Chapter 17

17

PRINCE DASHING?

An American and Réverian royal meeting ended abruptly Friday night. Sources say Prince Jadon arrived for a VIP dinner party, guests including Princess Annika and Democratic Senator Andrew Miller, but made an early exit from The Sizzle, a swanky fusion restaurant. Still no confirmation on why the brooding royal ditched the dinner so quickly. Noticeably absent was Léon Barnard. Has their recently rekindled romance already Sizzled out? Is another controversial video in Jadon's future?

On Monday morning, Ajani opens the rear door of our black Range Rover. I step onto the private sidewalk outside Willow Wood, fixing the cuffs of my blazer before reaching back. With a helpless smile, I grip Reiss's hand.

"Those seats," he gushes. "Soft as butter. It was like sitting on a cloud. And the individual climate controls—is that what your life is like every day?"

I shrug. "Mostly."

He shakes his head. "Ethically, that's a gross waste of money."

"Should I cancel the car for the afternoon?" Ajani offers.

Reiss spins to face her. "Don't you dare."

Her lips twitch up. Mine do too. It's hard to explain what this is like. The lightness in my chest, the constant crashing waves in my stomach. The hope and excitement and heavy fear.

I have an American boyfriend .

What does that mean for my plan? For going home?

I've done my best not to think about it all weekend. But Reiss has been busy editing his Oceanfront Film Fest project, and there's only so many hours I can spend practicing my lines for the play or writing my Sunset Ball speech.

Still, here he is—wearing a gray Willow Wood Academy hoodie over his Oxford. Crinkly-eyed smile. Holding my hand.

My boyfriend.

I look toward the arches outside the courtyard. "Are you sure about this?" I ask Reiss. "I thought you didn't like the spotlight?"

"I don't," he says, slightly defensive. Then, he beams at me. "But I like you. Sometimes. Listen, sacrifices are being made here."

"I'm so honored."

"You should be." He squeezes my hand. "How should we do it?"

My left eyebrow quirks. "Do what?"

"Walk in. As a couple."

I fight to keep the laugh in my throat. "You've really never done this before."

"It's not funny." His eyes narrow. "I want to get it right. So, arm around the back? Should I put my hand in your back pocket—"

"Is that just a reason to touch my ass?"

His face goes neon pink.

I casually rest an arm around his shoulders. "Trust me, it's not that hard." His cheeks go a shade darker, and it takes everything not to see what else I can get away with saying. Instead, I brush my lips against his ear, whisper, "Time to greet your loyal subjects."

"Hold on."

Reiss jerks to a stop. I tilt my head curiously. He's counting backward under his breath, still red-faced, looking down like he's waiting for something to happen and—

Oh .

Whatever resilience I had left dies in that moment. Head tipped back, I bark out a laugh while escorting him through the arches.

Inside the courtyard, conversations drop out. Bulging eyes track our stroll. Damien Cho from Lit and Composition is staring so hard, he crashes into a trashcan. Phones are covertly raised in our direction. I cheat my gaze toward Reiss.

He's grinning. I mirror him, proudly lifting my chin. The whispers pick up:

"No fucking way."

"Is that—is he who the prince was making out with?"

"Oh my god, text Becky. And Adam. They're gonna lose it."

On the benches, Nathan fist-pumps the air. "Hell yeah, PJ!"

I search for Morgan. We haven't talked since the night of the protest. She swore her mom was cool about her being there, even if her stepdad was furious. But she's missing. Next to Nathan, Grace lowers her Chanel sunglasses, her expression neutral.

I wonder if she gets me now. If she understands I'm tired of trying to win people over. That I hope she starts being the real Grace too.

Flashing my brightest grin, I shout, "Good morning!"

A beat. She arches one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows, the corners of her lips twitching. A small smirk.

The smile on my own face doesn't fade until the final bell.

Play rehearsals run more smoothly. For the most part.

We're off-book now. I still forget a line or two, but those extra practices with Nadia and Mia helped. Dr. Garza Villa side-eyes me a little less now. Dustin's still one lighting or sound issue away from setting himself on fire, but we've transitioned into dress rehearsals without having to cancel the production. That's a positive.

Backstage, I'm sitting in front of a vanity wearing a partially finished costume—a sharp emerald suit with black lapels.

Lo beams at their work while hovering over me with a makeup brush.

"Thanks for doing this," I say.

They shrug. "It's my job."

"Yeah, but." I shake my head. "It's weird. I feel like I'm really Mr. Green."

My eyes dart to the stage, where Mr. June gives Karan some tips. We're okay. He doesn't avoid me during rehearsals anymore, but he doesn't go out of his way to chat either.

Lo must notice my frown. "He'll get over it."

"Who?"

"Don't act." Lo tickles my cheeks with the brush. "Reiss explained everything to us. I'm cool. But Karan's great at holding grudges. Fucking Aries."

I chuckle.

"He was salty for two weeks when I missed his sixth-grade talent show performance," Lo goes on. "I had bronchitis!"

I recognize that look in Lo's eyes while they watch Karan talk animatedly with Mr. June—longing. "He's a good friend," they say.

"Uh huh. A good friend."

Lo ignores the smile in my voice, busying themselves with their makeup kit. They tilt my chin up to examine my face. A beat passes before they say, "Hey, what you did the other day? The protest?"

I nod carefully.

"That was kind of epic."

"You think so?" I ask.

"Dude, you're a prince . No offense, but I never see anyone like you show up like that. Not for people like me."

The corners of my mouth droop.

Lo picks up another brush. "Almost everyone's been chill and supportive since I came out." They pause, biting their lip. "But when it's about the issues that really affect me—no one says or does anything. It's a ‘me' problem. How fucked up is that?"

I sigh guiltily. "Very."

"Why are people trash?"

"Because secretly? They're scared." My chin lowers. "Not getting involved means they can protect themselves. They—" I think about what Morgan said before the protest. "They don't want that smoke."

Lo snorts hard. "Okay, what have you done with Prince Jadon?"

"I'm serious," I say. "Ignoring the issues doesn't make them go away. It doesn't mean you're not next."

For generations, that's how Réverie has survived. Maintaining distance. Staying neutral. Pretending the world's problems aren't our problems . But they are.

And I refuse to be silent.

What's the point of being charming or approachable or the "good" prince Papa wants if I'm not the one my people deserve ? Someone who will fight, regardless of how it looks to others.

"I did what everyone should."

Lo smiles. "Another country's prince fights harder for me than my own government. Way to go, America. Really leaning into that ‘land of the free' bullshit."

Their fingers carefully pull on my eyelid, eyeliner pencil in their other hand.

I force myself not to flinch.

"Sorry." Lo eases back. "Is this okay? I thought—"

In the mirror, deep wrinkles line my brow. I've never worn makeup. Not even concealer for a pimple. My skincare routines and expensive face masks were all in the privacy of my suite. The palace stylists have always dressed me a certain way—like the polished royal you see on TV and in movies, a look I've been expected to maintain.

But is it what I want ?

"I can stop." Lo begins capping the liner.

"No," I say. "Keep going."

"You sure?"

Slowly, I grin. "Time to stop being everyone else's version of Mr. Green, right?"

Lo brightens like that's exactly what they were going for.

As they apply liner, I sit perfectly still. Listen to all their Karan stories. First meeting to trading holiday traditions. Getting into theater because Karan liked it, then falling in love with being on the backstage crew. How makeup is fun, but their passion is rebuilding cars, and Karan's encouraging them to go to a trade school after graduation.

With a grin, I say, "If you asked him out—"

"You really want to go there while I'm holding a pointy object near your eyeball?"

I laugh. "Forget I said anything."

When Lo finishes, I stare at my reflection for a solid minute. What they did was subtle, but also…striking. It's me, but different. A Jadon I'm more comfortable with. The prince I should be.

Lo shakes my shoulder. "Amazing, right?"

"Yeah," I exhale, my chest light, my body relaxed. "Amazing."

"A protest." Papa's voice comes like the start of a storm through the laptop's speakers. Deep lines are etched into his brows, his eyes darkening.

He's in his personal office. Mom sits quietly next to him. Behind them, intricate designs are carved into the cypress walls.

"You participated in a protest!" He shakes his head. "With reporters present. Police. In America, of all places. What if something went wrong?"

"It didn't," I attempt.

" This time ." His tone is like thunder. "You were foolish. Thoughtless. Your title means nothing to the wrong person there. Your life means nothing to them. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," I say through my clenched teeth.

"And that's not how a prince acts," he continues. "A prince of Réverie, no less. I taught you better. We don't handle situations that way."

We don't handle them at all . I command myself not to say the words. It helps that Annika's seated next to me. She nudges my knee. Reminds me that this isn't just Papa I'm talking to.

It's the king.

"Papa, I—"

"It's not your place to concern yourself with American issues."

"Simon," Mom says evenly, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Let him speak."

Papa scoffs. "We had an agreement, Ava. He was to stay out of the headlines. Earn Réverie's respect ," he asserts. "None of this has helped."

"Actually, Papa," Annika says. "It has."

My head snaps in her direction. She flashes a trust me smile.

"Since the protest," she begins, "people have been talking about what Jadon did. Good things." She unlocks her phone, then opens her camera roll. There's a series of screenshots. "I forwarded these to your equerry, Papa, but I want to read them for you."

Papa's frown deepens, but Mom grabs his hand, squeezing.

Stiffly, he says, "Go on."

Over Annika's shoulder, I scan the photos. Comment after comment from all over the world. People talking about me and, for once, it's not awful.

It's incredible.

@HistoryHuhHenry: where are the other royals making a stand for queer lives like prince jadon??? hello @TheRoyalFamily!

@BmoreKings: Prince J did more for LGBTQIA+ folx than your favs have ever. RESPECT.

@PrinceSeb_Stans: OMFG PRINCE JADON REALLY SAID TRANS RIGHTS WITH HIS WHOLE CHEST! #LoveToSeeIt

@Genovia_Diaries: Have you guys seen the vid of Jadon hugging and taking selfies with protestors? He's so sweet! He's hot too Check out my Etsy page for new Jadon merch. link in my bio!

@AkioAndPrincessIzumi4Ever: Hey @Disney…more princes like Jadon, thanks! #MakeItOfficial #ThatsMyPrince

There are so many more, I lose track. Annika also has blog posts, articles from local and foreign presses. She must've spent hours on google sifting through the piles of bullshit usually written about me to find these.

"Paris. London. South Africa. Tokyo," Annika lists. "A Réverian professor in America wrote an article for the New York Times . She wishes heroes like Jadon were more visible while she was in Réverie. How she would've felt proud of who she was then."

My breath hitches, eyes wet.

"Most of these are from teens," Annika adds.

On-screen, something flashes across Mom's face.

"Isn't that what we want?" Annika asks. "For him to have an impact? Be the kind of leader his generation respects and admires?"

Papa clears his throat. "It is." His eyes land back on me. "But if you want to be political, son, then make a difference here . With your people. Join the Council."

I shake my head. He still doesn't understand. I don't want to sit at a table full of old, out-of-touch nobles and politicians too set in their traditions. Who want to do things like Senator Miller. Who think like Prime Minister Barnard.

A room where someone like me—born of Réverian and American blood—won't be respected, title or not.

"No," I say firmly. "That's not enough."

"Enough?" Papa repeats, incredulous. "Who are you to decide what's—"

"Maybe," Mom interrupts, squeezing Papa's hand again, "it's better we have this conversation in person? Thanksgiving break is coming up, right, Canelé?"

I nod once.

"Simon," Mom says, patiently, sweetly. "It's time."

Papa sighs through his nose, his mouth flat. "Agreed. You'll come home. To talk."

There's a finality to his words. The king has spoken.

But I'm not done. I spent too much time in America. Running from problems. Trying to be someone else. Letting everyone else decide for me.

That Jadon's gone.

I lean forward, determined face big on the laptop screen. "Fine," I say. "But we're not coming alone."

"This can't be real."

My lips smooth into a grin. It's the third time Reiss has said that. First, when the crew welcomed us aboard the jet. Second, post-nap, when we were soaring somewhere over the Atlantic. Now, minutes after the pilot has announced our forthcoming descent.

I rest a hand on his knee as we glide through a sea of clouds in the pinkish-blue sky. Across from us, Annika's reading another Jasmine Guillory rom-com. To her left, Luc is secretly weeping over an evicted contestant on Paradise or Purgatory .

"I work at my parents' coffee shop. I share a bathroom with my little brother," Reiss whispers, awed. "How is this happening?"

I laugh. "It's not that special."

" To you ," he says, stabbing my chest with an accusing finger. "I still fly standby to visit my cousins. No free snacks. No Wi-Fi. Just a middle seat and a stranger snoring on my shoulder."

"How primitive," Ajani comments from behind us.

"It's a good thing you had a passport," I tell him.

It wasn't the most organized plan. Once I ended the call with my parents, I messaged my idea to Reiss. Then, after convincing Mr. and Mrs. Hayes to let him come to Réverie for the school break, we scrambled to get all the proper paperwork ready with Samuel.

"When I was nine," Reiss explains, scratching the back of his neck, "we were supposed to take a family vacation to Mexico."

Annika closes her book. "What happened?"

His cheeks flush. "I caught the flu from a classmate. Gave it to my whole family. We haven't had the chance—or money—to go since."

Annika tries to smile sympathetically, but it's closer to a wince.

I bump Reiss's shoulder. "Happy to be your first." When his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, I stammer, "Er, first overseas trip. First first-class experience."

Luc tugs out his earbuds. "Ignore these two." He draws an invisible line between me and Annika. "They were born with gold pacifiers in their mouths."

There's nothing rude about his tone. Beyond what's in his royal dossier, I don't know much about Luc's personal life. His mom is a former Royal Protection Guard who served under my mémère. Now, she lives on the other side of Réverie in a small, quiet city. He visits whenever possible.

He nods at Reiss. "Private travel is cool."

"Did you," Annika says, "just tell someone to ignore the crown princess?"

"I did." Luc sniffs defiantly.

Annika's eyes narrow, but the edges of her mouth start to lift.

"Your Highnesses," Samuel announces over Reiss's shoulder. "We're home."

Outside the window, the band of clouds disappears, and there it is.

"?les de la Réverie," Samuel says in a serene voice.

Reiss inhales sharply. I squeeze his knee, beaming.

The island stretches like open arms. From the sea cliffs along the northern shore to the verdant countryside along its western coast. Mountains dip into thick forests. My eyes trace along the sugarcane fields Pépère would take us to visit. Over hillsides where horses roam in dancing grass.

"The centuries-old Réverie Islands," Samuel narrates for Reiss. "First inhabited by French settlers. A major port during the Atlantic slave trade. But battles between the French and British destroyed much of the land. Its people too."

In my periphery, Annika and Luc bow their heads, a tradition I mimic.

En mémoire. In remembrance .

We pass over untouched ruins. Shattered ivory buildings rising up like jagged teeth. Decayed churches and piles of crumbled brick.

"War came again. This time from our people," Samuel continues as cities blossom into view. "Réverians fought against their colonizers. For freedom. For the home they built from rough hands and tired legs. Led by Réné, our first king."

Modern shops are built around antiquated structures. Roads wind like still rivers. We pass over Académie des Jeunes Dirigeants, the vast emerald park surrounding it. The marketplace sits like a beating heart in Réverie's chest, breathing life back into my lungs.

"We are a people of survival," Samuel says proudly. "Determined. Strong. We are hope, for one another and the world we created for ourselves."

Goosebumps break out along my forearms.

It's easy to forget history. The places you come from. Where life ended so yours could begin. But it's just as simple to get tangled in the past. To accept the now as the happy ending rather than the next step to what can be.

"And here," Samuel whispers, a smile singing through his voice, "is where the light shines brightest."

Even at sunset, Centauri Palace glows ethereally. Towering peaks and white marble and gleaming windows. Trees circle the land like a gate. The Atlantic waits in the distance, a fluttering cape of blue extended from a crown. From our very own star.

Home .