Chapter 15

15

NOBILITY DIPPING?

On a weekend where she was meant to be attending a charity bazaar for underserved children, Princess Sofie of Denmark was partying in Switzerland. In photos, Her Royal Highness, who is second in line to the throne, is seen dancing, drinking, and smoking an unidentified substance in a hot tub with "mates." Royal spokespersons blame the "stress of intense studies" for the scantily clad 17-year-old's behavior. Recent opinion polls show the Danish populace stands behind her.

In other news…How do former classmates of Prince Jadon feel about him abandoning Réverie for America? We have the scoop!

After the final bell rings, I settle onto a bench in the courtyard. Department chair meetings have canceled today's rehearsals. Dr. Garza Villa doesn't trust us to handle things unsupervised. I don't blame them. Instead, I'm spending my afternoon editing my Sunset Ball speech on my phone.

Luc was right. Just because my current situation is a mess doesn't mean I should give up. That's not who I am. I've spent months letting everyone decide the prince I'm supposed to be. But maybe—maybe it's time I decide who Jadon is.

Show the world the real me.

I just need to figure out how to say it. I need to focus. I need to…stop looking up every time someone passes by, hoping for a glimpse of pink hair and a crooked grin.

No , I remind myself. He's not answering my messages. Doesn't show up in the quad during lunch. I don't see him in the halls. Forget about asking Karan or Lo.

I'm leaving. It's better this way.

"Wow. That's fucked."

Except, my gaze lifts at Morgan's voice. She's a blur, rushing by me, a very impressive feat considering the Doc Martens she's wearing. I pocket my phone and swipe up my messenger bag, jogging after her.

"No, no," she's saying when I catch up. "Stay. I'm on the way."

"Hey," I heave out. "Everything okay?"

Morgan stops short, hands on her hips. She stares at me like I'm a bug. Like she can't believe I chased her across the courtyard.

Neither can I.

"You seem upset," I say, breathing normally again.

"What gave it away, Benoit Blanc?"

I ignore her sarcasm. "Is it something I can help with?"

Her eyes narrow. "What is this?"

"What's what?"

"What you're doing. Your face is all… concerned . We don't do that." She stabs my chest with her index finger. "You don't do that."

"Ow!" I squawk indignantly, praying Ajani steps in soon. "Stop, you wannabe-mean-girl, heartless monster!"

"That's better." She pokes my ribs one last time before folding her arms. "Now why do you want to know what's going on with me? You never cared before."

"That's not true," I object.

She snorts. "You might be in the fall production, but your acting isn't that good."

I shake my head, but she's right. I had to be cautious. Keep her and everyone else at a distance. It's easier that way. But Léon was right about something too: it's time for me to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

"I just want to make sure you're okay," I say.

She stares at me for a long minute. I tug on my messenger bag strap. Shuffle my feet.

"I have somewhere to be," she relents. "Not exactly the kind of place royalty go."

I cock my chin. "Maybe I'm not like other royals."

She laughs. Loudly. "Trust me, you don't want the smoke." Her fingers tug on her silver chain. She's out of uniform. It's the first time I notice the twinkling O charm on her necklace. "Besides, you don't have opinions on things that don't affect you. Remember?"

My fingers tighten around my bag's strap. I can't argue with her. As much as I want to. Because that's the Jadon I've been anytime a tough topic has come up—the good, reasonable, rule-following royal I was always taught to be. The one I thought Réverie would respect.

I stopped being me.

Luc's voice is in my head again: the prince I know doesn't give a shit about any of that . I stand taller. "Maybe I do. Have opinions. And maybe I want the smoke."

It wouldn't be the first time.

Morgan twists her charm, thinking. A beat passes before she says hesitantly, "It's a protest."

I don't stand down. Nose wrinkled, I say, "You know I'm not just some pretty prince who's afraid to get his hands dirty."

Her lips curve up. "So, you think you're pretty?"

"Of course," I say with a tiny huff. "I'm going with you. That's a royal decree."

Morgan finally grins. "One, fuck the monarchy. Two, you're driving."

In the car, Morgan explains what's behind the protest: a nearby public high school hosted an assembly honoring local heroes. One of the honorees was a drag queen. After, angry parents demanded to know why queer performers were speaking to their children without parental consent. Now, they're attacking LGBTQ-related after-school clubs.

"Some school boards have even passed proposals requiring educators to inform parents if their kids come out as trans at school." Morgan scrolls anxiously through her phone. She's been doing it since we left Willow Wood. "They claim it's to protect teens' mental and physical health when really it's—"

"Harming them," I finish.

She sighs, nodding. "This isn't new. Anti-queer propaganda has been popping off since forever. It's just never been this close to home."

"Is there anyone actually fighting for you? Someone with power?"

"Not enough." Morgan half-shrugs. "Most adults sound like Kaden. Or my stepdad. Go vote. Get legislation passed. Which is true in a lot of situations." Her voice lowers. "In the meantime, kids are on the streets. Kicked out. Not surviving."

"What about Grace's dad?" I ask.

"Vote," she repeats, deadpan. "Win this war the right way."

"I thought LA was different."

"Assholes are everywhere," she tells me. "Even in the prettiest, most progressive places."

I stare out the tinted window. Watch Santa Monica drift by in streams of neon signs and busy crosswalks. In palm trees wrapped in fairy lights. Groups ducking into cafés and tourist shops. Sunlight glowing on smiling faces as everyone shuffles to their next destination.

How could anyone want to exclude a person from this? How could you want to be anything but different here? Why is anyone hated for simply choosing to exist as themselves?

They don't belong here . She's not one of us. Never will be!

"Are you sure about this?"

Morgan's voice drowns out Barnard's in my head. I half turn to her, eyebrow raised.

"It's a small protest," she says, reassuring. "Students from all around. Friends and families." She tugs on her chain. "We're done with them erasing us. Silencing our voices. Pretending we shouldn't be here."

There's a fire in her voice like the one pulsing in my chest. She's nothing like the Morgan I'm used to: bored and disinterested. She looks pissed. Ready to fight. I don't know how I misjudged her.

But I won't anymore.

"I'm sure," I say.

"This could land you in a lot of trouble," she comments, like she's giving me a final out. "My mom's gonna lose her shit. My stepdad too. But you don't have to—"

"I don't," I confirm.

It's the Réverie way. Neutrality . But that's not me.

"Sometimes the only way to be seen," I continue, smirking, "is to burn down everything else around you."

The SUV slows in front of a campus half the size of Willow Wood. Home of the Mustangs is broadcast across the digital welcome board. There's a thick crowd standing outside. At least a hundred people, signs raised, fists in the air. Blue and white lights from a group of nearby police cars shining on their determined faces.

"My prince," Ajani says while opening my door, "is this truly a good idea?"

I pause.

Ahead, the protestors' chants are like a drumline. Rainbow flags fluttering above their heads. Light blue, pink, and white stripes painted across their cheeks. Teens and adults. Jocks and drama geeks and drag queens, arms linked.

My heart beats to their noise. To their unwillingness to break.

I hear Léon: How do you want them to see you?

I hear Luc: Don't let them win. Prove the assholes wrong .

A grin splits my face. "It's a terrible idea," I tell Ajani. "That's never stopped me before."

Morgan leads us into the swarm. In the center, she stops to introduce a tall, fair-skinned girl with a black-and-blond pixie cut and a wicked grin. "This is Olivia," Morgan says, almost self-conscious. "She, um, goes here."

Olivia gives a playful eyeroll, unzipping her track jacket. Then, I see it. The charm at the end of her silver chain: an M.

And now Morgan's in my head: As if I'd date anyone from our school .

It takes every muscle not to laugh. But there's no time to interrogate Morgan. A sign is shoved in my hand. I'm nudged toward the front of the line. Within seconds, I've memorized the chants and I'm yelling relentlessly.

This . This is what I want. To scream about what matters. To be heard over the people trying to erase me, my mom, anyone that doesn't "fit" into their ideal world.

To stop standing aside like Réverie always has.

What's the use in having power if you don't make a meaningful change with it?

Soon, news reporters arrive. Cameras zoom in. Uniformed officers watch us, arms crossed, but never moving closer.

Our numbers expand. Our voices grow louder. I keep my fist raised to the sky until the sun fades away.

"Your Highnesses. I'm Ambassador Ime from the Réverie Embassy. Thank you so much for inviting me to this dinner."

Ime is a statuesque woman. Taller than me. She's in all dark green with a tiny Réverian flag pin. Ruby lips stand out against cool dark skin and elegantly bundled locs. After bowing, she shakes our hands.

"Wonderful to meet you," Annika says.

Ime raises an eyebrow while releasing my hand. "Quite the week you're having, Your Highness."

My face heats. I try for a laugh that comes out like a cough.

"It's my brand, right?"

Ime hums in a way that tells me she doesn't see the humor in my latest headline.

"Let us eat," she advises.

Senator Miller secured a private dinner inside a stylish, multicultural fusion restaurant. "One of Santa Monica's finest," according to the online reviews I read. Paper lanterns cast the space in crimson and gold. A long table draped in white linen awaits us. So do Grace, Kaden, and the senator.

He's a grayer version of his daughter—green eyes, strong cheeks, a blindingly white politician's smile. "This is fantastic," he says with camera-ready enthusiasm as servers bring out dishes. "All of us meeting for the first time."

Annika grins politely. "Our deepest gratitude for organizing this."

I almost gag. Somehow, I forgot what Princess Annika is like. Eloquent, perfect posture, far from the girl I saw yesterday slurping boba in her pajamas.

"It's nothing." The senator waves her off. "This is needed. What with everything happening these days."

I force myself not to roll my eyes. As expected, my appearance at the protest is everywhere. Me, clutching a sign. Me, fist raised, shouting at cameras. Me, on constant rotation for Kip Davies's nightly show.

At least my parents haven't called. Yet. Mom is at her women's retreat, while Papa is busy, again.

"It is nice to have such a wide range of promising influence in one room," Ime comments, water glass lifted.

Kaden lets out an obnoxious yawn. Grace discreetly elbows him.

"Yes," Senator Miller agrees. "I rarely get to spend time with my Gracie like this."

Grace's smile barely touches her cheeks. As if she's heard this same speech dozens of times. She's in a simple black dress, a pink headband holding her bangs off her face.

"I understand." Annika reaches out to tousle my curls. "It's hard to let this one out of my sight."

In a hidden corner, I swear I hear Luc laughing.

"What can we do?" Senator Miller shrugs. "Serving our people first is part of the job."

I nod robotically. Funny, I don't remember applying to be a prince. It's been attached to me since birth.

Wistfully, Senator Miller adds, "She's all I have."

Grace's smile tightens. There's something unreadable in her eyes. It disappears when Kaden touches her hand on the table. The smallest brush. All the tension in her shoulders fades.

Huh. Kaden's actually useful. Shocking.

"You must miss Réverie." Senator Miller's eyes are focused on me, not Annika or Ime. "Have you ever been away this long?"

There's a fist-sized knot in my throat. It's been almost three months since I saw home. Touched my bare feet to soft shores. I tug at my collar, wiggling around in my chair. "We all miss home," I get out. "Right?"

Annika, thankfully, nods.

Ime says, "Always. Especially my family. But I know the good I'm doing by properly representing my homeland here."

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ambassador .

"Such an amazing country," Senator Miller chimes in, swirling his drink. The sharp sting of whiskey hits my nose. "The definition of excellence."

"Thank you," Annika says, dipping her head.

"Mmhmm." I'm so flustered, I cut into my chicken with the wrong knife. "It's great."

"I've always wanted to visit." The senator sips. "I was so fortunate to chat with Prime Minister Barnard on a couple occasions."

My knife clatters against the plate.

Grace tilts her head, mouthing, Everything okay? Even Kaden shoots me a weird, slightly concerned look.

Blood roars in my ears. The start of a flame in my chest. I hide my shaking hands under the table, my lips pinched.

"What a brilliant leader," Senator Miller continues. "Admirable. Passionate."

Annika clears her throat. "Réverie appreciates his dedication."

Ime gives a small nod.

"A lot of my colleagues could learn from him," Senator Miller notes.

A surprised laugh escapes me. "You think so?"

"Mon Dieu," Annika whispers into her wine glass.

"The world needs more leaders like him," Senator Miller announces, undeterred. "He thinks about his country's values and needs. He's very selfless."

"I wouldn't call it that," I argue, barely holding onto my plastic smile.

In the corner of my vision, Ime is studying me.

Senator Miller leans back. "Reports show he's a big inspiration to your people."

"No, just his son," I mumble.

Annika pinches my hip. A warning. Ime's still watching.

"God, I hope not," Kaden gripes over his plate. "That guy was awful."

Another unexpected check in the Kaden Is Decent column.

"Listen, I get it," Senator Miller says. "Your generation is all about reaction. You don't trust the system. You want fast solutions. Change with no consequence."

Grace sits up, shoulders drawn, but she doesn't interrupt him. She doesn't say anything.

"Like that Morgan girl I warned Gracie about," Senator Miller goes on. "What was she thinking? Showing up at that protest."

My eyes cut to Grace again. More silence. Like at the parties when Kaden and Morgan argued. Like anytime a complex topic comes up.

" I was at that protest," I say sharply.

With the expert air of a politician, Senator Miller effortlessly changes course. "I'm sure you were misinformed or coerced."

This time, I purposely drop my knife. "I wasn't fu—"

"For what it's worth," Annika jumps in, her voice calm, unlike mine, "my brother and I believe there are a multitude of ways to address political and social issues. Especially ones that affect those we care about."

Senator Miller nods, as if to say, go on .

"Sometimes change requires being involved," she says. "Standing on the front line."

Ime smiles, a glint in her eyes. Annika has that effect on people.

Senator Miller, however, laughs dryly. "That's what I mean. My staff has been working hard on laws, new proposals, to protect people. Change comes from the top. From patience. From trusting the ones currently in charge."

It's a loud, verbal slap. A reminder: Annika's only the crown princess. She's not queen yet.

Her genial expression doesn't falter. "Power is not defined by titles, Senator."

"Agreed." He grins confidently from across the table. "But it makes it a hell of a lot easier to get people to listen."

He doesn't wait for her response. Senator Miller waves down a server, asking about dessert options.

End of conversation .

Grace sits stiffly as Kaden whispers, "This isn't going great."

Ime examines her half-eaten dinner, peeking at Annika, then me, through her thick eyelashes.

Annika is steady, unmoving. Silent. A shell of the sister I grew up with.

"Restroom," I mutter, pushing my chair back. The force tips over my half-empty water glass. I don't stay to clean up the mess.

"You know," Grace says, startling me when I emerge from the restroom, "no one talks to my dad like that."

I sniff. "I'm honored to be the first."

She doesn't react to my sarcasm. Instead, she leans against a marble wall, sizing me up. I cross my arms, smiling coyly.

"Is there a problem, Grace?"

"I'm trying to understand you. You're all ‘no comment' at school and parties, then you show up at a protest."

I shrug. "I contain multitudes."

"And just now," she continues like she's not satisfied with my answer, "with my dad—you looked like the Jadon from that video."

My teeth clench hard. "What's your point?"

"Is that the real you?"

The heavy silence between us is broken by my knuckles cracking. My hands ball into fists at my sides. Tension ripples through my body. Grace's eyes don't leave mine. She's waiting for an answer.

I refuse to give it. "Why weren't you at the protest?"

Morgan told me Nathan had an orchestra commitment he couldn't get out of. But she never said where Grace was.

"Isn't Morgan your friend?" I challenge.

She inhales, lips pursed. It's her turn to avoid questions.

"Don't pretend to know what happens between me and my friends."

"Don't pretend to know me," I hiss. "You have no idea what I'm dealing with—"

"I was eight when my mom died," she inserts. "Ten when the press said my dad rode the wife-died-from-breast-cancer sympathy train to his first election. Fourteen when a classmate sold me out to the highest-paying media outlet."

My mouth snaps shut when reality sinks in. Her pink headband, the ribbons she wore all last month. Her mom died from cancer, just like my pépère. Her whole world changed after that, just like mine. Her friend sold her out, just like Kofi.

I didn't know any of this about her. I never bothered to ask.

"I don't do a lot of things because of who my dad is," she says. "Because it's easier ."

Her voice cracks. The smallest chip in the armor I've always seen Grace wear.

"My friends are all I have," she goes on, sounding nothing like Senator Miller. Her eyes are shiny. "I don't always agree with my dad. But why fight him? Dealing with the backlash isn't worth it."

"So, you do nothing?" I ask.

"I play my part," she says with a stubborn chin lift. "Stay out of trouble. Study hard. Look perfect. Act like—"

"You don't care?"

"You're not the first person to think I'm cold. A bitch." She releases a harsh breath. "I do what I'm supposed to. For now. Until I'm at Harvard or Yale. Anywhere but here. Nate and Morg know I love them."

I narrow my eyes. "Do they?"

Grace pushes off the wall. "Where are your friends, Jadon?"

I pause. My hands clench and release at my sides. Jaw so tight, the ache vibrates through my skull.

Then, it finally hits me: "You never say anything. When Morgan brings up issues she cares about. When Kaden gaslights her in front of people."

Grace goes rigid again.

I recognize it. The person she's trying to be. I was her. Neutral and silent and trained to keep your thoughts to yourself. To let that fire rage inside of you until you burn out.

"Easier doesn't make it right," I tell her.

Her shoulders barely lift. "But it's how we survive. Being who people expect us to be. Keeping our real selves hidden."

I let out a long exhale. Try to calm myself. To remember the prince Papa expects me to be. But that's the problem too. I'm still cautiously containing the fire inside me rather than letting it burn freely.

Wildly.

"No." I shake my head. "I'm not that person. Not anymore."

I leave her. Stomp back to the main dining room where Senator Miller is boring Annika with his vapid carrying on. Sitting tall like he's on a throne he can't be knocked from.

"For the record," I interrupt, ignoring how quickly Ime's head snaps in my direction, "I chose to be at that protest. Waiting for systems to fix things is why kids like me are without homes or support. Abandoned by their families. Dead."

Senator Miller straightens, caught off guard.

"Change starts with voices," I continue, "not with silence or your silly paperwork."

Kaden choke-laughs into his fist.

Ime clears her throat. "Your Highness, maybe we should…"

I can't hear the rest of her words. In my periphery, Grace appears in the doorway. She's still guarded, like the old me. Maybe it's time for her to see who she could be.

Should be.

I grin.

"You want true leaders for your precious Gracie to look up to?" I lean down to his eye level, shoulders straight, chin high. The way I was taught. "It's women like Morgan. My sister, the crown princess. My mom, current queen of ?les de la Réverie."

It's hard to tell, but I think Annika's lips twitch, amused.

"Your daughter should never look up to cowards like Prime Minister Barnard," I half-growl. "Or ignorant senators who hide from the real issues, like when his state is taking away basic human rights."

The restaurant is hushed. Kaden grins wolfishly. Against the wall, Grace hugs herself, but her eyes never leave me. Senator Miller is berry-red, stammering, spluttering. Annika finishes her water, and behind the glass, I can see her faint smile.

Ime stands, crumpled napkin in hand. She looks ready to say something. To condemn me like so many Réverians have.

But I don't care. This is the real me. Who I've always been.

"Enjoy your dessert, Senator," I say with a practiced grin and perfect posture.

Then, I stride out the main dining area without looking back.