Page 117 of Prince of the Palisades

“You were awful to me,” I repeat.

He ignores my stunned voice. “When I realized things weren’t working between us, I ignored you. Iblamedyou. But it wasn’t your fault.”

I search for words, a reply, but he’s not done.

“It was no one’s fault.” He brushes his hand over his hair. It’s short again. Like when we dated. “We just weren’t meant to be.”

I swallow, nodding.

“When you wanted to be friends, I couldn’t do it.” He sighs. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I under—”

“No. Don’t do that.” His face twists with frustration. “Let me finish. It’s lonely being who we are. Friendships are…hard. I should’ve at least listened.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. I’m not sure which Léon this is. The one I fell for. Or the one from LA who betrayed me. The glassy eyes, sagging posture, that little tremble in his lower lip, tells me he’s not sure either.

But he’s figuring it out.

“I didn’t want to come to America,” he concedes, glancing down at the polished floor. “I letpeopleinfluence me.”

“Who?” I demand.

“It doesn’t matter. I saw you on the news. It was”—he smirks—“inspiring.”

My pulse speeds up. “What did you do?”

Ajani clears her throat. “My prince, His Majesty is waiting.”

One of the guards says, “We should go,” her hand gripping Léon’s bicep. He’s being escorted out. Whatever he did was serious.

“The protest,” Léon gets out. He laughs, resisting the hands tugging him away. “Fuck. I finally saw who you were. We all did. C’était incroyable.”

It was incredible.

He gives me one final heartbreaking smile before he’s dragged away.

I’m rooted to this one spot in the Great Hall. Nothing makes sense. Nothing until the throne room doors open and I see who’s waiting on the other side.

Suspended from the high ceilings are crystal chandeliers shining like constellations. The walls are deep brown with gold accents. Tall ebony sculptures line the room like guardians. A crimson carpet runs through the center of the mirror-finished floors.

The small dais at the head of the room holds matching thrones. Papa and Mom are perched on them. In the seats surrounding them are Annika, a straight-backed, scowling Samuel, and a man in a smart navy suit with dark brown skin, his semi-wrinkled face almost identical to his son’s.

Prime Minister Barnard.

My skin prickles as I bow to my parents. “Papa. Mom.”

“My son,” Papa says, his tone formal, but not as cold as yesterday. He gestures toward Barnard. “I asked the prime minister to join us for this meeting.”

Through my teeth, I say, “Welcome, Prime Minister.”

“Your Highness.” Barnard inclines his head, smiling smugly. “Praise be that you and the crown princess have returned to us safely.”

Annika shifts uncomfortably.

In the beat of silence, I hear Samuel’s heavy exhale. I’m not sure why he’s here. I never get a chance to ask.

“I hope America was refreshing,” Barnard continues. “A moment of reflection, perhaps.”

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