Page 2 of Prince of the Palisades

The gourmet kitchen’s lighting accentuates how many of our parents’ features Annika and I share. Papa’s height, his full lips and round jaw. Mom’s medium brown complexion, strong eyebrows, her thick, curly hair. Despite recently traveling five time zones, Annika’s curls are impeccably pinned up with pearl clips, showing off her high cheekbones. My own hair is shaved on the sides, the top long enough for springy curls to hang over my forehead.

“Jade,” Annika sighs out.

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t fly twelve hours for you to watch thistrash.” She waves my phone around.

The corners of my mouth inch up. “You came for the authentic California rolls, right?”

She rolls her eyes in thatobviouslyway she does.

“Fine, fine.” I raise my hands, surrendering. “Wow, jet lag makes you uptight.”

“It’s not the jet lag,” Luc coughs into his elbow while passing behind Annika. Without looking, she flips him off.

My sister’s Royal Protection Guard is slightly taller than my 1.85 meters. His buzz cut draws attention to his hazeleyes, gold-brown skin. If he weren’t guarding the literal heir to Réverie’s throne, he’d probably have a career in high fashion ads.

“The videos are for research,” I tell Annika.

She looks unimpressed. “Is that why I’m here instead of living my best pumpkin spice life in New York City?”

“Respectfully, Princess,” Luc says, fixing the cuffs of his black Oxford, “we live on anisland. We’re warm weather people. You can’t survive a New York winter.”

“He’s got a point,” I say.

“First of all, it’s onlySeptember.” Annika cocks her chin at Luc. “Second, is that a challenge?”

His lips purse. “You wouldn’t last thirty days in their conditions.”

“I’d last longer than you.”

“How much are you willing to bet?”

“When the crown princess finally murders you, Luc,” a voice interrupts, “I won’t tell anyone where the body’s hidden.”

I snort as Ajani, my Royal Protection Guard, steps into the kitchen. While Luc is still young and new to his position, everything about Ajani is sharp and experienced, from her low-fade haircut to the tailored black pantsuit and boots. She’s been by my side since I could walk. With golden rays from the sunset glazing over her rich, dark brown skin, she completes routine security checks around the house.

“No one’s killing anyone,” Annika asserts. “Not until we get my little bro back home.”

She turns to me. “What’s the plan, Jade?”

I try not to frown. My fingertips trace along the blackinduction cooktops. I study the double oven, the stainless steel refrigerator and walk-in pantry that have been fully stocked with supplies by the house manager. I miss the palace kitchens, the air scented with powdered sugar and melted butter and warm pastries. The stool I’d climb on as a kid, sidled up to Papa’s side.

Life was easier then. Before my pépère died. Before Papa became monarch.

On quiet mornings, we’d roll out dough for palmiers. Bake sugary gâteau au yaourt or flip crêpes. Now, I see more of Papa on TV, giving speeches. Coming and going from meetings. Every second of his day is dedicated to the crown.

Eyes flitting around, I say, “I’m going to…”

“We’re going to show the world His Royal Highness is a charming, down-to-earth, charitable prince,” Samuel announces. He strides in, carrying a phone in one hand, a tablet in the other. Royal Liaison Mode fully activated. He’s short with a stocky frame. The lavender of his shirt pops against his cool umber complexion. “Instead of—”

“Spoiled and surly?” Annika suggests. “Moody and poorly dressed?”

“Hey!” I pinch her shoulder. “I’m very stylish.”

“We’re going to prove,” Samuel continues, resting his phone on the counter, screen up, “he’s notthis.”

There it is. Trending at number one: #RebelRoyal.

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