Page 13 of Prince of the Palisades

“The car is here.”

“I’ll be home by 2:00 a.m.,” I say, checking my reflection one last time.

“Get your royal ass home by midnight!” Annika demands, and I bark out a laugh, shadowing Ajani to the front door.

Grace is a filthy liar.

The small, intimate party she promised has been swallowed whole by a bass-thumping rave. The Lims’ mansion is in Brentwood, a ten-minute drive from Pacific Palisades. Lining the narrow street are countless cars: Mercedes-Benz, Tesla, Range Rover, Bentley, BMW, more Range Rovers, a stray neon-green Lamborghini. The long driveway is full too. Spilling out the front door are vaguely familiar faces from school and an unhealthy amount of pop music.

From the SUV’s passenger seat, Ajani asks, “Are you sure you want me to wait out here?”

A second later, some freshman-looking student dry heaves into a potted plant by the door. Standing nearby, arms crossed and hip cocked, is Morgan. She’s staring me down.

“Yeah,” I exhale, already opening the door, “I’m good.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Ajani mumbles.

I salute her before strolling in Morgan’s direction. “Were you waiting on me?”

“I have better things to do than babysit you,” she says with that same dryness she’s given me all week.

“That wasn’t a no,” I say.

“Have you always been this full of yourself, or is it part of your royal training?”

I shrug. “Comes with the scepter and ring, actually.”

The corners of her mouth give the barest twitch. It’s something, I guess. Not that I’m invested in whether she likes me or my jokes.

“Is this what you Americans consider a ‘small gathering’?” I ask.

“Scared of a little rager?” she taunts.

I scoff. “You’ve never been around me and my best—” I catch myself, quickly resetting my expression. “This is nothing.”

Inside, something shatters. I jump.

Morgan pats my shoulder. “Whatever you say, Just Jadon.”

The interior is a masterclass in polished indulgence. Two stories of fine art and wood panels and open spaces with minimalistic furniture. Long stretches of muted colors occasionally interrupted by pops of red or green. It’s big, yet simultaneously tiny with all the bodies coming and going.

“Chillest spot is the sofas outside,” Morgan says over the synth-heavy music. “Best bathrooms are upstairs. Don’t mess with the hot tub’s temp. Nate’s dad will know. And please don’t be one of those uncivilized assholes who pees in the pool—”

“I can handle myself,” I cut in.

Compared to the parties and clubs and dark, smelly, after-hours places Kofi snuck us into since we were fourteen, LA is harmless.

Morgan sizes me up. “Sure.”

She easily dances through the crowd of bobbing heads toward the kitchen.

After a beat, I reluctantly follow.

Grace is the heart of the party. The luminous light all the other Willow Wood moths swarm toward. She’s perched on the black marble kitchen island, chatting with various girls but never reallytalkingto anyone. It’s mildly impressive.Behind her, Nathan is shirtless, pool water flinging off the ends of his cheek-length bangs as he mixes drinks in a metal shaker.

Leaning next to Grace is a white boy with copper-blond curls, deep blue eyes, and a long, well-toned frame. He’s double-fisting White Claws. Annika would say he has “extreme bro vibes.”

“Who’s that?” I ask Morgan, far enough away that no one hears us.

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