Chapter 14

14

LOVE CONQUERS ALL!

Prince Jadon and ex Léon Barnard were seen sharing a swoony rooftop kiss at an exclusive Halloween bash hosted by Jadon's classmate Grace Miller. Despite a messy summer breakup (and the prince's controversial statements about Léon's prime minister father), the pair looks stronger than ever. Who says there are no second chances in love? #JALE fans rejoice!

"Once more from the top!" Dr. Garza Villa calls, waving their script around. "Griffin, pretend you know where you are. Lydia, a little more Miss Scarlet, a lot less Scarlett Johansson. Jadon, for the love of Selena, at least try to be funny!"

I wince.

Rehearsal is a mess today. Forgotten lines and stage cues. Calvin, our Colonel Mustard, disappeared for thirty minutes because he decided sampling Taco Tuesday for lunch was a good idea. Someone— me —almost falling offstage. Twice.

Backstage, Dustin is on the verge of an aneurysm. And Karan—

Well, Karan looks like a tiger shark, and I'm the bloodied surfer who decided to take a dip in the Pacific.

He hasn't spoken to me since Grace's party. Each time I mess up, he exhales noisily, smacking his script against his forehead. Professor Garza Villa hasn't commented on the tension between us yet—too busy filling in for Calvin—but it's coming. Their twitching right eye demands it.

We almost make it to the end of scene three when I crash into Lydia on the way to check on a potentially poisoned Mrs. Peacock.

"Cut!" Dustin screeches, crouching to put his head between his knees.

When I get to my feet, Dr. Garza Villa says, exasperated, "That's it, people. We're done! Go home. Cry on your TikToks. Think about your life choices before tomorrow's rehearsal."

Their sharp glare lands on me. "Jadon, a moment of your time. Over here." They snap their fingers. "Ahora."

Reluctantly, I follow. Mr. June's sparkly heels clack as he leaves the stage. Behind the curtains, I catch Lo's sad smile before they follow the tech crew out. Dustin's gone too. Which means it's just me and Dr. Garza Villa.

"I promise I can do this," I blurt.

Lips a thin, deadly line, Dr. Garza Villa says, "When? When are you going to show me you can handle this?"

"Tomorrow," I swear.

"Mmhmm." Dr. Garza Villa raises a skeptical eyebrow, fixing the multicolored scarf keeping their cloud of dark hair off their forehead. "I saw your audition. Watched you in read-throughs. During blocking. You're no Leslie Odom Jr. up here, but you have potential."

My chest puffs with pride.

"Hold on," they immediately say. "You have talent, but I can't unlock it for you. Whatever's holding you back, it's time for you to let it go. Ditch that anchor, sweetie. Let yourself fly."

I laugh softly. I know I can act. All I do is put on a show—for the press, for dignitaries, for my peers. My life has always been a production. Problem is, I've never been the one directing it.

"I don't want to fail anyone," I confess.

"It's a high school play, not the monarchy," Dr. Garza Villa deadpans. "My advice: stop trying to be the Mr. Green you think everyone wants to see. Start being the Mr. Green you want us to see."

I crack a smile. Okay, Dr. Garza Villa. Subliminal message received.

After they exit stage left, two girls appear. Nadia, who plays Yvette, and Mia, the Singing Telegram Girl. But I recognize them outside of the play too. Nadia's in my Human Development class. Mia's locker is three doors from mine, and she's in the courtyard every morning, studying.

"We can run lines with you," Nadia offers.

"We weren't eavesdropping," Mia promises, shyly tucking curly hair behind her ear.

"We get it," Nadia says. "Last year, Mia didn't get her lines right until tech week."

After a quick elbow to Nadia's side, Mia says, "We just want to help."

I blink, surprised. Outside of interactions during rehearsals, we've never really talked. I go from the courtyard to classes to rehearsals. I've never gone out of my way to say anything to them. I haven't done that for anyone at Willow Wood.

But here they are, warm smiles and scripts in hand, ready to help.

I want to ask, Why me?

Instead, I choke out, "Th-thanks."

Nadia shrugs. "We're in this together. Wanna meet tomorrow morning?"

"Sorry," Mia says, frowning. "We'd start today, but I have music lessons."

Before I can answer, Karan strolls onstage. "I can help him today." His script has at least a dozen neon tabs between the pages. Perpetually prepared.

When I try to make eye contact, he pivots to Nadia and Mia. "In this together, right?"

They nod, then wave at me, disappearing down the stairs.

The second we're alone, Karan says, "I'm not doing this for you. Opening night is sold out. Word got around that His Majesty is performing in our little play."

"Actually, His Majesty is my pa—"

"My parents have front row seats," he continues as if I'm not even here. "This is my chance. I'm not letting you ruin it."

My face scrunches. "I don't plan on ruining anything."

Karan's jaw works like he wants to say something. I do too. About the party. What happened with Léon. The kiss I still haven't mentioned to Reiss, the one he hasn't brought up either.

In his best Dr. Garza Villa voice, Karan says, "Scene one. Page twelve. Action!"

We rehearse for an hour. I nail the words, but not the delivery. Every time, Karan makes me start over. It's frustrating. I want to storm out, give up, but when I finally stop thinking about the lines, stop trying to cage my annoyance, he pauses with the slightest impressed curl to his lips.

"It's about time the real Jadon showed up."

I exhale, relieved. Elated .

Until a voice echoes from the back of the auditorium: "There you are!"

It's Léon, once again showing up in my life uninvited.

He climbs onstage. "You haven't answered my calls. What are you doing at this primitive school that's so important?"

"We were rehearsing," I grit out.

"Rehearsing," he repeats, offended. His narrowed eyes fall on Karan. "It's you, again."

Karan's small wave transitions into a middle-fingered greeting. "Thought we had a zero-tolerance policy for trash here."

"They let you in," Léon bites back.

I step between them. "Léon, why are you here? I told you at the party—"

"Before or after you two kissed?" Karan puts in.

"Jealous?" Léon scoffs. "Is this the little American boytoy you've been fu—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," I warn him, standing taller. "I'm the prince of Réverie. I will not tolerate you disrespecting anyone I care about. Understood?"

"What about our people ? Do you still care about them? About being the prince they need?" He flails an arm around. "Or is everything about this nonsense?"

"I'm doing both," I say.

A beat. The irritation buried in his sloped eyebrows gives way to softness. All his sharp edges go tender as Léon grabs my hand. "Then, let's go. We were supposed to have dinner. Let's show Réverie how great we are together—"

"Jadon?"

For a second, I can't move. My blood goes ice-cold, while my skin is feverish. When my head finally turns, my eyes catching a splash of pink hair, I snatch my hand from Léon's.

Center stage, Reiss's eyes roam my face. Then, he stares at Léon.

" Oh ." Léon sniffs. "This is the replacement."

Karan growls, "You really don't know when to shut the fu—"

"What's he doing here?" Reiss asks me.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can't get past how stiff Reiss is. That flash across his eyes like he doesn't really want an answer—because he knows I'm going to lie.

"Don't worry, Frank Ocean," Léon says. "I'm not staying. Neither is Jadon."

"Be quiet," I snap.

Léon raises his hands innocently. "We're friends. He knows that, right? It's not like he saw the photos."

My stomach twists.

The fun hasn't even started yet . That's what he said the other night. Before we walked into Grace's party. Léon planned to kiss me the whole time. He just needed the right audience.

Rage crackles in my chest. It's like standing outside the Rouge Room again. Hearing Prime Minister Barnard.

"Word to the wise," Léon says to Reiss. "Don't get too attached. Dating a royal sucks. You'll never be first in their life."

"Tais-toi!" I growl. "I can't believe you—"

I never finish. My gaze jumps back to Reiss. His wide, glassy eyes. The irregular rise and fall of his chest. I know what's coming before his name leaves my lips.

He shakes his head, walking away.

"Wait! Please!"

I catch up to Reiss in the quad. After ordering Léon to leave. After trying to find words to apologize to Karan and coming up with nothing. I didn't have time. This…this is more important.

Reiss stutters to a halt when my fingers curl around his wrist.

"He's nothing," I say, breathless. "It was all for the press, and I made a big mistake. But I did it for you. Your family. To keep the attention off us. We agreed, remember?"

"Really?" He laughs humorlessly. "We agreed it was cool for you to kiss him?"

"No, no." I grimace. "He kissed me—"

"Fuck, when are you gonna stop playing the blame game? Take accountability for something?"

"I—" Heat burns my face.

"You what? Weren't gonna tell me?" He yanks his uniform tie loose. "No need to. Everyone's talking about it. At lunch. My bio lab partner. The whole school!"

The quad is empty. All the after-school clubs are gone for the day. It's a chilly evening, but that's not why I'm shaking.

I manage, "You said you're not jealous."

"I'm not," he says flatly.

"I'm sorry, Reiss," I whisper. "I'm just—I'm doing what I have to."

His expression is frighteningly lifeless when he says, "Do you even care if people like you? Is any of this for you? Or is it for someone else?"

I swallow, unable to answer him the way I want. Because I don't know anymore.

"You said we should lay low, right?" He tugs his blazer closed. "Cool. Don't call. Don't text. Don't come see me. At all. Is that low enough?"

He leaves me with no room to argue. Shaking his head, Reiss stomps out of the quad.

"Wow, he's spicy. The little puppy has some bite."

I jerk around, ignoring the irritating tears gathering behind my eyelashes, the ache settling in my gut. I glare at Léon.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?"

"Jadon, enough." He clucks his tongue. "Whatever you're trying to prove, stop. You were fine before all this."

I frown at the crimson-pink sky. "Was I?"

"Call your parents. Tell them you're coming home to apologize to my pa—"

I laugh hollowly. "You would think I'm the one who should apologize." There's a large gap between us in the middle of the quad. An ocean's worth. "You still have no idea what he said."

He shrugs. "Would it matter?"

"Yes, Léon, it would!" The heat coming off me could melt Antarctica. "Why did you come here? Tell me the truth."

His lips purse. "Listen, Your Highness, none of these people understand what it's like."

We stare at each other. The same way we did when we were fourteen. When this life was too much and neither of us had anywhere to turn.

After a slow exhale, Léon says, "I do. We get very few choices in life. It's all decided for us."

I chew the inside of my cheek.

"But I choose to make the world respect me," he continues, jaw tight. "Sometimes, that means doing things people don't like. Being the bad guy. But that's how they always see me, isn't it?" He smiles bitterly. "I'm a Black boy with power. They're never going to love me."

But I did , I think. Because I thought no one else could see me like he did.

Maybe I never knew the real Léon.

A new wave of tears stings my eyes. I don't blink. Léon doesn't either. We stand quietly, and I don't know why I'm surprised by this turn of events. With him, with Reiss.

This is how it always ends for me—lonely. Letting someone walk away because it's too hard to keep them close.

"You never answered my question," I say, my voice neutral. "Why are you here?"

His face hardens. "I can't…say."

I nod. He can't say because it wasn't his choice. But this—this is definitely mine.

"Go back to Réverie," I tell him. His lips open to argue, so I add, "I can handle this on my own. I always do."

And finally , I'm the one who walks away first.

A cloud of smoke hangs over the kitchen.

I haven't burned macarons since I was nine and tried baking some for Papa's birthday. The pastry chef nearly had a heart attack when she found me. Now, there's a charred tray of raspberry macarons sitting on the marble island and tears clouding my eyes.

Scowling, Ajani fans a tea towel around. When the air clears, she trades looks between the tray and me.

"I'm fine," I tell her in a wobbly voice.

"My prince, I mean no disrespect," she says calmly, "but get out of the kitchen before you set us all on fire."

I drag the back of my hand across my wet eyes. Very prince-like. "But—" I try, sniffling.

"Now."

Ajani has been trained in at least twenty different styles of unarmed combat. And she's one motion away from a knife. Royal or not, I don't tempt her with a sarcastic retort.

I stumble outside, hoping the fresh air will clear my head. It doesn't. I flop onto one of the lounge chairs, head throbbing, and am contemplating jumping into the pool when I hear, "Whoa, you look like Caroline when Gabe voted her out of the villa."

I blink against the sunlight to see Luc stretched out on the next chair, wearing a T-shirt and swim trunks. He tugs out his earbuds, locking his phone.

My nose wrinkles. " Paradise or Purgatory again?"

"It's so good."

"Hard pass," I exhale. "Where's Anni?"

"On the phone with your nana." A small smile brushes his lips. "They talk once a week."

I didn't know that. Then again, I've lost track of what Annika's been up to while my life's falling apart. I should ask more. Stop checking Samuel's itinerary for her schedule and talk to my sister. But not now, with my runny nose and swollen eyes and empty ribcage.

It's been days since everything happened. I've managed to act mostly normal around school. But one batch of ruined macarons and I'm undone.

Luc swings his legs around, facing me. "You look—"

"Rough?"

His eyes scan over my damp cheeks and wrinkled clothes. "That's much nicer than what I was going to say."

I try to laugh, but there's a lump in my throat the size of a Skee-Ball, and the tears come again. Thick, ugly ones. I can't wipe them away fast enough.

I was taught not to cry in public. Royalty keep their chins high, shoulders back. Never let anyone see you break. People don't respect criers. They want strong leaders, not emotion.

But I can't help it.

"Léon's gone," I say, voice thick.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," Luc says with a wry smile, "but from what I heard, that's good news."

"Reiss ended things too."

He pauses, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut. "That's unfortunate."

"Very," I say shakily. I give him the short version. The party and the kiss and the aftermath in Willow Wood's quad.

He tilts his head. "You don't usually let people get to you."

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of my tight throat. "Luc, I know you're still new, but people always get to me. It's my whole history."

The prime minister, Kip Davies, schoolmates in America and Réverie, Léon, Kofi. My papa. The list keeps going.

"I'm like the world's worst prince." I look over my shoulder toward the house, then whisper, "I'll never, ever be perfect like Anni."

Luc guffaws. When I glare at him, he says, "Sorry, sorry. It's kind of funny because, Your Highness, the crown princess isn't perfect. She'll be the first to tell you."

I stare blankly at him.

"I'm serious," he insists. "You two are a lot alike. Fearless. Stubborn. No fucks given."

"Um, Luc, that's the future queen you're talking about."

"I know, I know!" But he's grinning in a way I've never seen from him. "She doesn't give up. And neither should you."

I pull my legs to my chest, chin on my knees.

"Forgive me for being informal," Luc continues, "but you're badass. Black, queer, and powerful. Three things this world loves to hate. Don't let them win. Prove the assholes wrong."

He laughs. I do too.

Luc moves over to my chair. He unlocks his phone—hiding his lock screen, as if I'd steal his passcode—then opens his camera roll. The most recent photos are of Annika. She's on USC's campus. Shots of her from Fisher Museum of Art and Alumni Park, then the Village.

"She reached out to one of your mom's old professors to request a visit," Luc explains. "They talked for hours."

The next photo is a side-by-side: College Mom and Annika now, both wearing cardinal-and-gold sweatshirts, posing in front of the fountain outside Doheny Memorial Library.

"The princess might've mentioned that she hoped you'd spend more time visiting places your mom loved."

"Might've?" I tease.

Another quiet chuckle. "I haven't been around Her Majesty much, but I can see it. How much you're alike. She's a fighter. She takes advantage of every moment. That didn't come from being the queen, you know. She was someone before that."

Cautiously, I trace a finger over Mom's curls, her expressive eyebrows. This version of my mom didn't quit. She never let anyone stop her.

"Sometimes," I whisper, "I wish I was normal. Like, if my papa had abdicated and we grew up here instead. Had real friends. Went to a boring school, lived a boring teen life, fell in—"

I stop. If Luc notices me blushing, he doesn't comment.

"Am I wrong for that?"

"No," he says without hesitation. "But would you be who you are now?"

"Have you met me ?"

He grins. "What's stopping you from being that boy and this one?"

"Um, the crown. Obligation. Tradition and rules—"

"Again, no disrespect, but the prince I know doesn't give a shit about any of that."

I fling my arms around, exasperated. "And look where we are! Stuck in America."

"You keep saying that like it's bad."

I chew my lip. It's not. I like it here. The house and the swaying palm trees and the sun stretching high above the Pacific. Willow Wood and no uniform policies and the fresh, salty air while sitting in the courtyard.

A cozy café and funnel cakes and sunset-pink hair.

"One LA boy has you this gone?" Luc says.

He did. He does. But now he's just another casualty of the life I was born to live.

Absently, I swipe to the next photo on Luc's phone. It's him and Anni in front of the famous Trojan Shrine. Luc's flexing his bicep. Annika's laughing, arms hooked around his neck.

"That's cute ," I coo.

Luc locks his phone, repeatedly clearing his throat. "It's—uh. So. Well."

His stammering is interrupted by a clear, confused voice from the doorway.

"Why is Ajani cleaning scorch marks out of the oven?" Annika asks. "And what are you two talking about?"

Luc abruptly stands. "Nothing, Your Highness." Annika's eyebrow arches high when he bows. "Should I order dinner?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. Strides right past her, mumbling to himself.

Annika stares at me expectantly. I shrug. All this talking and story-sharing and feelings have left me starved.

I shout after Luc, "No tacos!"