Chapter 4

4

10 FUN FACTS ABOUT EVERYONE'S FAV REBEL ROYAL!

We love a bad boy (especially one with dimples!) as much as the next future royal-suitor-in-the-making. Here's a list of must-have facts about Prince Jadon, one of the world's youngest, broodiest, most eligible royals!

"So, Jadon, tell us what music you're listening to."

I fight off a yawn. It's 4:00 p.m., but I'm still exhausted from the party last night. From the two hours I spent in bed, staring at the ugly ceiling fixture, replaying Reiss's words in my head.

It's a good thing you're nothing like the guy people say you are .

"Your Highness," Samuel whispers from off-set.

I startle, then grimace at Khalia, the TeenBuzz interviewer. She's a young Black woman with short twists and a beautiful smile. Her head tilts as she waits for my answer. She's been patient all afternoon. When the photoshoot ran long because one of the four puppies they brought in—"People love dogs and we want them to love you!" Samuel enthusiastically explained—decided to pee on my shoes, delaying our start time by an hour, she didn't complain.

We're at a studio in the Arts District of Downtown Los Angeles. Samuel scheduled today's meeting to help boost Shiny New Jadon's fun side. I briefly stare off into the LED lights surrounding us, considering Khalia's earlier question.

So far, the interview has been easy, if not basic. Topics I could talk about in my sleep. If I got any, that is. But I'm feeling weirdly nervous. Like I'm being interrogated by Papa instead of someone who looks fresh out of university.

Every answer needs to be flawless, or I'll never get back to Réverie.

"You can look at your playlist," Khalia offers, as if she can sense my anxiousness.

I let out a small laugh. "No, no. It's fine. Lately, I've been into a bunch of underground hip-hop. Some indie R&B artists. A little pop. House music."

"A man of taste," Khalia comments, impressed. "Any specifics?"

I think for a moment. "Moonglow."

Her eyes brighten. "Interesting. Do you have a fav?"

I wiggle around in my chair. A realization lights up in my brain like a giant neon sign: I only know one of their songs. The one that was playing while I was sitting outside with Reiss.

"Not really," I answer.

"Are you sure?" She sits forward in her own chair, beaming. "The dimples are out."

Reflexively, I reach up to touch my cheeks, then drop my hand. "It's nothing."

"Does their music remind you of someone?"

Maybe . "Not at all," I lie.

"A lot of their songs have a romantic vibe," Khalia notes. "Is it the kind of music you'd play for a crush? Potential boyfriend?"

My eyes cheat to Samuel. His face is growing increasingly concerned. Behind Khalia, the cameras feel closer than they were before. I rub my sweaty palms on the designer jeans selected for me. Typically, these questions are given to me in advance, but I didn't request them this time.

This was supposed to be a simple, fun interview.

What would Annika say?

I clear my throat. "That's a very unoriginal way to tell someone how you feel."

Well, she definitely wouldn't say that .

Somewhere, behind the lights, I hear Samuel facepalming.

Khalia's brow wrinkles. "All right," she starts slowly, "well, for any of our lucky readers here in the US who might be interested—how could they get your attention?"

"Be genuine? Friendly? Funny?" I offer.

Samuel, coming into focus now, gives me two ecstatic thumbs up.

But then my mind zooms back to Nathan's backyard. The splash of the pool. Cool night air. A pink-haired boy. The phone in his hand.

"Also, don't be a jerk pretending to like me for clout," I finish.

"Mon Dieu," Samuel mutters.

Khalia laughs. "Is that a joke?"

When I don't blink, she straightens her spine, trying to hold on to a smile that's quickly fading. "Noted. Let's move on to TV shows, I guess," Khalia says, like she can't wait for this interview to end.

She's not the only one.

Every morning before the first bell, Grace insists we spend time in Willow Wood's courtyard as a group.

"For good energy," she claims.

I'd rather spend that extra time in bed. Or anywhere other than with people I won't remember in a few months. But after my disastrous TeenBuzz interview, it's not optional.

I need to step up my game or I'm stuck here.

The courtyard is the first area students walk through each day. Grace always chooses the wooden benches closest to the front arch. She's next to me, intensely studying SAT flashcards—I'm crushed that I'll never know the joys of American standardized tests—while I scroll my phone.

"What about Top Ten horror movies?"

Opposite us, Nathan's tormenting Morgan with a list of ideas for his next podcast.

"You're scared of your own shadow," she says disinterestedly.

"So true." When I look up, Nathan's thoughtfully rubbing his chin. His eyes light up. "How about Top Ten Pixar movies?"

"Didn't you just do a Top Ten episode?" Morgan asks.

A sly grin melts across his face. "So, you listened? Tell me, Morgan Alexander, are you one of my eight hundred faithful subscribers?"

"You wish."

"I wish you and I would—"

Morgan smacks a hand over his mouth. "Finish that sentence and I'll end you, Lim." Then, she yelps, dragging her hand away. "Did you just lick my palm?"

Nathan winks.

"Could we please chill with all the nonsense," Grace requests, face pinched. She waves her multicolored index cards around. "Princeton isn't accepting me with a 1350 SAT score."

"Not with that attitude," Nathan claims, chomping into his breakfast burrito.

"Grace, come on," Morgan says, crossing her legs. Today, she's added orange, white, and rose suspenders to her uniform. "Princeton knows who your dad is."

"Just like Berkeley knows your stepdad," Grace says, ignoring the way Morgan's eyes narrow. "I don't want to get in because of…favoritism."

Morgan shrugs, staring down at her manicure. I'm so distracted by how easily she shuts off Grace's tone that I don't notice Nathan pivoting in my direction.

"Sup, Prince J?" He grins, collar popped, skin sun-kissed. "Got any suggestions for a fresh, new episode of Nate Debates ?"

I frown. "That's the name? You can't be serious?"

"He is," Morgan and Grace say in unison.

"I'm listening," Nathan singsongs.

I hold in a sigh. As much as I want to walk away from this silly conversation, that's not what Annika would do. What a respectable prince would do. I study Nathan: hair pulled into a sloppy topknot, small acne breakout on his chin, his uniform slacks one size too big. Resting under his scuffed Vans is a brand-new skateboard.

"Isn't there a skatepark nearby?"

I saw it in a handful of Mom's old photos.

"Venice," Nathan volunteers, smirking like he can already see where I'm going.

"What about an episode focused on its history?" I suggest. "How it's changed. Interview some of the nonwhite skaters. Get their takes."

Nathan whoops and Grace's cards go flying. I almost laugh. "Genius, Prince J," he crows, stretching to offer me another fist bump.

With the face of a boy who's betraying generations of royal decorum, I reciprocate.

"Now that that's settled…" Grace snaps her fingers.

A random sophomore appears out of nowhere. She swiftly gathers Grace's fallen cards like a cartoon minion desperate for praise.

Grace doesn't give it to her, instead turning to Morgan with a sweet smile, as if nothing happened two minutes ago. "Babes, can you help me with my Honors English paper later?"

My face twists up. Morgan's considering it.

Nathan says, "Yo, why don't you just buy a paper off—"

"Some of us want to earn our grades," Grace says, turning back to Morgan. "We can go shopping for our Sunset Ball gowns after. Which reminds me—my dad says you're giving a speech at the ball, Jadon?"

I almost forgot about that. I didn't plan on being here that long.

"Yes," I say casually.

"Do you have a date yet?" Grace asks.

"No." I scratch the back of my neck. "Is that required?"

"Of course! You're a guest of honor." She trades her index cards for her phone. "I'll help. Are you on any dating apps?"

"I'm a prince ," I deadpan. "And seventeen."

She rolls her eyes as if those aren't real barriers. "No worries. Are you into college guys? Actors? I know this one pop singer, total twink—"

"Are you allowed to use that word?" Nathan says, head cocked.

Grace waves him off. "Anyone at the party catch your eye?" One of her dark brows curves up. "You disappeared for a hot min."

"Ooh!" Nathan coos before I can deflect. "Smashing at your own welcome party? Sweet."

My nose wrinkles.

"Who was it?" Nathan eagerly asks. "Alex? Wilhelm, the exchange student? Wait—was it Eddie?"

"It wasn't—" I stand, shaking my head. " Nothing happened."

I didn't hide in a corner. Talk to a beautiful boy. Get dragged by said beautiful boy for accusing him of selling me out to the highest-paying news outlet.

Also, when did Reiss go from cute to beautiful ?

On cue, I hear a familiar laugh. My eyes are drawn to the noise. It's Reiss, hand on the shoulder of a lanky boy with terra-cotta skin and swoopy black hair. He's relaxed, cracking up. So different from the party.

Meanwhile, I'm breathing hard like I just ran a marathon. Reiss doesn't notice. But someone else does.

Morgan smiles wickedly, mouthing, Really?

I snatch my messenger bag from the ground, puffing my chest out. "Forgot something in my…locker," I say with only a small stammer. "So. See you!"

Problem is, I can't get to whatever imaginary item I don't need. Because my locker is jammed. I try the combination three times. Kick the door. Slam my shoulder against it until there's a dull throb moving through my muscles.

Still, nothing.

The warning bell rings. No one stops to help me. I have no friends here. Shiny New Prince Jadon is having zero effect since I'm still the scowly, silent, chin-high Jadon I was before coming to Willow Wood. I'm two seconds from calling Ajani to leave school early, when someone steps in.

The heat hits me first—his long frame fitting into the sliver of space between me and the locker. Next, an earthy, almost smoky scent. The burst of pink waves. It's him again, shoulder pressed firmly to the steel door while his long fingers jiggle the handle. He's all practiced motions and not pathetic, petulant whining over defective craftsmanship.

As he works, the wings of his shoulder blades brush my chest. I inhale sharply. Should I move? Give him more room? Why is my body so content being this close to Reiss?

The door pops open. "Lift, then nudge," he advises coldly.

I finally step back, awed. "How did you—"

My words die in my throat. Reiss is already walking away.

He didn't wait for me to finish. Didn't give me thirty seconds to explain my reaction from the other night. Three words is all I get.

That and a clear view of his backside—which I'm pointedly not staring at—as he strides down the hall.

My face flushes. Anger flickers in my chest. Climbs past my tonsils. Who is he to ignore me? Swoop in like some pink-haired, fairy-tale hero and not even let me thank him?

I yell, "I could've handled it on my own!"

I didn't need him. I almost had the damn locker open.

Reiss barely pauses to shout, "Whatever you say, Your Royal Arrogance!"

Headmaster Parker's head pops out of the main offices, searching for where the disturbance is coming from.

I wave sheepishly, pasting on a camera-ready smile.

And Reiss is…gone. Not another word. Disappearing like whatever hopes I had of making this plan to win the world over work.

"Have you been to the pier yet?"

On my phone screen, Mom's tightening her favorite purple-and-emerald silk scarf over her graying curls. I feel bad for video calling her so late. It's a little after 4:00 p.m. here, which means it's closer to midnight in Réverie.

I just—I needed to see her. Despite how we left things after Papa banned me, hearing her voice and staring into her deep brown eyes loosens the corkscrew coiled in my chest.

"Not yet," I reply.

"You should," Mom says.

Judging by the pale indigo walls and pieces of gilded-accented furniture in the background, Mom's in her private sitting room. The low lighting can't hide the exhaustion in her shoulders. Or the laughter lines I know are from years and years ago, when life was less complicated.

When everything she or Annika or I did wasn't scrutinized down to the shoes we wore.

"I always wanted to take you," she laments, a faraway look on her face as if she's imagining it. "To Santa Monica Pier."

I can't remember much about California back then. Not my first trip to the beach. The cool rush of Pacific water splashing my ankles. Sitting under soaring palm trees with Mom. I see it in photos, of course, the press obsessively trailing us to get new snaps of Princess Ava and her two children, but there's one memory that sticks out: standing barefoot on my grandparents' deck, watching everyone else enjoy the sun and water, but not us.

"We can't be like them," Mom said.

It's still that way. Me, far from everything, unable to be like them. Like anyone, really.

My mom's voice pulls me out of my head. "I bet the beach is beautiful right now."

"Mom," I half-snort, "the beach is always beautiful."

"It is."

"But it's not Réverie," I whisper.

Silence hangs over us like a ghost. It wasn't like that before. Since I was strong enough to crawl into her lap, Mom's always had a story to share. A way to feed my hunger for life outside of Centauri's walls. When she had more time for me.

I kick off my sneakers—a pair of Kobe 5 Lakers that complement the yellow in my uniform—before stretching out on a bed that still doesn't feel like mine. I angle my phone until I'm back in focus.

"How are things there?"

Mom hums softly. She's going through her nightly skincare routine, which is almost as aggressive as mine. Being royalty doesn't exclude me, a seventeen-year-old, from acne or blocked pores.

"The usual. Meetings and such." A wry smile tugs at her lips. "Oprah invited me to another women's summit. Keynote speaker."

"Opening?"

"Closing," she says with fake outrage. "I'm nobody's opening act, Canelé."

Absently, I grin. Canelé . Mom's nickname for me.

A range of languages are spoken on Réverie, French and English being the most prominent. Despite being married to Papa for over two decades, Mom's French is still fairly bad. She knows her pastries, though. As a toddler, she claims I'd sneak handfuls of canelés—a warm rum-and-vanilla-flavored bread with a caramelized crust—from her plate. Eventually, she begged the chefs to create a liquor-less version just for me.

"Good for you, Mom," I say, smiling weakly. Another trip. Another moment when she'll be unavailable.

She returns to moisturizing her skin. Her image glitches for a second. Frozen pixels. A reminder of how far I am from her, from the comforts of home.

My chest aches. "What if I—" I pause, the last two words lodged in my throat.

Her brow wrinkles. "What if you what?"

I stare up at the ceiling. The ugly light fixture glares back at me. This isn't my bedroom. This isn't where I want to be. "What if I came home?" I finish.

More silence. I chance a look at my screen. Mom's not frozen again. Instead, she's staring blankly at me, confused. Then, her expression sharpens.

"Are you ready to explain yourself?" she asks. "Tell me and your papa why you decided to openly trash our country's prime minister instead of—what do the kids say? Keep it in the drafts? Save it for the group chats?"

"Mom," I groan, embarrassed. But she's not laughing.

"Are you going to apologize to him?"

I clench my teeth, chewing hard on the "no" ready to burst out. She doesn't understand what she's asking for. My mom's strong, the very definition of resilient, but I can't repeat what Barnard said that day.

Look at what we've become. No one respects our monarch. Because of her. She's an outsider. Toxic. And now her influence is corrupting the crown princess and that boy. They don't belong here . She's not one of us. Never will be!

I can't hurt her like that.

"Jadon," she says with a heavy, tired breath. "Where is this coming from? Why are you constantly acting out? Is it stress? Is about what happened with Lé—"

"It's not him," I say hastily, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Then what?"

I drop my hand. On the other side of the screen, the exhausted lines around Mom's face have turned hard. She's frustrated. So am I. Anger bubbles inside my chest like those exploding candies dropped into a bottle of soda.

"What if I just came home?" I say, desperate. "What if I just got on a plane and—"

"You can't."

"What if I did it anyway?" I laugh roughly. "What's Papa going to do if I just show up?"

Mom doesn't smile. "He'll cut off your royal funds," she says, cool and even. "Revoke your title. Until you're twenty-one. Maybe longer." She rubs her temple. "If you come home before proving to us you're the prince we raised you to be, he'll assign you to the Royal Council of State. You'll work side-by-side with the prime minister. You'll be so busy inside the palace, we'll never have to worry about the Jadon you choose to show everyone else."

"Is that"—I swallow hard—"what he said?"

She sighs. "I can't change his mind on this one."

I blink, an unwanted sting behind my eyelashes. My lungs are tight, my free hand shaking on the bed. It's never been this extreme with Papa. Never this… final . But I have to know one more thing.

After another swallow, I ask, "Is that how you feel?"

It's not uncommon for Papa to be so strict. The moment he was confirmed as Réverie's new king, he took his position seriously. Follows every rule, never missteps. Sometimes, I think Annika's just like him. But Mom's different, like me.

At least, I thought she was.

Her stare is a mix of sadness and resolve. "Take advantage of this opportunity, Canelé," she advises. "It'll be good for you."

It's not the answer I wanted.

"This is your chance to grow up," she continues. "Are you always going to solve your problems by ignoring them? Running away? Making a scene?"

I bite on the edge of my tongue to stop anything from spilling out of my eyes. To keep my attention off the flickering flame in my heart. To prevent myself from saying something I'll regret.

"Prove yourself," she says. "Or don't. The decision is yours."