Page 42 of Prince of the Palisades

He aggressively points to the hand-selected magazine pile. Each glossy cover features a different celebrity or political figure. Marriages, scandals, breakups, more scandals. Inlaid on a different corner of every front page is a photo of me with a new headline:

Rebel Royal Does America!

His Royal Finest: A Guide to Prince Jadon’s Best LA Looks

CRUSH ALERT! Why Everyone’s Falling for the Brokenhearted Prince!

Wild, Wild Westeros: How Prince Jadon Is Playing a Game of Thrones In the USA

“I have no idea what any of this means,” I sigh.

“It means,” Samuel says, incredulous, “the tabloids are in love with you.”

“Where’s the problem?” I tilt my head, confused. “I thought wewantedbetter headlines? For everyone to stop focusing on the video?”

For people to fall in love with the New Prince Jadon—the one I didn’t feel like on the inside, I think, but don’t say.

“Yes!” Samuel says, even more frantic.

“Sorry.” I pause, blinking. “Are we speaking the same language?”

“Non.” Samuel gathers the magazines into a neat stack. “We want everyone to love you. But we needRéverieto respect you, too. Right now, they don’t.”

“They…still don’t?”

“I’ve spoken with some trusted sources,” Samuel admits, already frowning like he knows what he says next is going to sting. “Our peopleseethe new Jadon. Your likability numbers are up.”

I exhale hard. Is that what I am now? A number? A stat based on opinions? Whether I can go home or not hinges on margins calculated by people who don’t even fucking know me.

“But,” Samuel continues, “they want more from you.”

“More than smiling and being friendly and not causing international incidents?” I say, exasperated.

“Yes?”

I almost knock over the tray with my cooling crust. “What, then?”

Samuel hesitates. One of the glass doors leading to the main lawn is open. Sunlight dances on the pool’s surface like a blanket of diamonds. The Palisades are quiet, but nothing like the tranquil air around the palace. The home I’m desperately missing.

It was never this hard in Réverie. Whenever one of my“incidents” happened, there was a swarm of chamberlains to contain the situation. I could hide in my room or in Centauri’s gardens until it went away. But this is different. I’ve never publicly said anything negative against another Réverian before. I’ve never had to stare at the aftermath of my anger and figure out how to repair things on my own. To figure out why I’m so angry in the first place.

Calmly, I repeat, “What, then?”

“An apology,” Samuel says. “To Prime Minister Barnard.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Your Highness—”

“I said no.” I drag a hand through my curls. They’re longer than I’m used to. I need a haircut. I need all of this to get easier, but it doesn’t. “I’m not doing it, Samuel.”

He tugs at his tie. He’s wearing a suit.On a Saturday. He takes his job seriously, never a day off, while I’m baking.

It’s not fair to him. He’s doing everything possible to get back home.

I am too, right?

“I’ll try harder,” I promise. “We’ll think of something else. Another interview. We can fly Réverie’s ambassador in DC out here for a dinner. Arrange a photo op.”

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