Page 126 of Prince of the Palisades

It’s dark outside, the sky over Willow Wood a blanket of indigo, but the quad’s fountain is lit up. An ivory glow swims across Reiss’s face. He’s wearing the same clothes I’ve more or less seen him in for the last three days: worn-soft joggers,Based on a True StoryT-shirt, a grungy beanie covering his hair. But there’s something different about him. Something I’ve noticed since our return from Réverie.

He grins fondly. “Did you mess up your lines?”

I ignore his question, too anxious for an answer to my own.

“Did you finish?”

The moment the jet touched down, he holed up in the video lab. Or his bedroom. Working hard on his Oceanfront Film Fest submission. We’ve mostly seen each other in passing. Through brief FaceTime calls.

I made him promise to miss the play. Spend his time editing. The deadline is midnight.

He shrugs nonchalantly.

“Ugh.” I step forward. “Just tell me.”

“Is that an order, Your Royal Arrogance?”

I edge closer, smirking. “Yes. As your future king—”

“Excuse you. You’re just the spare,” he says wryly. “Also, America isn’t a monarchy. There was a whole war. You should really learn your history—”

“Reiss Emile Dorian Hayes,” I interrupt in my best commanding King Simon voice. “Stop rambling. Answer the question.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. I finished.”

I don’t hesitate. The quad’s empty, but it wouldn’t matter. The public knows about us now. I don’t care if someone’s hiding in a bush, under a table, with a long-range camera. I haul Reiss into my arms, swinging him off his feet.

“Ew,” he halfheartedly complains as I press small kisses to his neck and jaw. “I haven’t showered in like forty-eight hours.”

“You did it! You did it!” I chant against his skin.

He laughs, a hand in my curls.

We spin and spin. It’s dizzying, but not as nauseating as the thought of almost losing this. Or how I almost never had this.Too angry, too stubborn after Papa exiled me here. Swearing I’d never fall for an American boy.

Funny how life never goes the way you expect.

When I lower him to the ground, Reiss says, “Now answer my question. How’d you do?”

I settle my hands on his hips. Draw him in. While he waits, his eyes flit from my dimples to my lips, then back again.

“I was—” I pause, considering.Good? Great? Managed to make even Dr. Garza Villa laugh so hard, they almost fell over?

I settle on: “I was me.”

Reiss crooks an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” I singsong, grabbing one of his hands, “I want to celebrate! I made a call.”

“Youmade a call,” Reiss says, doubtful.

“Fine,” I huff. “Samuel made the call. He arranged a special after-hours tour of USC’s campus. The film school too.”

There’s a glow behind his eyes. A hypnotic swirl of hickory and obsidian and awe. It makes my stomach flip.

“I thought it’d be nice?” I say, almost bashfully. “You get a closer look at what your future could look like. And I get to see some of my past. The life my mom experienced.”

It’s been on my mind since we talked. Since Annika suggested it months ago. It’s time I started discovering who I am. Who Icanbe here. Even if it’s not permanent.

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