Page 51 of Prince of the Palisades

“Sorry if this was a boring way to spend the Friday before your birthday,” I say.

“It wasn’t.” In my periphery, his smile is light, delicate. “My family is so extra about birthdays. It’s a weeklong thing. Singing and cake and gifts—”

“What’s bad about that?”

“You didn’t let me get to the part where my mom sobs over me getting older. Or my dad and brother fighting to the death over the last cake slice.” He looks mortified. “Did I mention the library of baby photos?”

“Not yet,” I say, grinning.

“There. Are. So. Many.”

I tip my head back, a breathless laugh catching on the wind.

“I just want to chill with friends,” Reiss whispers.

A sad exhale slips through my lips. I miss moments like that. Birthdays where Papa bakes crèmes au caramels. When Mom would wake me at sunset for long, quiet walks along Centauri’s private shore. Annika beinghome.

It’s not like that anymore.

For my birthday in August, I got a box of macarons. A FaceTime call from Annika promising we’d party together soon. An apology note hand-delivered by Papa’schamberlainbecause another meeting with foreign ambassadors kept him and Mom away.

The crown above everything. Including turning seventeen, I guess.

Reiss’s elbow nudges mine. “Is there a lot of singing around the palace on birthdays?”

I shake my head.

“I bet there’s a lot of good desserts.”

“Always,” I confirm, genuinely smiling.

“Is your fam—”

Karan’s voice from somewhere overhead cuts off Reiss’s next question. “Holy shit! These views! Oprahwho?”

“The footage you were trying to get at school and the party,” I say, eager to get away from the subject of family. Of how much I wish things were different. “What’s it for?”

His expression turns sheepish. “Oceanfront Film Fest.”

He takes in my twisted, confused face.

“It’s a teen festival for short films. Open to all LA County students. The winner earns a summer internship.” He pauses, chest expanding. “And a scholarship to USC’s film school. The deadline’s December first.”

“What’s your movie about?” I ask.

He cringes, and I laugh until my face is warm again.

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” I barely get out. “You really do write coffee shop fanfic about me, don’t you?”

The threat of kicking me in the pool darkens his face. “I’m not telling, okay?” He sighs. “I’m kind of superstitious.”

“That’s fair,” I say, dipping my head for a polite nod. “But if you’re making a film about my dimples, you can tell me. Promise I won’t get mad. I’m flattered.”

“God, shut up.” But he’s laughing now. “So fucking cocky.”

“Confidence is attractive,” I tell him.

“Not on you.” His crooked grin and lingering stares say otherwise.

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