Chapter 1

1

A ROYAL RUNAWAY?

Since his viral incident last weekend, insiders report Prince Jadon has gone MIA. Earlier today, Crown Princess Annika was snapped arriving at LAX with a small entourage. Has she come to stop the prince's royal rampage?

Never believe the headlines.

It's Royal Etiquette 101. Almost everything you read online or see on the news is dramatized for viewership. "Facts" is a loose term in the world of celebrity journalism. A lesson I learned while teething. And yet here I am, literal seconds from tossing my phone into the Pacific Ocean after watching the latest clip of everyone's favorite soul-devouring, trash-eating bad-take journalist, Kip Davies.

"The video is treasonous ," he says in his condescending British accent. "Drugs, underage drinking, foul language. How is anyone supposed to respect him?"

He flashes a hyper-white smile all over BBC News. I bite so hard on the inside of my cheek I nearly draw blood.

A few vital details Kip left out:

One, those were Pez candies , not drugs. My best friend—correction: former best friend—Kofi is obsessed with them. I brought some as a gag gift.

Two, I wasn't that drunk. I only had two shots of the vile peppermint vodka the club was serving. We were celebrating Kofi's birthday. He's the one who suggested we come to LA. Who kept inviting total strangers into our roped-off VIP section.

Three, I did what any other pissed-off teen would after a long week of stress and arguments and overhearing conversations he shouldn't have: got caught on camera sharing his most private thoughts. It's ridiculous. No one filmed Kofi doing body shots off some hot young influencer's abs. Just me ranting about that asshole Barnard.

I don't regret what I said. It felt good to finally exhaust the fire raging in my chest. I'm more annoyed that it's everywhere. That people like Kip Davies won't stop talking about it.

"Prince Jadon," he continues, "is a truly awful representation of the Crown." He smirks pretentiously. Like he has something to be proud of.

Congratulations, you ruined a teen's reputation .

Still, his words echo next to the ones Papa said to me two days ago over a video call:

Is this who you are now? A rebel? A walking headline? Do you care how this makes our country look? Our family? What's the cause of all this?

My first mistake was not answering him. The second was looking at my mom. Watching the frustration bloom across her face, as if this is completely my fault. She has no idea what I heard inside the palace. The foul things that spilled from Barnard's mouth.

They don't belong here .

I don't want to tell her—or anyone—what he said. Would they believe me if I did? Now that this video is out?

Kip's voice startles my attention back to my phone. "Are we really blaming the prince's failed relationship with Lé—"

"Nope," I say, swiping to another video before he can finish. I don't want to hear my ex's name. See his face. Relive the way our last conversation ended. Our breakup has nothing to do with why I'm officially stuck in California.

As the next clip loads, I think back to Papa's final words:

D'accord! Since you can't explain yourself. Since you love making a mess of your legacy. Stay in America! You're banned from returning home until you prove you're the kind of prince Réverie deserves.

"Hot take, but—"

My eyes snap to the new video playing.

Five American cohosts sit around a glass table. A thirtysomething woman with warm, reddish-brown skin and a silver stud in her left nostril is talking: "He's seventeen . He's made mistakes. What does Réverie—the world, for that matter—expect from him?"

A lot, apparently , I want to tell her.

A hand blurs across my vision, snatching my phone away. My sister, Annika, glares at me. "?a suffit!" That's enough . We only use French with each other when we're annoyed.

I offer her a weak, apologetic grin.

In the background, attendants rush around with luggage. The house we're staying in is a gated three-story modern architectural jewel set in the hills of Pacific Palisades. Seven bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a heated pool, and a bunch of other amenities I can't remember. Hardly as lavish as Centauri Palace, but I don't have much room to complain. It was rented on short notice.

The gourmet kitchen's lighting accentuates how many of our parents' features Annika and I share. Papa's height, his full lips and round jaw. Mom's medium brown complexion, strong eyebrows, her thick, curly hair. Despite recently traveling five time zones, Annika's curls are impeccably pinned up with pearl clips, showing off her high cheekbones. My own hair is shaved on the sides, the top long enough for springy curls to hang over my forehead.

"Jade," Annika sighs out.

"Hmm?"

"I didn't fly twelve hours for you to watch this trash ." She waves my phone around.

The corners of my mouth inch up. "You came for the authentic California rolls, right?"

She rolls her eyes in that obviously way she does.

"Fine, fine." I raise my hands, surrendering. "Wow, jet lag makes you uptight."

" It's not the jet lag ," Luc coughs into his elbow while passing behind Annika. Without looking, she flips him off.

My sister's Royal Protection Guard is slightly taller than my 1.85 meters. His buzz cut draws attention to his hazel eyes, gold-brown skin. If he weren't guarding the literal heir to Réverie's throne, he'd probably have a career in high fashion ads.

"The videos are for research," I tell Annika.

She looks unimpressed. "Is that why I'm here instead of living my best pumpkin spice life in New York City?"

"Respectfully, Princess," Luc says, fixing the cuffs of his black Oxford, "we live on an island . We're warm weather people. You can't survive a New York winter."

"He's got a point," I say.

"First of all, it's only September ." Annika cocks her chin at Luc. "Second, is that a challenge?"

His lips purse. "You wouldn't last thirty days in their conditions."

"I'd last longer than you."

"How much are you willing to bet?"

"When the crown princess finally murders you, Luc," a voice interrupts, "I won't tell anyone where the body's hidden."

I snort as Ajani, my Royal Protection Guard, steps into the kitchen. While Luc is still young and new to his position, everything about Ajani is sharp and experienced, from her low-fade haircut to the tailored black pantsuit and boots. She's been by my side since I could walk. With golden rays from the sunset glazing over her rich, dark brown skin, she completes routine security checks around the house.

"No one's killing anyone," Annika asserts. "Not until we get my little bro back home."

She turns to me. "What's the plan, Jade?"

I try not to frown. My fingertips trace along the black induction cooktops. I study the double oven, the stainless steel refrigerator and walk-in pantry that have been fully stocked with supplies by the house manager. I miss the palace kitchens, the air scented with powdered sugar and melted butter and warm pastries. The stool I'd climb on as a kid, sidled up to Papa's side.

Life was easier then. Before my pépère died. Before Papa became monarch.

On quiet mornings, we'd roll out dough for palmiers. Bake sugary gateau au yaourt or flip crêpes. Now, I see more of Papa on TV, giving speeches. Coming and going from meetings. Every second of his day is dedicated to the crown.

Eyes flitting around, I say, "I'm going to…"

"We're going to show the world His Royal Highness is a charming, down-to-earth, charitable prince," Samuel announces. He strides in, carrying a phone in one hand, a tablet in the other. Royal Liaison Mode fully activated. He's short with a stocky frame. The lavender of his shirt pops against his cool umber complexion. "Instead of—"

"Spoiled and surly?" Annika suggests. "Moody and poorly dressed?"

"Hey!" I pinch her shoulder. "I'm very stylish."

"We're going to prove," Samuel continues, resting his phone on the counter, screen up, "he's not this ."

There it is. Trending at number one: #RebelRoyal.

It's Kip Davies's weakest effort yet. #ProblematicPrince was right there. He's been "reporting" on my family since before Papa's ascension. Every little lie and fake scandal he can create for clicks and likes.

Next to me, Annika chews nervously on her lower lip.

Between us, she's the calm, optimistic one. I'm more of the "burn shit down, ask questions later" variety. But I don't plan to let anyone see that Jadon while I'm here.

Not if I ever want to get home again.

"Samuel's right," I say, straightening my shoulders. "I'm going to be as normal and unproblematic as possible."

I ignore Annika's loud snort.

"We'll start with His Royal Highness attending Willow Wood Academy, a prestigious private school," Samuel notes, reading from the itinerary he forwarded me yesterday. "It's more of a formality. Her Majesty insists on a proper education while we sort out his…unfortunate situation. Mingling with Willow Wood's illustrious student body will help our cause."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. New friends? No thanks. I won't be here long enough to remember anyone's name. But I respect all the effort Samuel's put into this, so I don't comment.

"I'm also working on a few low-profile appearances," Samuel says, scrolling. "Small but noticeable events that'll encourage the press to change their narrative. As well as media appearances for you, Crown Princess."

Annika shrugs. "Anything to make this loser look better."

I pinch her again, scowling.

" Oh ," Samuel says, beaming, "and we're confirmed for the Sunset Ball in early December!"

My jaw tightens. The Sunset Ball is California's equivalent to the Met Gala. A big, glitzy party. It's also an emergency, final effort to win over Réverie's approval. If I'm trapped here until December, I might throw myself into the Pacific.

Samuel says, "The organizers have agreed to Prince Jadon giving a speech"—I can practically hear Annika's eyes popping out of her head—"which is the perfect opportunity to prove he's not who the world thinks."

"Perfect," I parrot.

"And if that doesn't work?" Annika asks.

"It will , Anni," I say, pretending like I haven't second-guessed this plan six times in the last twenty-four hours. "A few smiles. An interview or two. One silly speech, and then we're back to Réverie."

Where I never have to deal with things like this , I don't add.

Annika's mouth opens like she's about to argue, then closes.

Instead, Samuel says, brow wrinkled, "I do wish we'd been given a slightly larger entourage to work with."

It's true. I'm used to a bigger group whenever one of these situations happens. There's no team of royal media specialists making calls. No chamberlains running around. Not even Dion, my royal stylist, ready to dress me in the right look for the cameras.

I'm lucky to have Samuel, a bargain Annika made with Mom.

But it's fine.

"We've got this," I assert. I smile widely, extending my arms out to either side. "Who needs all those extra bodies? All I want are the four people right here."

And maybe a prayer. Or for a meteor to suddenly destroy the Earth.

My new bedroom is… adequate .

Forest-green walls and a high ceiling. Various shades of gray furniture. A wide bed tucked between two floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside the walk-in closet is the luggage Annika brought from Réverie for me. In addition to clothes, she—begrudgingly—packed two Gucci suitcases full of sneakers.

Do my parents expect me to live months without my Jordans?

While a rotation of soft R&B music plays from my phone, I pace around. The space is almost homey. But there are no framed photos of me, Annika, and our parents laughing on Réverie's western shore. No stack of leather-bound notebooks where I scribble all my favorite recipes. Even the sounds from the Pacific Ocean are wrong.

Noisy, restless. Nothing like the tranquil sea surrounding Réverie.

Our island rests in the central Atlantic Ocean, west of Africa. It's not large, but it's warm and beautiful, the people content. We've survived on one strict policy: neutrality . We never involve ourselves in others' conflicts or wars. We preserve strong relationships across the world while keeping a manageable distance.

Policies I don't always agree with.

Ninety percent of Réverie's population comes from generations of families who originated on the island, centuries ago.

Then came Mom. Now my sister and me.

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

Fragments of Prime Minister Barnard's words churn in my skull. I know he isn't the only one back home who feels differently about my mom. It's in the headlines too. How Mom's "American roots" influence my actions, but they don't.

My playlist and my thoughts are interrupted by a new notification. A DM to my finsta account. From @RoiDesLions.

King of the lions , also known as my ex.

I'm tempted to open the message. I've ghosted so many people lately, I might as well start a paranormal support group. It's only been a month since our breakup. Less than two weeks since he walked away when I needed him.

My chest tightens. How can you simultaneously want to punch someone in their pretty, perfectly angled face and miss the way they'd press a sleepy smile into the crook of your neck late at night? Why are first loves the worst?

Before my finger does the wrong thing, someone knocks at my door.

I toss my phone like it's a grenade. Annika leans in the archway, smiling suspiciously. "Am I interrupting? Were you watching por—"

"No!" My face wrinkles. "Why would you think that?"

"You're the one who threw your phone across the room!"

True .

"I'm not judging you," Annika says, barely holding in a laugh.

"Stop! I wasn't—you scared me. That's it."

She lets it go, sitting on the bed before checking her manicure. Annika's aesthetic is understated glam. She's wearing a Burberry turtleneck, dark denim skinny jeans, and runway-ready black heels. I can't keep up with how many Best Dressed lists she's appeared on, among other royal-approved headlines.

I flop down next to her, hands tucked behind my head. There's an appalling light fixture in the middle of my ceiling.

"So," Annika says, "a speech? At the Sunset Ball?"

"Don't start," I groan.

"I wouldn't dare. I just think it's a bold strategy considering—"

"I'm so bad at public speaking?" I insert. "Since I have a history of saying all the wrong things?"

She shrugs, not commenting. I know what she's thinking.

Annika's the perfect princess. Never needed an army of professionals coaching her on what to say, when and where to be herself. She was born for this life. Meanwhile, I force myself into whatever prince mold people expect until I'm either bored or annoyed.

Then, well. Shit happens.

It's not who I am, but I know it's who I'm supposed to be.

"It's just a speech," I say, grinning. I have one advantage over Annika—irresistible dimples. "How hard can it be?"

She pointedly doesn't return my gaze, her mouth puckered.

I laugh. "Anni, I didn't invite you all the way to California to lose faith in me before things even get started."

"I volunteered," she reminds me.

Not that I needed it. Annika's here to watch over me. To make sure I don't fuck things up so severely that Papa permanently bans me. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, but there's an island-sized guilt floating in my chest. Réverie's crown princess should be doing a million other things instead of helping me fix my mistakes.

But I'm happy she's here.

Since her eighteenth birthday, we've seen each other less and less. She's always traveling, like our parents. It's nice having more than five minutes with the only person left in my life that gets me .

"Well." I hear the teasing smile in Annika's voice. "Are you taking a date ?"

I blow out a long breath. " Non ."

"Why not?"

"What for?"

"Hello!" Annika swats my chest, the sting forcing me to curl up like a dying rodent. "To show everyone—including your dickish ex—that you've moved on? Also, because you can ?"

"Valid points," I reluctantly admit, "but I have no interest in asking a random boy to a silly ball I don't even want to go to."

"Wow. TeenBuzz really named you one of their most adorable singles?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I smugly flash my dimples.

She smacks my chest again.

"Stop being so invested in my love life," I huff after recovering. "Go get your own."

Annika hums. After she turned sixteen, everyone decided to play matchmaker for her. From politicians and nobilities, down to royal staffers. Boring, forgettable boys treating the future queen's heart like a game of chess. Annika's focused on her own goals, a relationship far from in the picture.

"It can't hurt to be friendly with someone new," she advises.

I snort. "As if any American boy's worth it."

She crosses her arms, disappointed.

"Look, Anni," I say, "I'm not wasting valuable time chatting up someone I won't even see past December. I'm here to prove something. To show Papa I'm not the prince from that video."

"Jade, are you sure—"

"Boys are out of the equation," I insist.

Annika sighs. "Okay. Message received!"

We sit quietly for a moment. Low music fills the spaces. My forgotten phone still lies face-down on the area rug. I'm not avoiding boys because of Léon. They're just another unwanted distraction.

I have more important things to resolve.

"Hey," Annika says softly, "I could survive a month in New York, right?"

I roll my eyes. Have I mentioned my sister's competitive streak?

"Of course," I reply without sarcasm. "You're a badass. You could survive anywhere."

"I know. Thanks for confirming." She pats my knee before standing. "Get some sleep. School starts tomorrow."

On her way to the door, I yell, "I also didn't invite you here to mom me."

She pauses, one hand on the knob. "I'm here to spend all day at the beach. Hit up Rodeo Drive. Smile during interviews. Make you look like a competent prince."

I laugh as the door clicks shut. A weight lifts from my chest. Annika has my back. By the Sunset Ball, I'll prove Papa—the world—wrong about me.

Whatever it takes.

My phone buzzes on the rug. I roll and stretch to scoop it up. The first notification is a new article.

I click on it. The headline hits me in big, bold, capitalized letters:

THE GOLDEN STATE WELCOMES RéVERIE'S GOLDEN BOY!