Chapter 3

3

GLAM & GOODWILL

The runway never looked so good as Grace Miller, daughter of Senator Andrew Miller and the late '80s glam queen Jess Murray, modeled vintage fashion alongside some of LA's up-and-coming style icons for great causes. Though Grace has quickly risen to Californian royalty status, has the arrival of a certain Official Prince finally given her stiff competition?

"Are we sure a party is a good idea?" is the first thing Annika says when I stroll into our Palisades living room.

I pause at the gilded framed mirror on the wall, inspecting my appearance. Curls tight, cheeks still glowing from a hot shower. Thanks to my rigorous skincare routine, the stress zit is gone. I straighten my Boss Henley. The turquoise brings out the gold undertones in my complexion, and it matches my mystic green Air Jordan 1 Mids.

I'm going for I'm a friendly, approachable prince, but also please don't talk to me .

"Jade."

I spin around, almost forgetting Annika's question. She's sipping boba on the beige love seat. My face wrinkles. "Is this what you did all week? While I worked my ass off trying to fit in at a new school?"

She grins shamelessly. "It's rose milk tea! We really need a bubble tea shop back home."

"That's not helping."

"Don't change the subject," she chastises lightly. "Is this the best idea? Considering what happened at the last party you attended."

"That was different."

"How?"

Well, for one, my best friend won't be there to sell me out , I almost say. It's crossed my mind. That attending another unsupervised gathering isn't the right move. But Grace said it'd be small. I can handle that, right?

Samuel answers for me: "C'est fantastique!" He glides into the room, clapping. "The prince needs to be seen making friends with his peers. Having fun! Not drinking."

When his back is turned, I roll my eyes.

He scrolls through his phone. "It doesn't hurt that he's a hit with Miss Miller's followers."

I fiddle with the buttons of my Henley. It was one TikTok. A brief hello, then Grace forcing me to do a silly dance. Nothing exciting. But, somehow, it's ended up all over the news.

"This party's the prime occasion to push our New Jadon narrative to new heights," Samuel is saying.

"New. Heights," I parrot.

"I don't want his new ‘friends'?"—Annika air quotes aggressively—"to turn out like the last one."

I fight off a grimace. Annika's the one who found me sulking in a Beverly Hills hotel suite when they first arrived in LA. Days after Kofi abandoned me. After he shoved shots in my hand, goading me into talking about Barnard, letting some random girl film it. Kofi, who I'd known since I started at Académie des Jeunes Dirigeants.

I spin around, grinning. "Aww. You care?"

"Shut up." Her lips flinch into a smile.

We're back. Memory forgotten.

"If you mess this up," she warns, "I'll never get to take that trip to New York."

Luc, who's also inexcusably slurping boba, says, "You're never winning that bet."

She ignores his cool smile. "They'll kick us out of America. Permanently."

"That's a bad thing?" When she starts chewing her lip, I add, "Anni, it's a party. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm always worried with you."

I flash a sarcastic grin. "Which is why you're getting premature gray hairs."

Annika gasps, her free hand patting her curls as Ajani steps into the room.

"The car is here."

"I'll be home by 2:00 a.m.," I say, checking my reflection one last time.

"Get your royal ass home by midnight!" Annika demands, and I bark out a laugh, shadowing Ajani to the front door.

Grace is a filthy liar.

The small, intimate party she promised has been swallowed whole by a bass-thumping rave. The Lims' mansion is in Brentwood, a ten-minute drive from Pacific Palisades. Lining the narrow street are countless cars: Mercedes-Benz, Tesla, Range Rover, Bentley, BMW, more Range Rovers, a stray neon-green Lamborghini. The long driveway is full too. Spilling out the front door are vaguely familiar faces from school and an unhealthy amount of pop music.

From the SUV's passenger seat, Ajani asks, "Are you sure you want me to wait out here?"

A second later, some freshman-looking student dry heaves into a potted plant by the door. Standing nearby, arms crossed and hip cocked, is Morgan. She's staring me down.

"Yeah," I exhale, already opening the door, "I'm good."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Ajani mumbles.

I salute her before strolling in Morgan's direction. "Were you waiting on me?"

"I have better things to do than babysit you," she says with that same dryness she's given me all week.

"That wasn't a no," I say.

"Have you always been this full of yourself, or is it part of your royal training?"

I shrug. "Comes with the scepter and ring, actually."

The corners of her mouth give the barest twitch. It's something, I guess. Not that I'm invested in whether she likes me or my jokes.

"Is this what you Americans consider a ‘small gathering'?" I ask.

"Scared of a little rager?" she taunts.

I scoff. "You've never been around me and my best—" I catch myself, quickly resetting my expression. "This is nothing."

Inside, something shatters. I jump.

Morgan pats my shoulder. "Whatever you say, Just Jadon."

The interior is a masterclass in polished indulgence. Two stories of fine art and wood panels and open spaces with minimalistic furniture. Long stretches of muted colors occasionally interrupted by pops of red or green. It's big, yet simultaneously tiny with all the bodies coming and going.

"Chillest spot is the sofas outside," Morgan says over the synth-heavy music. "Best bathrooms are upstairs. Don't mess with the hot tub's temp. Nate's dad will know. And please don't be one of those uncivilized assholes who pees in the pool—"

"I can handle myself," I cut in.

Compared to the parties and clubs and dark, smelly, after-hours places Kofi snuck us into since we were fourteen, LA is harmless.

Morgan sizes me up. "Sure."

She easily dances through the crowd of bobbing heads toward the kitchen.

After a beat, I reluctantly follow.

Grace is the heart of the party. The luminous light all the other Willow Wood moths swarm toward. She's perched on the black marble kitchen island, chatting with various girls but never really talking to anyone. It's mildly impressive. Behind her, Nathan is shirtless, pool water flinging off the ends of his cheek-length bangs as he mixes drinks in a metal shaker.

Leaning next to Grace is a white boy with copper-blond curls, deep blue eyes, and a long, well-toned frame. He's double-fisting White Claws. Annika would say he has "extreme bro vibes."

"Who's that?" I ask Morgan, far enough away that no one hears us.

She sighs. "Kaden. Graduated last year. Grace's ex or current fling. I don't know."

Judging by the concurrent flush in her cheeks and curl of her lips when Kaden whispers in her ear, Grace hasn't decided either.

When we reach them, Grace drops air-kisses to both my cheeks. She smells like rosewater and a hint of chlorine, even though her clothes are completely dry. "You're late to your own party."

"I wasn't expecting so many people," I say.

She bats innocent lashes. "Everyone wants to meet a prince IRL."

I strain out a smile.

"What do you think?" Grace waves her arms around like a game show host presenting a prize.

I finally take everything in. Red-and-white-striped plastic cups. Patriotic balloons. The Welcome to America banner taped along the kitchen's black cabinets. Even their outfits are themed: Grace in a star-spangled tank top, Nathan's stars-and-blues trunks, Kaden's Made in the USA T-shirt, and Morgan's bare minimum effort of a patriotic scrunchie around her wrist to match her denim cut-off shorts.

I attempt to keep my face neutral. "Thank you?"

Grace shouts, "Welcome to America, Jadon!"

The crowd mimics, "Welcome to America, Jadon!" over the noise of a blender. When it cuts off, Nathan yells, "Frosé all day!"

"Frosé all day!"

I blink, stunned. Morgan shrugs it off, as if this is common party law. She joins Grace on the island, tugging out her phone.

"So, this is the famous prince." Kaden bumps my shoulder with his.

My eyes immediately narrow.

"Welcome to LA, Your Highness. What can my guy Nate get you?"

Nathan beams. "I make a sick blue martini."

"Sick as in you'll be hospitalized after one sip," Morgan comments without lifting her eyes. Nathan sticks his tongue out at her.

"I don't drink," I say.

"Oh, riiight ." Kaden tosses an unwanted arm around my shoulders. "Not since the vid, yeah? That shit was hilarious. I watched it like ten times."

"Kaden," Grace hisses when a handful of girls around us snicker.

"What, babe?" Kaden downs the rest of his drink before adding, "We've all seen it. Are we just gonna ignore the giant elephant in the room?"

He grins at me in an almost challenging way. I know his type. The spoiled, self-absorbed boy who hates having the attention on anything but him. He's expecting me to crumble. Slip into the shadows like a wounded dog so he can have the spotlight back.

Unfortunately for him, I'm used to playing—and winning—this game.

"Actually." My mouth pulls into a silky smile. "I avoid drinking because, somehow, I end up hanging around rich, needy toddlers who use getting wasted as an excuse to be the true assholes they've always been."

We're almost the same height, but I still look down at him.

"But that's not you," I say, "is it?"

The music's still playing, but there's this beat of silence around us. No one moves.

Finally, Nathan says, "Wow, roasted!"

The nearby girls snort-giggle. Someone coughs, " damn bro " from behind us. Grace leans back, amused.

Kaden stares at me for a second. Then, he says, "It's official. I like you, dude."

Soon, I'm immersed in the group's activities. I grudgingly participate in drinking games with glasses of water. Pose for selfies with whoever Grace introduces me to. Wave at someone's mom over Snapchat. Answer dozens of questions like: How many countries have you visited? Can you solve climate change? HAVE YOU MET BEYONCé?

"Holy fuck," Morgan says out of nowhere, raising her phone. "You guys know that SEC quarterback? The one who turned his back during the national anthem?"

Nathan leans his elbows on the island. "Kenzie Malcolm? Wasn't he wearing an I Love a Country Who Doesn't Love Me Back shirt?"

Morgan snaps her fingers. "Yes!"

"What about him?" Kaden asks, annoyed.

"He's being benched for at least five games," Morgan says. "There's talk of NFL teams blackballing him for the draft."

Nathan's face twists up. "Over a shirt ?"

"Good." Kaden opens another beer, squeezing between Grace and Morgan. "What an idiot move."

"His best friend was wrongfully murdered by cops," Morgan says, exasperated. She hops off the island, shaking her head. "He was making a statement."

Kaden rolls his eyes. "There are other ways of doing that without ruining your fucking future. Vote. Make a TikTok. Sign a petition or whatever."

"Dude, don't be an ass," Nathan says, laughing.

"I'm serious," Kaden groans. "What did he accomplish?"

Morgan shoves her phone screen in his face. "Got people's attention. Everyone's talking about it. There's even a hashtag."

"A hashtag ?" Kaden gasps dramatically, his hand reaching up to clutch invisible pearls. "OMG, that'll save so many lives."

"You're a dick."

"And you're unrealistic." He chugs his beer, sliding an arm around Grace's shoulders. She shrugs it off, but doesn't add anything to the discussion.

Kaden turns his eyes to me. "What d'you think, Prince?"

I stiffen. Nathan's brows are lifted curiously. Grace tilts her head, while Morgan crosses her arms. People whose names I still can't remember are staring.

A crackling heat flickers behind my ribs.

All my life, I've watched Papa answer questions like this. Réverie isn't like other countries. We live by different rules. Survive by staying as far from others' conflicts as possible. I know what I'm supposed to say.

But the fire in my chest sparks hotter when I think about the points Morgan made. What Kaden said. It's just like the day I overheard the prime minister. That night with Kofi.

I can't , I remind myself.

Carefully, I say, "Is it fair to have an opinion on something that doesn't affect me?"

It's too quiet for a beat. Nathan's face scrunches up like he's either contemplating my words or swallowed a bad piece of fruit. Something flashes across Morgan's eyes, then disappears when Kaden shouts, "Exactly! This guy gets it!"

Grace raises her cup. Others join, nodding. Faces blur together until I lose Morgan to the crowd.

After the music switches to a K-pop song everyone knows, I say, "Need some fresh air," not that anyone notices.

The night breeze is refreshing. My nerves are still buzzing, but my chest's cooling. I bypass the pool, waving to anyone who calls my name. I don't stop, though. I'm not in the mood to mingle anymore.

I need time alone to regroup.

As Morgan promised, at a far corner of the lawn, plushy furniture sits empty. In the center, a fire pit spits orangey light. I flop onto a deep blue sofa. Over the glass partition is a glittery view of Los Angeles. I wiggle my phone free from my back pocket to snap a photo.

Instinctively, I open my messages. Sitting at the top of my inbox is my thread with Kofi. It's where I'd always go after a shitty headline. A fight with my ex. Whenever the feeling in my chest got too hot.

But we're not like that anymore.

He didn't even look at me when the video was released. Just packed his bags and left while I was showering, after my call with Papa. No explanations. Now, he won't answer any calls. The remains of our friendship are nothing more than a series of unanswered blue message bubbles.

"Asshole."

I almost drop my phone when someone collapses next to me.

Pink Boy. Reiss .

He wipes his phone screen across his chest. "Nobody appreciates the sacred art of short filmmaking anymore." He glares in the direction of the pool.

The lights at the bottom of the water give everyone a fluorescent blue hue. Someone yells, "Marco!" The other swimmers squeal, "Polo!"

While he's not looking, I casually skim my eyes over his body. Water spots darken his pale green shorts. His frond-print button-up is also damp. The fire's glow highlights his round jaw. He absently licks his lips.

"Luckily, they didn't damage the equipment." He holds up his iPhone. It's not the latest model like every other student around campus carries. But there's no cracks either. The black case says, in capitalized white letters, I Like Filmmaking and Maybe 3 People .

A surprised snort escapes my nose.

Reiss smiles.

This close, I notice the little details I missed the first time. His long fingers drumming on his knee. Tiny wrinkles in his forehead, like he's always thinking about something. The helix piercings in both his ears with twin hoop earrings. How his eyes are a rich, dark brown like a forest cast in shadow.

He clears his throat. I've been staring too long, too hard. I try to think of something nonchalant to say.

"Nice…shorts." Okay, not that . Now he probably thinks I was checking out his crotch. I straighten my shoulders. "Nice night . Great party."

Wonderful. Years of conversational training and that's the best I have.

Reiss doesn't seem to care. "I shouldn't even be here," he says. "My best friend dragged me. This is his crowd. Only cause his family's loaded." He makes a face at that last comment. "Not that he's not dope on his own. He totally is. I'd fight a hippo for him and—"

"Sorry, you'd do what?"

A blush spreads over his cheeks. "Fight a hippo? Wow. I really said that."

"You did," I confirm.

"Anyway, Karan's awesome," he says. "I tag along to these things so my parents don't think I'm lonely. Or tragic. Or desperate."

"Are you?"

"Sorry, you're a stranger and that's confidential information. Can't show off my emo to just anyone."

My lips have this need to grin. So, he's kind of funny. A little interesting too.

"You should be careful," he warns.

I furrow my brow. "Why?"

"No one told you?" He leans in, whispering, "I'm a scholarship kid. Instant social outcast status."

Fine. He's really funny. "Who said you were cool enough for social outcast status?"

"Ouch!" His laugh is scratchy, low. He eases back into his former relaxed position. "You got jokes."

I shrug, convinced my proximity to the fire pit is the reason for how hot my skin is.

"Reiss Hayes." He doesn't offer me a handshake or fist bump, or bow like some of my teachers have. Just that crooked smile. "In case you need to know who to avoid on Monday."

He watches me, waiting for a reaction. As if I'll confirm I'm like everyone else at this party—above him. Like I can't wait to get away. Which is how I felt ten minutes ago, under the spotlight of Morgan's friends. But not now.

I kick a foot up on the fire pit's ledge. Get comfortable. I'm staying .

"I'm Jad—"

"I know who you are," Reiss cuts in. When my eyes narrow, he stammers, "Not in a stalkerish way. I'm not into gossip or anything either. It's just—"

I interrupt this time. "My reputation arrives a whole time zone before me?"

Another laugh. "People talk. I don't listen. Unless they give me a reason to."

"Is that so?"

"Guess you'll have to get to know me to find out."

Something coy and shy crawls into his eyes. He's blushing again. Like he has zero confidence in what he's doing.

I bite down on my lower lip, steadying my expression. I've been in LA for almost two weeks, and this is the most me I've felt around someone new.

We go quiet. My head absently nods along to a dreamy melody coming from a wireless speaker. Tangerine from the fire and blues from his phone screen dance across Reiss's face. Smoke and chlorine fill my lungs. Underneath that, there's a faint, earthy scent clinging to him that I want to ask about.

He speaks first. "Is your first Willow Wood rager everything you expected?"

For a beat, I get lost in the traces of silver moonlight in his pink waves.

"It's…okay."

"Okay?" He snorts. "Not as interesting as the other parties you're invited to?"

I pause. His eyes are still on his phone, which is lifted just enough that the lens is pointed at me. Like that night at GOLDRUSH with Kofi.

Is he trying to get me to shit-talk the people here?

A familiar flame sizzles in my chest. Without thinking, I say, "Are you recording this?"

Of course he is. Why wouldn't he? Another amateur with a camera selling me out to the media. Fuck. Five minutes talking to a cute boy, and I let my guard down.

I gave one more person permission to ruin my life.

Reiss blinks. "What? No, I'm—"

I don't let him finish. "I'm not interested in being in another shitty video for… whatever it is you're doing."

Something cold creeps into his eyes. It matches the iciness of his tone. "Are you serious right now?"

I glare at him, jaw stiff. "You tell me."

He shakes his head. When I notice the hurt tugging at his lips, I'm too late to say anything else.

"It's a good thing you're nothing like the guy people say you are." Reiss stands, pocketing his phone. "Being that much of an asshole would be exhausting."

"Wait," I attempt.

"Enjoy the party, Your Highness," he whispers, walking away.

I breathe deeply for a moment. Let my chest cool down. Refocus on my priorities. I don't care what Reiss said. It doesn't sting because no one here matters.

I'm leaving soon. Just like I should've left this party the second I walked in.