Page 135 of Prince of the Palisades

First love doesn’t mean last love.

Our pasts don’t define what our futures can be.

“Go for it,” I tell him.

His confident, fearless smile turns into something genuine. Vulnerable. He bows to me, then Reiss.

“Good luck out there, Your Highness.”

Léon is barely on the other side of the curtain before Reiss is on me. Undoing buttons, easing a leg between my thighs. Hungry lips under my jaw as he whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

I laugh breathily, ready to kiss him.

It never happens.

Ajani’s voice says, “My prince. Time’s up.”

“What happened to ten minutes?” Reiss complains.

“I gave you twelve.”

He slumps against me. I tip my head back, guffawing. How appropriate. Royal obligations ruining my one moment with Reiss. But that’s okay.

Three months ago, I didn’t think any American boy was worth this. ThatIwas worthy of any of this.

But I am. He is. We are.

I press a kiss to his forehead. “Ready?”

When we step into the main hall, I almost don’t hear his “You’re lucky I love you.” It’s noisy as guests move toward the ballroom. His hand in mine is a welcome feeling. Like the tide meeting the shore. Like this is how it was always going to end:

With us, together.

Over the speakers, I hear:

“Distinguished guests of the Sunset Ball, accompanied by his date, Reiss Hayes, please welcome His Royal Highness Prince Jadon of Îles de la Réverie,ourprince of thePalisades!”

EPILOGUE

Bonsoir. Good evening.

Most of you know me as the prince of Îles de la Réverie. Son of King Simon and Queen Ava. Some of you know me from what the press writes about my life. What you see on the news and internet. But tonight, I want to tell you about the real me.

I was born on a beautiful island with a rich history. My papa taught me to bake before I could spell my own name. He taught me to knead and shape and pour my heart into creating something. My mom—who was born here, Long Beach to be specific—taught me compassion and strength. They both taught me to be the kind of person the world would respect.

My sister—the crown princess—thinks she taught me to be funny, which is why I didn’t let her write this speech.

My country, my people taught me community. Resilience. My ancestors taught me that, from ashes, you can build a constellation.

I was ten years old when my papa became king. I was barely a teen when the headlines decided I wasn’t worthy of my title. I didn’t look or act like the type of prince they wanted.

I wasn’t worth giving a chance.

Months ago, I came to America trying to be that perfect prince. Regal. Smiley. Worthy. I tried to live by their rules. To be who they wanted before I knew who I could be.

But isn’t that what this journey is about? The discovery. Mistakes and growth. Love and heartbreak. Forgiveness. Making our own choices. Creating our own rules.

I come from a country that has survived centuries on traditionalism. Neutrality. While in America, I learned that tradition shouldn’t mean contentment. You can’t choose comfort over inconvenience. You can’t be silent because it’s easier.

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