Chapter 2

2

EXCLUSIVE: From Shore to Shore, Royalty Joins California's Elite

Surprise! America just got a lot more regal as Prince Jadon, 17, is staying stateside—and going to school! "It has always been His Royal Highness's intention to go abroad and spend quality time in the area his mother, Queen Ava, spent her youth," Centauri Palace tells People . Princess Annika, 21, is confirmed to be accompanying her brother.

The news comes after Jadon recently made headlines for a controversial video. Palace officials assure, "His Royal Highness is eager to move past any unfortunate narratives about him or the crown. He's looking forward to acquainting himself with America and his peers."

Before she was queen, my mom was simply Ava Gilbert from Long Beach. Photographic evidence confirms she was an ambitious teen. Prom queen and debate club president and valedictorian. She attended her dream college, the University of Southern California. But one trip to Paris, a graduation gift from my grandparents, changed her entire life.

"I was gonna be a teacher," she told me, years ago. "Then I met your papa and, well."

It's insufferable—the way Mom gets when she tells the story. Shimmering eyes, heart in her throat while describing their meet-cute: a last-minute amateur baking class they both signed up for. Papa approaching her with flour-stained cheeks, a shy smile.

Gross.

But here —this is where Mom discovered who she was.

We've taken family trips to California. When I was much younger. My grandparents have since moved. Papa bought them a farm in Arkansas where they could escape the constant attention, start fresh. They visit us twice a year in Réverie.

I wonder if they miss their lives here before a crown interrupted everything.

I wonder why Mom never visits California anymore.

As our SUV glides through neighborhoods lined with towering palm trees and spidery elms, I thumb through old photos of Mom on my phone. Nothing from online—the palace forced her to delete any social media accounts not linked to them. Nana sent these to me.

My mom, sitting poolside with neon-framed sunglasses and chunky '80s-style gold earrings. Laughing with friends at parties. Playing Helena in A Midsummer Night's Dream .

I don't know what it's like to enjoy a camera lens. To live so carefree.

"Your Highness?"

I lift my head. "Yes?"

Next to me in the roomy backseat, Samuel swipes the screen of one of his many smart devices. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Real quick"—I slide my phone into the inside pocket of my blazer—"can we cut back on the formalities? We're not in the palace. Or even in public. When it's just us, call me Jadon."

Samuel nods toward the passenger seat.

"Ajani doesn't count." I roll my eyes. "She's family."

I ignore her sigh of protest. She's at my side nearly twenty-four seven. I see her more than my parents. That's family.

"If you insist, Your High—I mean, Jadon ," Samuel corrects after I flex an eyebrow. "Do you agree with what I said?"

"Of course." I straighten my tie. "But for refresher purposes, what were we discussing?"

Samuel looks two seconds from frowning, but refrains. "Building a community with your peers at Willow Wood?"

Oh, that. Again . I don't answer him.

Since the People article came out, even more attention is on me. At least two of Samuel's devices vibrate every other minute. I had to mute my alerts this morning.

What's even more annoying is the smile he gives me when he posits, "It will be great for what you're trying to accomplish here."

Great for them , he means.

Willow Wood is California's most exclusive prep school. Yearly, they graduate more future political figures and influencers and entrepreneurs than anywhere else. Having a prince on their roster certainly makes them more appealing to parents.

But there's something in this for me too.

In the history of Réverie's royal lineage, education after secondary school hasn't been an option. As an only child, Papa's commitments to the throne prevented him from going to university. It's been the same for every heir before him. But Annika's next in line, not me.

My life doesn't have to be meetings and handshakes and speeches. I can attend university. Willow Wood keeps me on track for that.

"Jadon?" Samuel attempts. "Do you agree?"

I ball my hands in my lap. What's the point of bonding with classmates? Putting in the effort to get to know anyone? I tried that once—with Kofi. No matter what, it always ends the same for me: alone.

I'm a royal. Friendship isn't a luxury I'm allowed to want.

Exhaling, I say, "Is it really necessary?"

"Absolutely." Samuel sips from his travel mug of chai. "You're great with new people!"

"Have you met me?"

"That was the old Jadon. New Jadon likes his peers. He makes a concerted effort to be friendly—"

Ajani covers a snort by clearing her throat.

I thump the back of my skull against the leather headrest. A stress zit is forming on my left cheek. Just what I needed: puberty and socializing.

"Trust me, it'll help," Samuel says, switching devices. His confidence is nauseating. "It's only the first day. Try being cordial."

"It's too early for that," I grunt.

"How about pleasant ?"

I suck in my cheeks. "Sounds exhausting."

The SUV slows to a stop. Outside the tinted windows, shops with umbrellaed patios, sun-washed exteriors, and chalkboard signs line the street. There's an emptiness behind all the cozy gloss. Like this neighborhood was built for aesthetics, not community.

It's nothing like Réverie's marketplace.

Something catches my eye: a corner coffee shop. The Hopper. Lush vines crawl up the pink exterior. A short green-and-peach awning shades the pavement where an older Black man is sweeping. On one of the windows, someone's painted an espresso bean with white bunny ears.

I muffle a laugh with my fist. It's so charming. Right out of the photos of Mom on my phone. I want to hide inside. But I can't.

The light finally changes. We turn left, leaving that one moment behind.

"Jadon?" Samuel prompts again.

I watch scenery blur past the window. Resigned, I say, "I'll try."

Samuel smiles widely until I add, "But I can't promise there won't be at least one small chemical fire by Friday."

"Bien s?r," Samuel sighs, no doubt wanting to throw himself into traffic.

Willow Wood Academy is a mini metropolis. The buildings are done in Mission Revival style—cream stucco walls, red tile roofs, open-air hallways. Pristine lawns slice through stone walkways. On the way to the headmaster's office, we pass a courtyard dotted with succulents. Hung over the main hall's foyer is a vinyl banner of a beautiful brunette girl smiling perkily.

Our Student President Welcomes All!

Perfect .

Much of my education has been through private tutors. On jets thousands of miles above sea. In lavish hotel suites. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, in the palace gardens with the sunshine on my cheeks and ocean air in my lungs. I've attended actual school—Académie des Jeunes Dirigeants—before, but nothing quite like this.

The floors are so shiny, I can see every detail of my disinterested posture in a lilac, yellow, and gray uniform. I inhale deeply, fixing my expression into the one I use for photographers. Bright eyes, big grin, plastic charm.

"We're so happy you're here!"

Headmaster Parker looks young. Thick, deep brown curls piled on her head. Rosy cheeks and light freckles across her pale skin. The online article I skimmed before arriving said she graduated from Willow Wood in the nineties. I'm almost certain the collection of bobblehead figurines on her desk are from a popular Chinese drama.

Ajani and I sit in a pair of plush chairs across from her.

"Actual royalty on campus!" she gushes. "Should the faculty address you as Your Highness or—"

"Just Jadon," I interrupt, then quickly add, " please . Nothing formal."

Nothing to draw unnecessary attention to me .

"Well, Jadon," she says, tapping away at her computer, "At Willow Wood, we encourage our students to reimagine the impossible as possible."

I narrow my eyes at her direct quote from the school's web page.

"The academic year just started for us, which means it's everyone's first day," she continues, "so you shouldn't stick out too much."

"I'd prefer not at all," I say dryly.

Her shoulders tense at my forwardness. "Of course! It shouldn't be that weird for you."

"Why"—in my periphery, Ajani's head shakes slightly, a warning about my tone that forces me to raise the level of my smile before I finish—"would it be weird?"

Headmaster Parker waves her hands around. "Everything about high school is…awkward." She bites her lip, as if reliving her own teen years. "But you'll fit in nicely!"

My grin tightens as I nod.

"While you're in class, we have private waiting spaces for your…" She studies Ajani. "Secret service?"

Nostrils flaring, Ajani says, "I'm His Royal Highness Prince Jadon's Royal Protection Guard."

I jump in. "Thank you so much, Headmaster Parker. Should I get to class now?"

She hands me a locker assignment and course schedule. "I've assigned you a tour guide," she notes enthusiastically. "One of our best students."

Hopefully, it's not the girl from the banner. I could live without that much bubbliness this early in the morning.

"Thank you," I repeat, hastily following Ajani out the door.

I immediately scrub off the fake Jadon for my usual resting prince face, glaring at my new list of classes.

"Oof," comes an unexpected voice. "Did someone kick your puppy?"

I raise my narrowed eyes.

My tour guide, Morgan, according to the name tag she wears with her pronouns underneath, clearly has no regard for uniform policies. Her lilac ascot is being used as a headband to keep big, loose black curls off her face. She's objectively cute, with a warm tawny complexion and cherub cheeks. The rest of her clothes are standard—yellow and gray plaid vest, matching pleated skirt. The top two buttons of her Oxford are undone, revealing a thin silver chain.

She smirks at Ajani. "Nice fade."

Then, she turns back to me. "Your Highness."

"Just Jadon is fine," I exhale, already bored.

"Okay, Just Jadon…" Morgan's a head shorter than me, but her zero-fucks-given-since-birth presence makes up for it. "Ready for the tour?"

I glance at my schedule again. I'm used to Académie's simple format—one room where most courses are taught with the same instructor, same faces. Willow Wood's classes are all over the place.

"I'm not waiting!"

When I look again, Morgan's halfway down the hall. Reluctantly, I double-time to catch up.

We're excused from first hour. Morgan shows off the two-story library. On the north side of campus is a visual arts center, an independent research facility, and the aquatic center. Computer, science, and drama labs are on the west side.

We pause at an alarmingly large stadium dedicated to their American football team. "Is that necessary?" I ask.

"In case you couldn't tell," Morgan says, "outside of academics, this is where most of the school budget goes."

"Are they any good?"

"Worst win-loss record in LA County!" She fakes a grin. "Donors are hyper-focused on producing the next Chad-Ben-Tom-whatever Super Bowl champion. As if Willow Wood hasn't birthed countless senators, scientists, and entertainers."

Her eyes scan over my physique. "My bad. Are you the sporty type?"

On weekends, while Réverie's marketplace is thrumming with patrons and sellers, I'd sneak away to the long stretch of grass tucked away from sight. There, I could always find kids playing football. The real football. After hours of running around, I'd bribe everyone with crème glacée to swear they never saw me.

I don't tell Morgan any of this. She seems as uninterested in me as I am in this tour. Instead, I say, "As much as anyone else is."

A bell rings. In the distance, students pour into the halls. Without another word, Morgan escorts me and Ajani back to the main building.

After ditching my blazer—Southern California in September is too warm for layers—in my locker, I ask, stiffly, "Do I go to class now?"

Morgan scans my schedule. "Hmm. AP Lit and Composition. Okay, genius." She walks me to the classroom. "Pro tip: mythology is Professor Bayron's jam. Always highlight those sections for quizzes."

I force myself not to roll my eyes. "Noted."

Two hours later, Morgan's waiting for me outside the dining hall. It's not enough that I had to sit through uninvited stares from classmates and these prehistoric courses Americans call "education." Now, I'm being subjected to obligatory social time, also known as lunch.

"You look exhausted," she comments.

Jutting my chin, I huff, "Not even."

"Are you sure? We have a quiet room. A designated outdoor meditation space," she lists off. "Oh, and a coffee bar."

Of course they do. "I'm fine."

She spins away. "Come on, Just Jadon. Time for intros."

The quad is an exaggerated space. Wooden benches planted beneath the shade of thick laurel trees. Stone tables where kids eat or soak up sun from the cloudless sky. Conversations chase each other over hip-hop music from someone's phone. The air's spiced with fresh-cut grass and heady ocean breeze and too much body spray.

While we walk, more students pause to stare at me. Not as many as I expected. Most are too busy on their phones. No one approaches us, though. Maybe it's the instinctive scowl I keep having to wipe off my face.

I hear Samuel's voice in the back of my head: New Jadon likes his peers .

"And over there…"

Morgan points toward a fountain. A second passes before I realize she's not talking about the marble dolphin sprouting from the center of the water. It's the two students sitting on the fountain's edge, looking like every popular clique from the teen dramas I secretly stream during boring press conferences and long flights. They have this charged air of untouchable-ness. The same energy me and Kofi had.

"Those are my friends," Morgan finishes. "Nathan Lim and Grace Miller."

Nathan is striking. Light brown eyes, round cheeks that contrast nicely with his sharp jaw. He pushes long, dark bangs off his face, laughing at something Grace says. His tie is undone, shirt untucked. Under his snowy-white Air Force 1s is a skateboard.

Grace is the girl from the welcome banner. Sharp green eyes. Shiny auburn hair chopped just under her chin. She sits like she knows people are supposed to pay attention. Her uniform's altered to show off every inch of her toned body.

"Nate's parents are pharmaceutical researchers," Morgan says. "Big donors. As in the Lim Science Building."

I nod as if I'm impressed, even though I'm not.

"And Princess Grace—not my nickname for her," Morgan clarifies, "is the daughter of a senator and '80s pop singer. Willow Wood's sweetheart."

She waves at Grace, leading me over to the fountain.

"So, the rumors are true." Grace stands, then nails an effortless curtsy. "Welcome, Prince Jadon. Grace Miller, student body president."

"And yearbook prez. Student gov prez. Cheer captain," Nathan lists off, amused. "Editor of the lit mag—"

"Thanks, Nate," Grace says with a slight edge.

He's unfazed. With an electric grin, he extends his fist toward me. "Nate."

"Boring, basic, skater-bro," Morgan narrates, flopping down next to him.

"You left off podcaster, second chair violinist in the orchestra," Nathan teases after I reluctantly bump his fist, "and drop-dead gorgeous."

"Or you could just drop dead," Morgan says with little heat.

He clutches his chest in mock pain. "Morg, babe. Seriously? Weren't we supposed to Hulu and chill Friday night?"

"God, Lim, no." It's the first time I notice a smile nudging at Morgan's cheeks. "I'm into girls, remember?"

"And I'm only into guys on the weekends." Nathan rests his head on her shoulder. "Why's that stopping us?"

"You're disturbed."

Nathan laughs huskily. "Does that turn you on?"

"So," Grace says, side-eyeing what's happening to her right. She scoots over to make room for me. "Your Highness—"

"Jadon is fine," I say for the thousandth time today, but with a prim smile.

"Jadon," she repeats, smirking. "Enjoying Willow Wood?"

"It's—" Again, Samuel's comments from earlier disrupt my urge to unload about how pretentious and overdone this school is. "Beautiful," I finish.

She cocks her head. "First time to LA?"

"No."

"Of course not," Grace says as if she was simply testing my own knowledge on…myself. "Your mom's from around here, right? Palisades?"

I square my shoulders. "Long Beach, actually."

"Sick vibes out there," Nathan comments. On his other side, Morgan crunches on a bag of Takis she must've pulled from her backpack.

"And single, too?" Grace arches a dark eyebrow. "Mutual or messy breakup?"

My jaw tightens. I haven't shared the details about what happened with Léon to anyone. But here's Willow Wood's class president, someone I've barely known five minutes, staring at me expectantly like I'm going to word vomit my entire relationship history. A familiar itching fire starts in my chest. I've officially gone from annoyed to why the fuck am I still here territory.

I don't let old Jadon take over. Not completely. I flash her an enormous grin, all teeth, no warmth, and repeat what every good royal says when faced with a topic nobody needs to know about: "No comment."

A beat. Grace's smile doesn't falter, but her eyes gleam.

" Chill , Gracie," Nathan says, and Grace's head immediately snaps in his direction, like she hates that nickname. "You can go all investigative journalist on my boy Jadon at this boujee-ass party we're throwing him Friday night."

"Sorry." I blink. "At the…what?"

"A small gathering," Grace insists, lips curling almost conspiratorially. "A Welcome to America kickback. At Nate's house."

"Folks are up in Palo Alto for a conference," Nathan elaborates. "It's gonna be fire."

I stare at him like he's speaking an alien language.

"You don't have to come," Morgan starts.

"He wants to!" Grace cheers. "Ooh, let's do a TikTok. Intro you to all the fans."

Words try to scratch up my throat, but I'm too late. Everything happens so swiftly. Grace passes Nathan her phone. He gets into position while she tosses an arm around my rigid shoulders. All I can do is unclench my ass cheeks enough to smile at the lens, praying no one notices how horrified my eyes are.

A shadow falls over us, disrupting the shot. My gaze flicks to the source.

From behind one of those fancy Canon cameras, a boy smiles. It's hard to tell from my position, but he looks almost my height. Medium fawn skin with near-black eyes. His hair is short, tiny waves at the top. It's also dyed a vibrant pink.

In a smooth voice, he says, "Sorry, you're blocking my shot." He motions his lens toward the fountain. "I need it for my—"

"That's nice," Grace interrupts in a tone that's equally sugary and terse. "Everyone knows this is our spot."

Pink Boy doesn't flinch. "Actually," he says, "it's Willow Wood's property. Specifically, Sébastien Tremblay, the actor. He's an alumnus. Donated the fountain ten years ago after winning a Tony." His grin is crooked. Endearing. Not that I really notice. "And if we're getting into more details, this land belonged to—"

"We get it." Grace sighs. "We're still not moving."

"Cool." Pink Boy adjusts his camera angle. "I'll shoot around you."

I bite my lip, feeling every muscle in my face aching to smile.

Who is this guy?

Grace's expression resets. Softer, politer. "Sorry, um," she prompts.

"Reiss," Pink Boy volunteers.

"Reiss," Grace says flatly. "We're almost done. Recording a quick TikTok with our newest student…" She waves her hand in front of me like he should already know who I am.

Reiss studies me, curiously.

My cheeks blister. It's way too hot out here.

"If you could just wait over there." Grace signals to a nearby recycling bin. "Thanks for your patience."

I wait for Reiss's reaction. He doesn't stomp away. Cry on the spot at Grace's dismissal. Instead, he points that crooked smile right at me. He bows dramatically like some aristocrat in a regency film, before disappearing.

For a moment, my brain is on a loop of what the fuck just happened? that Grace clearly doesn't notice.

She says, "So, you'll be there Friday night. At Nate's. For the party."

After the bell rings, it hits me—Grace wasn't making a request.