Chapter 8

8

ROYAL COMBAT?

Millions of hearts are aching over shocking images of Prince Abraham—Bram to the legions of Bramiacs—getting into a bar scuffle over the weekend. While sources reveal the Duke of Kinross threw the first (and last) punch, we can hardly believe our favorite ginger-haired sweetheart would instigate such an incident. Let's ignore those pesky rumors of previous physical altercations between schoolmates and the Scottish prince.

In other news…read what celebrities think about roguish Prince Jadon's escape to LA!

The oven timer dings as Samuel spreads a pile of magazines across the kitchen island.

"We have a problem."

"Obviously." I pull a tray from the double oven. "How many trees were murdered for those? You know you can read that stuff online now, right?"

I inspect my pate sucrée. Centauri's pastry chefs taught me the art of creating the perfect thin, golden crust. A buttery sweet scent wafts in the air as I sweep aside the magazines for a place to rest the tray.

Samuel's dramatic sigh begs for attention.

"Quoi?" I say.

He aggressively points to the hand-selected magazine pile. Each glossy cover features a different celebrity or political figure. Marriages, scandals, breakups, more scandals. Inlaid on a different corner of every front page is a photo of me with a new headline:

Rebel Royal Does America!

His Royal Finest: A Guide to Prince Jadon's Best LA Looks

CRUSH ALERT! Why Everyone's Falling for the Brokenhearted Prince!

Wild, Wild Westeros: How Prince Jadon Is Playing a Game of Thrones In the USA

"I have no idea what any of this means," I sigh.

"It means," Samuel says, incredulous, "the tabloids are in love with you."

"Where's the problem?" I tilt my head, confused. "I thought we wanted better headlines? For everyone to stop focusing on the video?"

For people to fall in love with the New Prince Jadon—the one I didn't feel like on the inside , I think, but don't say.

"Yes!" Samuel says, even more frantic.

"Sorry." I pause, blinking. "Are we speaking the same language?"

"Non." Samuel gathers the magazines into a neat stack. "We want everyone to love you. But we need Réverie to respect you, too. Right now, they don't."

"They…still don't?"

"I've spoken with some trusted sources," Samuel admits, already frowning like he knows what he says next is going to sting. "Our people see the new Jadon. Your likability numbers are up."

I exhale hard. Is that what I am now? A number? A stat based on opinions? Whether I can go home or not hinges on margins calculated by people who don't even fucking know me.

"But," Samuel continues, "they want more from you."

"More than smiling and being friendly and not causing international incidents?" I say, exasperated.

"Yes?"

I almost knock over the tray with my cooling crust. "What, then?"

Samuel hesitates. One of the glass doors leading to the main lawn is open. Sunlight dances on the pool's surface like a blanket of diamonds. The Palisades are quiet, but nothing like the tranquil air around the palace. The home I'm desperately missing.

It was never this hard in Réverie. Whenever one of my "incidents" happened, there was a swarm of chamberlains to contain the situation. I could hide in my room or in Centauri's gardens until it went away. But this is different. I've never publicly said anything negative against another Réverian before. I've never had to stare at the aftermath of my anger and figure out how to repair things on my own. To figure out why I'm so angry in the first place.

Calmly, I repeat, "What, then?"

"An apology," Samuel says. "To Prime Minister Barnard."

"Absolutely not."

"Your Highness—"

"I said no." I drag a hand through my curls. They're longer than I'm used to. I need a haircut. I need all of this to get easier, but it doesn't. "I'm not doing it, Samuel."

He tugs at his tie. He's wearing a suit. On a Saturday . He takes his job seriously, never a day off, while I'm baking.

It's not fair to him. He's doing everything possible to get back home.

I am too, right?

"I'll try harder," I promise. "We'll think of something else. Another interview. We can fly Réverie's ambassador in DC out here for a dinner. Arrange a photo op."

"And your speech for the Sunset Ball?"

"Working on it," I lie.

"Of course, Your Highness."

"Jadon," I prompt. "Remember?"

The smile on Samuel's lips isn't very convincing. "I'll add it to your itinerary." He whips a tablet out of thin air. "Should I set up something soon?"

"Can we work it around my rehearsals?" I request.

According to Dr. Garza Villa's email, the play's opening night is after Willow Wood's holiday break. Well, their first one. Why do Americans celebrate so many holidays? We got our production calendar yesterday. Read-throughs start next week.

For reasons I don't completely understand, I still want to go through with this.

To have a little more time not being Prince Jadon.

Samuel's expression remains neutral, even if I can read the indifference in the corner of his eyes. "Noted. Perhaps the night you and the crown princess are having dinner with Senator Miller and his daughter?"

Another of Annika's suggestions. Except she wasn't the one who had to propose the idea to Grace.

"Sure," I say.

Samuel smiles apathetically. "I'll send out communications."

When he's out of sight, my shoulders sag. This is fine. I can convince Réverie to love me. Respect me. There's still time to make this right.

"Grace," I say, smiling, cheeks stretched to the limit. "About your Halloween bash."

She squints against the high sun. It's lunch hour. A trio of girls wave, trying to snag her attention, but she merely fixes the buttons on her cardigan, head tilted at me.

"Yes?"

"Is there going to be any…" I tug on my earlobe. "Press? Photographers?"

Despite how many people were crammed into Nathan's house party, no major media outlet reported about me being there. Only local gossip bloggers picked it up. Even Kip Davies barely gave it a mention on his nightly show.

But this is bigger. It's a politician's daughter's party. A significant event at a premier LA location. It's bound to attract more attention.

The kind that Réverie will notice.

Grace hums. "A few. Last year, my dad demanded a step-and-repeat outside. For the memories. He's always too busy to attend."

"Dude." Nathan laughs. "No one wants your dad there."

Grace looks like she's considering shoving him into the fountain. She turns back to me. "Why? Scared to be seen hanging with us normies?"

"No," I quickly say.

"I'm kidding, Your Highness." She lightly smacks my shoulder. I try not to scowl. "Seriously, if you need a backdoor entrance, I can—"

"No," I repeat, resurrecting my smile. "Photos are fine."

They're perfect. Especially if someone on the inside gets a video of me mingling with classmates. Surviving a party without incident. It's a small step, but I need Réverie's people to see me being the congenial, charming, down-to-earth prince they deserve around important people like Grace.

"I was just checking," I say. "For security purposes."

Grace nods like she understands. "It'll be small."

Small like the last time , I think to say, but that won't help my cause.

"Lies," Morgan says for me, cackling.

"Are you bringing a plus-one?" Grace asks.

I don't answer right away. Instead, I roll my shirtsleeves to my elbows. I haven't completely conformed to everyone else's uniform protocol. Only tiny adjustments. I consider Grace's question.

A plus-one. Someone to pull me away from boring conversations. Who'll make me laugh or call me out when my resting prince face kicks in.

Would Reiss say yes if I asked?

"I don't know," I finally say.

On the other side of Grace, Morgan gives me a look. Pursed lips, accusing eyebrow. Like she knows exactly what I was thinking.

I ignore her. "Would it be okay if I did?"

Grace straightens her posture, crossing her legs. "Let me know. I want to make sure…" She trails off.

The bell rings in the quad.

As Nathan scoops up his skateboard and Morgan packs away her lunch, Grace says, "Just get my approval first."

It's not a command, but there's a hint of something in her voice. Concern? Distrust? I don't know her well enough to decipher it. I haven't tried to get to know her either.

"Of course," I say before she walks away.

I jog after Morgan, who's headed in the opposite direction. "Wait," I say, a little breathlessly, when I catch up. "What was that?"

Morgan doesn't slow down, but her forehead wrinkles. "What was what?"

"With Grace," I get out. For someone shorter than me, Morgan's fast. Was it like this when she gave me a tour of campus? "The plus-one thing."

A realization flashes in her eyes. "Grace is…uptight about certain things," she says.

"Certain things?" I repeat with a skeptical stare.

Morgan adjusts her backpack. "She doesn't trust everyone. Look at who she is." She sizes me up. "I'm sure you understand."

I make a face. "I'm not like—"

Her hard stare, pinched face, dares me to finish my sentence.

"Point taken," I relent.

"She has her reasons," Morgan adds without elaborating. "She likes to know who's going to be around her inner circle or whatever."

"Sounds controlling."

"You're no trip to Disneyland yourself, Just Jadon," Morgan comments. Again, I don't argue. I follow her around the corner. "Also, maybe don't bring a certain film student with pink hair to the party."

I stumble a little.

"I have no idea who you're referring to."

"You're a bad liar," she says impassively.

"Why not him?" I ask, voice tight.

"Reasons," is all she says, nodding to the end of the open-air hallway we've just walked into.

There's a thick, white column almost blocking him, but I know it's Reiss. His constantly moving hands give him away. Standing a little too close to him is a short boy. He whispers in Reiss's ear. Shadows partially hide Reiss's expression, but not the other boy's smirk.

"This isn't the palace, Just Jadon," Morgan says. "People have their secrets around here."

I watch Reiss's hand brush the boy's as he takes his phone, types something, then returns it.

Logically, I know Reiss is allowed to talk to whoever he wants. We're not dating. We're not…anything. And I'm not mad. My knuckles aren't aching from how hard I'm squeezing my fists at my sides.

"I'm late for class," I say hoarsely, not stomping away like someone who's clearly bothered by what he just saw.

It just looks that way to anyone who sees me.

Rehearsals are a disaster.

Truthfully, I'm the disaster. We're on day four of read-throughs. Everyone's present—the cast, stage crews, techies—as I stumble through my lines. Dustin's face is alarmingly red, like he's made a huge mistake. Dr. Garza Villa spends half our allotted time correcting me. Either I'm too tense or too monotone. Speaking too fast or missing my cue.

By the end, Mr. June, the second faculty adviser, is tugging off his heels and shaking out his deep blond hair. He mutters, "I didn't leave Broadway twice for this," stomping offstage.

"Let's do some independent meditation and reflection before we call it a day," Dr. Garza Villa suggests.

Students huddle together onstage for the exercises. I flop into one of the auditorium's front row seats. Head down, I roll and unroll my script. Try to clear my head. Focus on something other than what Morgan said.

People have their secrets around here.

Why did her words surprise me? It's not like I haven't encountered this before. Classmates at Académie des Jeunes Dirigeants smiling in my face, only to catch them making fun of me in the restrooms. Kofi ditching me in LA. Prime Minister Barnard insulting my mom behind closed doors.

Léon .

A sharp, unwanted pain cuts across my chest like a blade. The memories come in clear, vivid colors. Orange like a dying star when Léon stopped being around as much, blaming travel and modeling gigs for all the missed calls. Watercolor blues when he kissed me in Centauri's gardens, only to end our relationship the next morning with an "I'm— we're not happy. It's not the same anymore." Bloodred when he walked away from me as I tried to talk about what his papa said.

I know how this goes. How it always ends. It's why I keep my guard up. Maintain a distance from people. But Reiss—he feels different.

I want it to be different.

"Bro!"

I startle as Karan drops into the seat next to me. "Is this a method acting trick? Are you purposely fucking up because Mr. Green is an anxious, clumsy mess?"

My brows knit. "Yes?"

"Don't get me wrong—I appreciate the dedication. But it's not that serious."

"It's not?"

"Of course it is!" He clutches his chest in faux distress. "How am I going to make it to Hollywood, star in the ultimate badass movie franchise that finally overthrows that Fast and the Furious nonsense if you don't get your head in the game? Did you know Vin Diesel is my villain origin story?"

My lips quirk into a small smile. "No."

"Now you do." He stretches his legs out. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not one bit."

"Perfect. Group psychologist is Lo's strength, not mine."

"Who?"

"Bestie number two. You haven't met them?" His face scrunches. "Makeup crew manager?"

To be honest, outside of Karan, I hadn't bothered to memorize the cast or crew list. The same way I haven't bothered learning most of my classmates' names. Half of my teachers too.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry. We'll fix that. Tomorrow night."

"What's tom—"

"I'm officially inviting you to hang with the squad," Karan interrupts, smile glowing brighter than the stage spotlights. "Movie night. It's a tradition."

"Movie night," I repeat, considering.

Samuel wants me to concentrate on finding new ways to win over Réverie's approval. Regain their trust. Which I'm working on. But I'm supposed to prove I'm capable of living a normal life too. That not everything I'm involved in is drama and scandal and breaking-news -worthy.

"Sounds fun," I say.

"Oh, it is." Karan's grin widens. "Great food. Stellar movie selection. Instant relief from whatever's making you look like this."

He mimics my expression. It's a very accurate impersonation of resting prince face. I choke out a surprised laugh.

"We usually have it at my villa," Karan explains, "but my parents are renovating. Mamma refuses to let the Warrens' kitchen outshine ours." He waves at a few cast members as they leave. No one makes eye contact with me. "We could probably do it at Lo's—"

"What about where I'm staying?" I offer.

Karan hums, most likely weighing his options.

"I have the space. And a screening room," I attempt. Karan's mouth puckers like that's the norm around here, so I add, "I'd love to host. Please."

"Are you sure? We can get pretty rowdy."

I snort. As if watching a movie could top anything I encountered at that Welcome to America bacchanal Grace put together.

"Positive," I confirm.

I should run all this by Samuel and Ajani first. Royal privacy, official paperwork, security measures. But it's just one night. A friendly hangout. Something I rarely had in Réverie outside of Kofi coming to the palace for video games or the times I snuck Léon into my private suite past midnight.

How difficult can it be?

"Sick." Karan yanks out his phone. "I'll let Lo know. Reiss, too." His eyebrows waggle in a way that makes my face uncomfortably warm. "He'll love it. Movie night at a prince's crib two days before his birthday—"

"His birthday?" I blink.

"Don't make it a big deal," Karan insists as he types. "His fam already goes overboard."

"Of course," I say, going for casual, even though my heart's drumming harder than the bass in a hip-hop song.

"Bet," he says. "Message me your addy."

I do. This is good. A nice, normal, real Friday night hangout with my peers. With people I like . With Reiss.

Morgan's words still cling to the corners of my skull like a poltergeist. But I'm not letting her warning ruin things. I need to know for myself if I can fully trust Reiss.

If this is something…more.