Page 116 of Prince of the Palisades

Prime Minister Barnard has been the subject of many headlines for most of his career. From his leadership to his commitment to uphold his country’s beliefs to the scandal where a prince, once believed to be a close family friend, questioned his integrity. Recently, he sat down to discuss a more personal subject: his son, Léon. Watch this candid clip of the caring father talking about “the son every parent wishes for.”

All I want is to be left alone.

Yesterday, after Annika left, I cried again. And again. I made up for too many years of turning my sadness into rage. Now I want nothing more than to sleep in. Eat my weight in canelés while streaming shows and avoiding the email I need to send Dr. Garza Villa about not returning to LA in time for the play’s opening night.

Not coming back to America at all.

Except nothing I want ever happens.

There’s heavy knocking on my bedroom suite door. Someone’s muffled voice says my name through the wood. I stuff my head under the pillows. Try to hide from whatever needs my attention at this very moment. It doesn’t last.

The pillows are snatched away. Ajani stands over me in full formal guard uniform.

I frown. “Unless this is about breakfast, then—”

“The king requests your presence,” she interrupts. “Immediately.”

“And I request another hour of sleep!”

My attempt to sink back under the covers is denied. Ajani yanks it away too. She ignores my whiny protests. The hardness of her stare sobers me. It’s the same one she had when the video leaked.

“He wants you in the throne room.”

I bolt upright. Big mistake. My body’s so weak, so dehydrated, I almost vomit.

“How long do I ha—”

Ajani cuts in again. “Fifteen minutes.”

Shit. I roll out of bed—another mistake. I crash onto the ground. “No, I’m okay. It’s just a fractured knee. Probably threw out my back. Don’t call a doctor or help me up.”

“Fourteen minutes,” she says, unmoved.

I miss the old Ajani. The one who cared at least five percent more about my well-being. Who didn’t show up first thing in the morning with life-destroying news all the time.

I miss when my lifewasn’tjust life-destroying news.

I’m still buttoning my shirt, forcing my left foot into a sneaker, as we rush down the Great Hall. It’s terrifyingly quiet. No staff or chamberlains buzzing around. Only the occasional guard stops to eye me as I zip up my slacks. My brain’s still mostly offline, but there’s enough working cells to register one face as we round a corner.

I skid to a halt.

Head low, hands cupped in front, I watch him shuffle with a pair of Royal Protection Guards bookending him. A criminal’s walk. His chest falls with an exhausted exhale. It’s in the corner of his eyes too: the lack of sleep. He’s frowning, shoulders heavy, clothes wrinkled—a side of him I haven’t seen since his parents divorced and his mom left Réverie.

“Léon,” I rasp.

He falters, then bows. “Bonjour.”

“What are you doing here?”

He rocks on his heels. Like he doesn’t have an answer. Or he’s afraid to give it.

I step closer. “Here to welcome me home? Celebrate ruining my life? Brag to everyone about how you—”

“I was a shitty boyfriend.”

My mouth snaps shut. His words hit like a foot to the stomach. “What?” is the only thing I can say.

“I was awful to you.”

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