We're on the main lawn. Me, Samuel, and a very smug Léon. I've considered shoving him in the pool more than once.

"Almost thirteen hours on a commercial airline, actually," he says. "I expected more from the monarchy."

Samuel facepalms, like Léon wasn't supposed to mention that part. I tear my glare from my soon-to-be-ex-royal liaison, arms crossed as I wait for Léon to explain more.

"I tried to warn you." He adjusts the sleeves of his suit jacket. Of course, he'd show up unannounced looking like a GQ daydream. I hate him. "Do you ever check your DMs?"

"Not ones from demon ex-boyfriends," I retort.

"And how many of those do you have now?"

I stiffen. There's an unsubtle arch to one of Léon's eyebrows.

"Why are you really here?" I ask, avoiding his question. If he's not going to mention the photos, neither am I.

"Mon beau—"

" Don't ," I snap, "call me that." It's infuriating, the goosebumps freckling my forearms. How that one nickname undoes me.

"Fine. Your Highness." His grin doesn't slip. "I thought you needed me."

"I don't—"

"Let me finish," he asserts, holding up a finger. "I know the media's all over you. Especially after those… photos appeared."

Fuck. Now he said it.

"It hurt, Jadon." He sounds anything but. "Seeing that you moved on so quickly, so easily, so"—he pauses, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye, sniffing—"miserably."

"Annoyed the spotlight wasn't on you for once?"

Was that petty? Maybe. Gratifying when his fake-endearing expression slips, his nostrils flaring with agitation? Definitely.

It wasn't always like this. We've known each other since we were ten. When Barnard was elected prime minister and then, soon after, Papa's coronation. Both of us shoved into a bigger spotlight before we were ready. We've seen each other's worst moments—his parents' divorce; my, well, everything —and our best—coming out to each other; our first kiss in the shadows of the palace gardens.

He was the one person I could lean on, other than Kofi. The only one who really knew me.

Now there's this Léon with the perpetually bored expression as he says, "I don't care about the photos. Or your new boytoy."

"He's not—"

He cuts me off. "I'm here to tour American universities. Maman says I can't coast by on my looks. I need to get a real education."

My face twists up. "Wait, you , who thinks the world of Réverie? Who constantly says we're better than the rest of the world—"

"Because we are."

He sounds so much like his dad, I want to scream. Or throw him off the cliffside. I refrain only because Samuel's still present.

"Maman says there are great schools here," Léon points out. His defiant grin resurfaces. "And, as I was saying earlier, me being here benefits you too."

"How?" I ask, dryly. "In what world does you being in LA benefit me?"

"Well," he begins, "a certain someone mentioned—"

My eyes cut to my left. I'm never going home. Because I'm going to murder Samuel.

"—you need assistance getting Réverie to adore you again," Léon continues. "What better way to accomplish that than being seen together. Proving their former power couple doesn't hate each other. There's no bad blood between you and my pa, because we're friends."

He holds his arms out wide, like he's thoroughly impressed by his own speech.

I'm not.

" Now ?" My voice breaks. Not out of hurt. Or disbelief. Out of pure, face-heating anger. "You want to be friends now?"

I can barely look at him. It's as if he doesn't remember that day. A week after we broke up. After we agreed things changed and he wasn't happy, and I didn't know how to fix it. That moment when I wanted to talk to him about what I heard his papa say, when I said I needed a friend, and he walked away.

I can't be your friend . The last thing he said to me before the DMs started.

Léon shrugs. "For the media. For your sake, too."

"Your Highness," Samuel tries, "to be fair—"

"What about inviting my ex to America and divulging confidential royal information concerning my life is fair?" I bite out.

He bows. "My apologies. But time is short. You heard the king."

I grimace. When Léon unceremoniously showed up, I rushed off the video call with my parents. Promised an explanation later. But Papa didn't let me end our discussion without one final warning about my time clock. About proving I'm a deserving prince .

"We need to try something different," Samuel advises.

" This "—I wave a wild hand at Léon, ignoring the disdain in his expression—"isn't something different."

It's what Barnard wants. Things to stay the same. For the power in Réverie to remain in the hands of its own. No outsiders. No one who dares to defy what we've always done, how we've always existed.

"Jadon." Léon drops a hand on my shoulder. He's unbothered when I flinch away. "A few photos. A dinner or two. Some smiles for the cameras. Just like the good old days."

But I don't want that. Our past is just that— history .

Problem is, I don't have another solution. Another way to win back my country's trust. I'm stuck, again.

"He can't stay here," I say to Samuel, exhausted.

Léon scoffs. "I didn't plan to."

I give him one final glare. "Don't make me regret this."

The last thing I hear as I walk back into the house is "What in the fresh hell is this?" from a wide-eyed Annika, frozen in the doorway, finally home from a gallery opening.

It's barely a second before Reiss appears on my phone screen, bleary-eyed and yawning out, "Did you mean to call me?"

"Um, yes?"

I don't mean for it to come out as a question. Truthfully, I didn't think this through. FaceTiming him at midnight. Waking him up. I needed someone to talk to, but Annika's currently ripping Samuel a new one, and Kofi's out of the picture, and my fingers moved quicker than my brain.

When I see his face, half-illuminated in ivory from his own screen, the other half smooshed into his pillow, I realize he is the one I want to talk to. About this. About…everything.

"Hey," he says, raspy. "What's wrong?"

I stare at my own video square. Wrecked curls, tense shoulders, a pixelated resting prince face. Today has been far too long, and all it takes is one question from Reiss to unleash the flood.

I tell him about Léon being in LA. About how weird and annoying and frustrating it is because—because I've moved on. From him. From the Jadon I was then.

Then, I backtrack to talk about the call with my parents. How no one back home believes I'm different. How Samuel proposed Léon's presence will change that. How pretending to be friends will suddenly reinstate Réverie's trust in me. That I agreed to go along with it not just for myself, but to keep the press off Reiss and his family too.

On the screen, Reiss's eyebrows are practically kissing his hairline.

My heart lurches. I said too much. I didn't explain things right—

"Wow." His eyes crinkle. "Who knew being a royal was so dramatic?"

"It's not funny."

"It isn't," he confirms. He shifts around, revealing a pillow crease on his cheek. "But you seem like you needed a laugh. And a hug."

I sigh. "A hug would be nice."

"So, your ex is gonna be around."

"Only platonically," I rush out. "For the media. He knows about you. There's nothing between me and him."

He snorts. "Obviously. Why would you go back to a six when you have an eleven?"

I squint at him, smirking. "Who's the confident one now?"

"Just stating facts." He yawns again. "If hanging with him means people will stop focusing on what happened the other night, then cool. More alone time for us, right?"

"Right." I toe off my Jordans, scooting onto the bed. Crash into the pillows with an embarrassingly big smile. "Just you and me."

He nods, eyes heavy. "I don't have to meet him, do I?"

"No."

"Good." He pauses. "Not that I'm worried. I don't get jealous."

"Allegedly," I say with a laugh.

He flips me off, but the corners of his mouth tease up.

Silence creeps in. I realize this is the first time we've ever FaceTimed. We haven't even talked on the phone before. I've never had to figure out how to say goodbye to him.

So, I don't.

We lie on our sides and eventually let sleep say it for us.

"Okay. That's enough."

I almost knock over a full carafe of water when Léon reaches across the table to steal my phone away. I'd been studying the photos Samuel forwarded me from today's appearance: throwing the first pitch before a playoff game at Dodger Stadium. He'd scheduled it early in our operation. Back when this was supposed to be less complicated. Before we involved my ex.

Now, I'm hours away from a People exclusive of me and Léon sharing hot dogs in the stands. Perfect. While my sister's off greeting children at a youth development center, I'm fake-smiling for all the telephoto lenses aimed at me from across the street.

"Give me my phone," I say through my teeth.

"Non." He hides it under a cloth napkin. "We're supposed to look like we're having fun."

"I am," I lie.

We're on the outdoor patio of a chic LA restaurant. The area's been closed off for us. Léon's bodyguards—"Can you believe they only gave me two ?" he whined earlier—wait by the door. Ajani is here too. The neighborhood's all palm trees and designer shops and a sea of valet-parked luxury cars.

"That's your fun face? Looks like your diarrhea face." Léon does a poor imitation of whatever's happening with my expression.

I smile, all teeth. "Go. To. Hell."

"I'm already there," he comments dryly. "The palace has me staying at the Waldorf in Beverly Hills."

I pick at my tacos. They're not as great as the ones from the pier. The ones I shared with Reiss. I should be with him. Not pretending to care that Léon isn't receiving the red-carpet treatment he's accustomed to.

"What has you so distracted?" He points his fork to my hidden phone. "Boytoy drama?"

If I stab him under the table, will the photographers notice?

I bypass my knife for a glass of water, just in case. "Wouldn't you like to know," I say after a sip.

" Please ." He laughs. "The American doesn't concern me. I'm here as a friend."

"Oh, is that what this is?" I say, head tilted endearingly when I sense the cameras focused on me.

"Yes," Léon replies tightly. "This can't be easy for you."

"This?"

He manages to sigh and maintain a glinting smile at the same time. "I still have sources on the inside. Gossip travels fast. Royal gossip travels faster. I know you're not here by choice."

I make a mental note to interrogate every single palace staffer when I get home. If I get home. Clearing my throat, I say, "It's complicated."

Another breathy laugh. I hate the way the sun makes his deep umber skin glow. How easy his smile comes, like lightning in a storm.

"Mon be—" He stops when I glare. Rolling his eyes, he says, " Jadon , we both know it's not. You did what you always do. Set the world on fire instead of using your words."

"I tried to tell—"

He cuts me off. "What I don't get is why you're so desperate to go home."

I pause, eyebrows scrunching. "What?"

"Come on." He forks around his salad. "You were literally Rapunzel stuck in the tower back on Réverie."

"I was happy."

"You were miserable ," he counters. "Either annoyed or antisocial. Always so desperate to leave. How many times did you sneak out to see me?"

Too many , I almost say. Memories rush my brain: hiding in corners, running down hallways. Following heavy shadows until I hit the gardens, my lungs filled with night air and freedom.

I miss those moments.

"It's my home," I tell him. "I know it like the back of my hand. I was okay. Comfortable."

It's where I never had to deal with the ashes left behind after one of my incidents .

"Shouldn't you be more than ‘okay' in a place you call home?" he asks, his smile a little too sympathetic. "Maybe it's time for you to get comfortable with being uncomfortable."

I squint. "What does that mean?"

He lifts one shoulder. Then, in true Léon fashion, he changes the subject. "You look different. It's the curls. They haven't been that long since…"

I wait for him to say since we were fourteen . When we came out. When he kissed me.

Instead, he says, "Get a trim."

"You first." I study him over my water glass. A tight ‘fro of tiny curls. Clear complexion. He's been working out, his muscles filling out his rose blazer and Alexander McQueen T-shirt.

He leans back in his chair, sunlight cutting across his strong jaw. "What's really going on with you?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. Pick around my tacos. I could lie again. Or ignore the question. But this is Léon, and despite where we left things, he still knows me better than anyone who isn't family or Ajani.

After a deep breath, I say, "None of this feels like it's working. Like it's…me."

"How so?"

I tell him the things I've tried. Willow Wood, and the interview, and now a baseball game. All the little tricks that were supposed to make people like me. Respect me. But nothing is showing the Jadon I want them to see.

"Which is?" Léon asks.

My brows knit.

"How do you want them to see you?" he clarifies.

Over the occasional car driving by, I hear the snapsnapsnap from cameras. Quickly, I adjust my expression. Force out the biggest grin while considering Léon's question.

How do I want them to view me? Every second in America has been dedicated to countering the Jadon from the video. The prince I can't be known as. But I never thought about the one I want to show everyone. I haven't figured out who I want to see myself as.

"Oh, mon Dieu." Léon laughs. Not in a mean way. Surprised. "You don't know."

"I do!"

He eyes me skeptically. "Where's the pain-in-the-ass prince I've known forever? He had no problem telling me who I was."

"You're a dick."

"There he is." That sparkling smile again. "Remember how our papas really thought they were doing us a favor? Setting us up on a ‘date.'?" He air-quotes theatrically.

"In Madrid," I put in.

"Before that climate event. We'd already been making out for a month!"

"Six weeks," I correct, ignoring his little eyebrow raise.

"I didn't have the heart to tell them the truth."

I guffaw. "They were so proud."

"Bringing our country even closer together by uniting our two gay sons," he says, mocking his papa's voice.

I do my best not to flinch. Not to remember what else Prime Minister Barnard said. Or how Léon never stuck around long enough for me to tell him.

His hand touches mine on the table. I look up at his sincere smile.

Snapsnapsnap .

I almost forgot about the cameras. This is just acting. Right?

"They were clueless," he insists. "So are they."

With a practiced nonchalance, he shrugs a shoulder in the direction of the photographers.

"Instead of rushing home," he says, tapping my knuckles with his index finger, "maybe give yourself time to figure out who you are. LA's not Réverie. But it's decent."

A quiet laugh escapes my lips. "And then what?"

"Then…" He drags his hand away to lift his empty glass in a salute. "Pay for my lunch. A better hotel too. My services aren't free, Your Highness."

Cameras or not, there's definitely going to be some bloodshed between us before this is all over.