Page 130 of Prince of the Palisades

“Did you know they were coming?” I ask.

She gives an unenthusiastic shrug. “You needed this.”

I did. My parents in America. Watching my papa nod as Reiss tells him and Mom all his goals, hands moving around animatedly. Annika smirking at me from under the California sun. My two worlds colliding.

“How—” I start, half-turning to her. “How did you put up with me all these years?”

She’s quiet for a moment. I worry I’ve crossed a line.

But she grins and says, “Because I know greatness. I’veseengreatness. It always starts with mistakes. With failure. With growth. You shouldn’t be ashamed to be a rebel, my prince. Rebels won our people’s freedom. Celebrate who you are.”

It’s the most consecutive words I’ve ever heard Ajani speak. The most affection I’ve heard in her voice. But it’s not the first time I knew she loved me.

Sometimes, we don’t need words for that.

Evening comes quickly.

Outside, the Hayes are gathered on plush sofas surrounding the glass fire pit. They’re joined by Annika, Mom, Ajani, and Luc. From the looks Reiss gives me every few seconds, orange light dancing over his smile, I can tell Mom’s showing him baby photos on her phone.

I’m with Papa in the gourmet kitchen. It smells like rum and vanilla. There’s a smear of flour on his cheek. He’s teaching me how to make canelés, the one recipe we never got around to when I was younger. Before royal obligations were all he had time for.

He rolls up his sleeves. “Do you bake much here?”

“Kind of.” I coat copper molds with beeswax, grimacing. “I burned macarons.”

Fondness scrunches his eyes. “A family tradition. I’ve ruined plenty of batches in my life.”

I pour batter into the molds. Typically, it needs to chill for at least twenty-four hours. But I’m not aiming for precise. With my baking. Or my words.

“Nothing comes out perfect the first time,” Papa says.

I raise my eyebrows.

“About what you said—” He wipes his cheek with the back of his wrist. “Me forcing you to be the prince I was?”

I start to wince. He chuckles.

“No, no. I get it. But son, I wasn’t a good prince,” he tells me. “Not at first.”

I roll my eyes playfully. “Lies, Papa. I’ve seen photos.”

“Photos and video don’t tell the whole story.” He scans my face. “Do they?”

Together, we transfer the molds onto a baking sheet.

“We didn’t have social media then,” he goes on. “All my missteps weren’t blasted over the internet. Plus, your pépère was as tough as he was kind.”

Something I’ll always remember about Pépère—his infectious smile.

“He taught me a lot.” Papa sighs. “So have you.”

“I did?” I say with slight cynicism.

“Traditions don’t dictate everything. In order to rule, you have to follow your heart. Take a stand. Be a little fearless.”

I gape at him. “You got all that from me yelling at you?”

“Yes! I did.” He laughs. After placing the tray in the oven, he adds, “I also talked with Ambassador Ime. You left quite the impression on her.”

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