Page 113 of Prince of the Palisades

“I’ve decided,” Papa starts after too long. “You’ll remain in Réverie. Your exile is over. We’ll discuss how to move forward with your royal duties later.”

I finally blink. No tears fall. I stare at Annika, her chin lowered, fists balled on the table. Even Mom’s regal posture has deflated. Silently, Papa finishes his tea, as if the last few minutes never happened.

The decision has been made. This is how it will always be.

But the fire in my chest is burning too hot. I’m done letting someone else choose for me. If I don’t say this now, I might not ever have the courage again.

I stand on wobbly legs. “I know we have obligations. That putting your country first is some kind of royal tradition. But I miss my family,” I choke out. “Not this formal bullshit we’ve become.”

“Jadon,” Mom sighs.

“Know your place, son,” Papa scolds.

“I don’thavea place, Papa! And no one’s letting me find it. I’m always toldwhereI belong.WhatI should do.HowI have to exist. When do I get to decide?” I shout, pounding a fist to my chest. “When do I pick my own path?”

“When you grow up,” Papa says plainly.

“You can force me to smile and wave. Be the good prince you were,” I bite out, “but you’ll never change who I am.”

Unflinching, Papa lifts a brow.Who are you?

“I’m kind. I’m angry. I stand up for what I believe. For the people I love. I’m not perfect, but I’mtrying.” I sniff, ignoring how my voice keeps breaking. “This is the real me. It’s a shame my own parents can’t love me for that.”

I turn on my heels and march toward the doors.

“Jadon.” Papa’s voice echoes like thunder from the head of the table. His position of power. “I didn’t excuse you.”

“I know, Your Majesty,” I say over my shoulder.

And I keep walking.

“Redecorating?”

Brows raised, Annika hangs in the archway of my suite’s bedroom. It’s been two hours since we last saw each other in the Rouge Room. She looks as tired as I feel.

The world’s still spinning. It’s like I’m on a Ferris wheel that never pauses. Never permits me room to breathe. My vision is nothing but blurred images of Papa’s angry scowl and Mom’s disappointed shoulder droop and Annika’s sad, lowered eyes. Or maybe that’s the tears I refuse to shed.

He’s gone. And I didn’t stop him.

Annika carefully steps into the room. Over the wreckage I created the second I kicked in my suite’s door. I couldn’t stand looking at it. Clean, organized, every detail decided by someone else. Just like my life.

So, I tore down paintings. Tipped over pretty, expensive, useless furniture. Knocked over a vase or two. Ajani stood aside as I went from corner to corner. As I unleashed the last flames swelling inside me.

Now, in the aftermath, I sit on my bed. Fists curled in my lap. Exhaustion creeping into my bones. The fire extinguished. And nothing’s changed.

Not a single thing.

The mattress dips. Annika doesn’t push me to speak. She waits, the same way she did when our mémère died and I couldn’t stop shaking, absorbing the pain of the first person I loved and lost.

She did the same thing when Pépère passed. That was shorter. Because the palace had time to prepare for the transition from funeral to coronation to losing my papa to his new duties. We went from being paraded around in all black to being paraded around with smiles and graceful waves. There was barely any time to mourn.

But through it all, Anni was there. Like she is today.

“Walking out on the king?” She half-laughs. “That’s bold.”

I exhale. “Had to level up after walking out on a senator.”

Her shoulder brushes mine, and my stomach twists, thinking about what I said earlier.

---