Chapter 20

20

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

Prime Minister Barnard has been the subject of many headlines for most of his career. From his leadership to his commitment to uphold his country's beliefs to the scandal where a prince, once believed to be a close family friend, questioned his integrity. Recently, he sat down to discuss a more personal subject: his son, Léon. Watch this candid clip of the caring father talking about "the son every parent wishes for."

All I want is to be left alone.

Yesterday, after Annika left, I cried again. And again. I made up for too many years of turning my sadness into rage. Now I want nothing more than to sleep in. Eat my weight in canelés while streaming shows and avoiding the email I need to send Dr. Garza Villa about not returning to LA in time for the play's opening night.

Not coming back to America at all.

Except nothing I want ever happens.

There's heavy knocking on my bedroom suite door. Someone's muffled voice says my name through the wood. I stuff my head under the pillows. Try to hide from whatever needs my attention at this very moment. It doesn't last.

The pillows are snatched away. Ajani stands over me in full formal guard uniform.

I frown. "Unless this is about breakfast, then—"

"The king requests your presence," she interrupts. "Immediately."

"And I request another hour of sleep!"

My attempt to sink back under the covers is denied. Ajani yanks it away too. She ignores my whiny protests. The hardness of her stare sobers me. It's the same one she had when the video leaked.

"He wants you in the throne room."

I bolt upright. Big mistake. My body's so weak, so dehydrated, I almost vomit.

"How long do I ha—"

Ajani cuts in again. "Fifteen minutes."

Shit . I roll out of bed—another mistake. I crash onto the ground. "No, I'm okay. It's just a fractured knee. Probably threw out my back. Don't call a doctor or help me up."

"Fourteen minutes," she says, unmoved.

I miss the old Ajani. The one who cared at least five percent more about my well-being. Who didn't show up first thing in the morning with life-destroying news all the time.

I miss when my life wasn't just life-destroying news.

I'm still buttoning my shirt, forcing my left foot into a sneaker, as we rush down the Great Hall. It's terrifyingly quiet. No staff or chamberlains buzzing around. Only the occasional guard stops to eye me as I zip up my slacks. My brain's still mostly offline, but there's enough working cells to register one face as we round a corner.

I skid to a halt.

Head low, hands cupped in front, I watch him shuffle with a pair of Royal Protection Guards bookending him. A criminal's walk. His chest falls with an exhausted exhale. It's in the corner of his eyes too: the lack of sleep. He's frowning, shoulders heavy, clothes wrinkled—a side of him I haven't seen since his parents divorced and his mom left Réverie.

"Léon," I rasp.

He falters, then bows. "Bonjour."

"What are you doing here?"

He rocks on his heels. Like he doesn't have an answer. Or he's afraid to give it.

I step closer. "Here to welcome me home? Celebrate ruining my life? Brag to everyone about how you—"

"I was a shitty boyfriend."

My mouth snaps shut. His words hit like a foot to the stomach. "What?" is the only thing I can say.

"I was awful to you."

"You were awful to me," I repeat.

He ignores my stunned voice. "When I realized things weren't working between us, I ignored you. I blamed you. But it wasn't your fault."

I search for words, a reply, but he's not done.

"It was no one's fault." He brushes his hand over his hair. It's short again. Like when we dated. "We just weren't meant to be."

I swallow, nodding.

"When you wanted to be friends, I couldn't do it." He sighs. "I wasn't ready."

"I under—"

"No. Don't do that." His face twists with frustration. "Let me finish. It's lonely being who we are. Friendships are…hard. I should've at least listened."

I chew the inside of my cheek. I'm not sure which Léon this is. The one I fell for. Or the one from LA who betrayed me. The glassy eyes, sagging posture, that little tremble in his lower lip, tells me he's not sure either.

But he's figuring it out.

"I didn't want to come to America," he concedes, glancing down at the polished floor. "I let people influence me."

"Who?" I demand.

"It doesn't matter. I saw you on the news. It was"—he smirks—"inspiring."

My pulse speeds up. "What did you do?"

Ajani clears her throat. "My prince, His Majesty is waiting."

One of the guards says, "We should go," her hand gripping Léon's bicep. He's being escorted out. Whatever he did was serious.

"The protest," Léon gets out. He laughs, resisting the hands tugging him away. "Fuck. I finally saw who you were. We all did. C'était incroyable."

It was incredible .

He gives me one final heartbreaking smile before he's dragged away.

I'm rooted to this one spot in the Great Hall. Nothing makes sense. Nothing until the throne room doors open and I see who's waiting on the other side.

Suspended from the high ceilings are crystal chandeliers shining like constellations. The walls are deep brown with gold accents. Tall ebony sculptures line the room like guardians. A crimson carpet runs through the center of the mirror-finished floors.

The small dais at the head of the room holds matching thrones. Papa and Mom are perched on them. In the seats surrounding them are Annika, a straight-backed, scowling Samuel, and a man in a smart navy suit with dark brown skin, his semi-wrinkled face almost identical to his son's.

Prime Minister Barnard .

My skin prickles as I bow to my parents. "Papa. Mom."

"My son," Papa says, his tone formal, but not as cold as yesterday. He gestures toward Barnard. "I asked the prime minister to join us for this meeting."

Through my teeth, I say, "Welcome, Prime Minister."

"Your Highness." Barnard inclines his head, smiling smugly. "Praise be that you and the crown princess have returned to us safely."

Annika shifts uncomfortably.

In the beat of silence, I hear Samuel's heavy exhale. I'm not sure why he's here. I never get a chance to ask.

"I hope America was refreshing," Barnard continues. "A moment of reflection, perhaps."

My knuckles crack as my hands curl into fists. I force myself to shake out my fingers. I can't let him get the best of me.

"We're sorry to have interrupted your busy schedule, Prime Minister," Papa says for me.

"Anything for you, Your Majesty."

Barnard relaxes on his plush chair. His coal-black eyes never leave my strained face. I do my best not to fidget. Or set him on fire. He strokes his thin beard, then says, "Have I been brought here today for an apology?"

My eyes shift to Papa, pleading. Please don't make me do this .

He adjusts his cuffs like he's waiting for me to do as the prime minister has requested. I feel sick. Everything that happened yesterday—the words said, the tears shed—none of it matters.

It's still Réverie first. Jadon…never.

My dry lips part. Before anything comes out, Papa raises a hand.

"Yes, Jadon. It's time for an apology." He rotates on his throne. "Prime Minister Barnard. Apologize to my son."

The air is sucked from the room. Heads crane in Papa's direction. All but Samuel, whose steely, unforgiving glare is on Barnard.

So is Papa's, ringed by a fire I've never seen in him.

"What could you possibly mean?" Barnard thrashes an arm in my direction. "He's the one who—"

"I know what my son did," Papa says evenly. "But no one here knows what you did."

"W-what I've done?" Barnard stammers.

Papa lifts an eyebrow. "Only Jadon knew. Isn't that right, son?"

My hands are trembling so hard, my wrists ache. I swallow, looking into my papa's curious eyes. "You know what he said?"

"Samuel as well." He motions toward Barnard. "Thanks to his son."

Barnard's throat moves, but for the first time, he doesn't speak.

I did the right thing . That's what Léon said.

"Papa"—I fight through the tightness in my throat—"what did Léon say?"

"He contacted Samuel yesterday. Told him everything," Papa confirms. His eyes have turned to pools of regret. "We had Léon flown here overnight. I wanted to speak with him in person."

"Your Majesty," Barnard attempts.

" Save your words , Prime Minister," Papa demands.

"Simon," Mom whispers. "What's happening?"

I try to grab Papa's gaze. To stop him. She can't hear this part.

The edges of Papa's softened expression promise me this needs to happen. It's okay. He steps off the dais.

"The prime minister has some… thoughts on our queen's place in Réverie," Papa tells the room. "Whether she's worthy to sit on that throne."

Papa's tall, like me and Annika. His perfect posture gives him even more height as he stares down at Barnard.

"All things my son, the prince, heard you say." His jaw flexes. "In the Rouge Room. Three months ago. Right before a certain video of him was released."

Barnard chooses silence over admission.

Papa shakes his head. "Then, you sent your son to America. Told him to regain Jadon's trust. Ruin his plans."

Barnard's mouth twitches. He's still quiet. But something flashes across his eyes—fear, I think.

"Because if Jadon failed," Papa says tightly, "you'd be right. Réverie's people wouldn't respect my son. They'd blame their queen, who's from America. Who—how did Léon put it?" He looks over to Samuel. " Isn't one of us ."

Samuel nods, nostrils flaring.

Flustered, Barnard stands. He struggles to button his jacket. "My son's delusional. I'd never—"

"You did," I belt. "Don't you dare lie to him."

"Jadon." Papa's stern voice echoes. A warning. He folds his hands behind his back, turning to Barnard. "Are you denying it?"

Barnard's face pales. "Your Majesty," he stammers, " please ."

"There will be a royal investigation," Papa tells him, ignoring his trembling jaw. "Your administration. Members of the Council. All will be called in. We'll dissect every conversation. Rest assured, I'll uncover every last detail."

Barnard's upper lip curls. The first tell. He loosens his tie, paces. His shoulders are slumped, heavy from guilt. He stops in front of the dais.

"The crown is a symbol. A reminder of who we are. What we've fought to protect since the days of King Réné." He points accusingly at Mom. "Queen Ava and your son don't represent those values. Our people will never respect them."

"How dare you," Annika spits.

I stare at Mom. She doesn't flinch.

"This country was built on the broken backs of those within," Barnard says, undeterred. "We were almost destroyed by those who don't belong. They're undeserving of a position of power here. To bring their corrupt values—"

"?a suffit!" Papa roars.

Barnard shivers, lips pressed into a thin line.

Frowning, Papa climbs the dais, toward Mom.

"I'm sorry, Ava," he says. "Since the moment you came here, you've fought hard to be someone people love and respect. Our people. Our children. You're the queen we all need."

Mom exhales shakily. There's a shimmer of light across Papa's eyes. I guess even kings can cry.

"This is my fault." His gaze moves around the room. "I let this happen. But no more. For once, I won't be neutral."

He stares at me like he hopes I know this isn't just King Simon speaking.

It's my papa .

He walks over to Barnard. "You're relieved of your duties until the investigation is complete, Stéphane."

Barnard wavers like he's overwhelmed.

Chin high, tone dignified, Papa says, "No Royal Council of State. No UN relations. You will not step foot on government or royal premises. No more corrupting our people with the old ways. You're done."

"Wait, I—" Barnard looks past Papa's shoulder to me. And I see it. The blazing ring of fear in his eyes. "You can't—"

"I can. And, as king, I will," Papa decrees.

In my periphery, I spot Samuel shift around like he's about to give Papa a standing ovation, but thinks better of it. He settles for a swift nod. Annika shifts over to Mom, kissing her temple. Mom's gaze falls on me. When her lips lift the tiniest bit, like she's proud of me, my chest puffs out.

Papa signals to the back of the room.

In seconds, two guards appear on either side of Barnard. They escort him away.

I watch as tired traditionalism loses to good old "burn shit down, ask questions later."

Since I was a kid, Centauri's gardens have been my favorite hiding spot. My private sanctuary. Hundreds of trees, from fig, to palm, to dragon's blood, to species I haven't identified yet. Colorful flowers swaying with the breeze. An air soaked in heady sweetness and pristine grass and salty ocean.

I'm sitting on a stone bench in the center. Not far from the tree I'd nap under. Nowhere near whatever's happening inside the palace.

After Barnard's removal, Papa excused us so he could talk privately with Mom. Outside the throne room, Annika squeezed me in a long hug. We didn't say anything, but we both know. There's been a change inside Centauri's walls. Inside our family.

Inside me.

I'm not carrying around the weight of what the prime minister said anymore. No longer worried about being Réverie's perfect prince. Papa hasn't said what's next. Whether my time here is permanent. If I'll ever go back to America.

If I'll ever get to talk to Reiss again.

But at least my parents finally see me .

"I knew I'd find you here."

I barely hear her voice over the splashing ocean behind the palace. Mom hugs herself against the soft wind. She's abandoned her designer wardrobe for sandals and jeans and an old cardinal USC shirt. It's rare to see her dressed so casually.

"Can I?" She signals to the empty place next to me.

I scoot over. "You're the queen."

"Not right now, Canelé," she says, flopping down. "I'm just Mom."

Her shoulder rests against mine. I can't remember the last time we did this. Sat in a long, comforting silence. Let the high sun wash over our faces. She's always gone, and I'm always…alone.

"Oh. The staff found this." She holds up something. "After cleaning up the wreckage of Hurricane Jadon."

I grimace. Then my gaze lowers to the object: a strip of photos.

The one of me and Reiss from Playland Arcade.

"I figured you didn't want to lose it," she whispers.

I hear the smirk in her voice, but I can't look away from the pictures. Surprised faces. Heart hands. Reiss laughing. Staring into each other's eyes like that one moment was endless.

A familiar prickle starts behind my lashes.

In every fairy tale I heard as a kid, the prince is the one who saves the day. Slays the dragon. Finds the glass slipper. Wakes a sleeping beauty with a kiss. In reality, being a prince doesn't mean happily-ever-after.

There is no magic or luck or heart-stopping kiss at the end of the story.

Happily-ever-afters aren't for boys like me.

"I loved the pier," Mom says, wistful. "Walking through Palisades Park. Going to Venice. The aquarium in Long Beach—"

"Wow, Mom, did you spend any time in school?" I tease her.

She tips her head into the sun. "When I first moved to Réverie, it was lonely. Your papa was so busy, even then. I was stuck here. Mémère worried I'd get into trouble if I left the palace."

"Did you?"

"So much." Her laugh is like Annika's—wild, unfiltered.

I brush my thumb over the photo strip. Across Reiss's pink waves.

"I was careful," she tells me. "I saw how people here looked at me. Talked about me. I wasn't one of them. No one in Papa's family had ever courted an outsider."

We both frown.

I hate that word: outsider . Another way of saying someone doesn't belong. Who gets to decide whether this wasn't someone else's place all along? Why should anyone gatekeep someone else's joy or peace?

"When Anni and you came along," Mom says, her voice turning fond, "I did my best. I wasn't Long Beach's Ava Gilbert. Or USC's Ava Gilbert. I was someone else."

Her eyes turn to the palace.

"I know you tried to protect me from the prime minister." She sucks air through her teeth, a move some might consider unroyal. Not queenlike. But it makes me think of Nana's photos. The fearless Ava Gilbert I want to know. "But I've dealt with his type before. His words don't hurt me. I'm strong. It's my job to protect you . So you never feel…different."

Another word that screws up her face, like a bad taste in her mouth.

"Mom," I say on a long breath, "I've always felt different."

She frowns again.

"Not because of you," I clarify. "I never felt Réverian enough. I'm not the kind of prince they're used to. It was the same in America. I wasn't the right kind of person. I didn't belong."

"Canelé."

"I'm too angry. Or I don't smile enough. Too stubborn. Too gay—"

When I freeze, Mom squints. "There's no such thing. But we'll circle back to that later."

My shoulders sag. "Everyone thinks I act like—"

"A teenager?" she volunteers. "That's what you are. That's what I saw when you spoke to me and Papa yesterday. A boy."

I try to hide my embarrassed face behind my hands. Mom pulls them down to look into my eyes.

"Canelé, you're supposed to be messy. Sometimes difficult. Imperfect." Sadness pours over her face. "This world treats you like a man instead of allowing you to be a boy. They treat all Black children that way. Expecting excellence. Perfection. To grow up before you should."

Her eyes close, a tear clinging to her eyelashes. "We failed you," she says, voice breaking. " I failed you."

When she blinks, I stare at her, lost.

"It wasn't Papa who suggested you stay in America," she sighs. "It was me."

I let out a choked, surprised noise. " You ?"

For months, I blamed Papa. His stiff tone. Unbending attitude toward everything. I used any excuse to direct my anger at him. But it was Mom's idea to keep me away from home.

"Why?" I ask.

"I wanted you to figure yourself out," she explains. "To have the freedom to discover yourself. Like I did at your age. And after high school. All through college."

This time, her laugh is wet, but her smile is big.

"Jadon, I fucked up so many times, your nana started making bets with the church ladies on when I'd call her for bail money."

"Mom!"

She snorts. "But my parents were there for me. Every single time. That's where me and Papa failed. We shouldn't have abandoned you." She squeezes my hand. "We should've loved you even when you were difficult."

I let out a tight, shaky breath. She gives me space to process.

"It helped," I confess. "I needed to be away. To—how'd you put it? Fuck up?"

Wind sweeps curls across her cheek. She tucks them behind her ear, smirking like she's not going to scold me, but also not to test her patience.

My gaze dips back to the photo strip. "I needed to find people who didn't hate me for being…me."

"Reiss is quite the spitfire." She nudges her elbow into my side. "Aries?"

"Scorpio, I think?"

She nods in a makes sense way. "I can see why you two work so well."

" Worked , Mom. Past tense." I do my best not to pout. Or cry. What for? It's over. This is how all my stories end.

"You love him, don't you?"

Mom's eyebrows are raised, as if she knew a long, long time ago and I'm just now catching on. That's the thing about moms. They're always ten steps ahead.

"Your papa fell in love with me in a week ."

"Who does that?" I joke.

She shrugs. "I said the same things Reiss did. I don't want to get in the way. I have dreams. But he never quit." There's that fondness in her eyes again. "No matter how anyone felt about us, he was determined to make it work. We were determined."

I shake my head. "I messed up."

"That's what love is," she starts. "Messing up. Being unafraid to get it wrong. Trusting the other person loves you for trying ."

"But I'm here," I say. "He's in America, where I'm pretty sure Papa banned me from—"

Mom holds up a finger. "We talked about that. Plans are changing."

I lean back, stunned. Confused. Hopeful.

"And Reiss isn't in America." When my eyebrows start to droop, she adds, "I might've delayed his flight by, like, a day. ‘Mechanical issues' is the official cause if anyone asks. He leaves in an hour."

I gape at her. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I needed to know. That you were ready. That he was too."

My eyes stray to the photo strip. I am ready. I want this.

I want him.

Mom bumps my shoulder. "Your name's on the passenger list. A car's waiting to drive you."

I swallow a laugh.

Mom planned this. Ambitious Ava Gilbert at her finest.

Her hand cups my cheek. "If this is what you want, fight for him, Canelé. For yourself." Every line, wrinkle, years of being what Réverie expects and who she wants, disappears when she smiles. "Go get your prince, Jadon."