Page 63 of Prince of the Palisades

“What if we weren’t seen together,” I suggest. “Publicly. No going places together. No kissing. No touching—”

He groans, clutching his chest melodramatically.

“We keep it between us. Private,” I say, serious.

He studies the wall behind me. My heart kicks against my ribs, threatening to shatter bone. It’s a wild, risky idea that absolutely no one would agree to—

“I mean,” he starts, his mouth creeping higher, “It was a solid first kiss.”

I let myself smirk. “Worth keeping things low-key between us? Until we figure the rest out?”

He pretends to think. “I could possibly be convinced?”

My eyebrow arches. “How so?”

“You’re the prince.” He rests his cheek on his knuckles, smiling innocently. “Aren’t you supposed to be charming and creative and—”

“Cute?” I flash my dimples.

“Conceited,” he huffs. “I was definitely gonna say conceited.”

I ignore him, standing. My heel sends the rolling chairacross the room, and I close the small gap between us. Hands gripping his chair’s armrests, I bracket him in, towering over him. His head tips back to look into my eyes.

“It was a great first date,” I whisper.

And I find my new favorite thing—watching how Reiss gets right before a kiss. The way he chews his lower lip. Hunger dilating his pupils until there’s nothing but a thin brown ring around the blackness. His short, tight breaths. Fingers wiggling in his lap, eager to touch me but still unsure where.

That soft, little exhale he lets out in anticipation.

I don’t keep him waiting long.

“Ready?” Samuel asks.

I’m not. You’d think I was sweating through my button-up shirt, deeply nauseated, because of another interview. Making an unplanned, emergency television appearance. Or giving a speech. Not from a blank laptop screen.

There’s one more conversation that needs to happen today.

I wipe my damp palms on my pants. “Yes.”

The video call connects instantly. On-screen, my mom sits on an ornate teal sofa in one of the smaller palace rooms. Hands in her lap, hair down, face almost bare. It’s late in Réverie, and she stayed up for this. They both did.

Next to her, in a tailored navy suit, shoulders straight, chin held regally as if this were being broadcast worldwide, is King Simon.

My papa.

I haven’t seen him since the morning the video wasreleased. He still looks the same as he did that day. Angry, disappointed. Heavy wrinkles in his forehead, stern lines around his eyes. His frown is outlined by a dark beard shot through with silver, like streaks of lightning, the same pattern in his low-cut hairstyle.

Samuel bows from his seat. “Your Majesty. Queen Ava.”

They vaguely acknowledge him, then it’s my turn. I clear my throat. “Bonsoir, Papa. Mom.”

Papa gives a small nod. Nothing else. A great start.

Mom says to Samuel, “Thank you for arranging this,” then to me, “I thought we agreed on stayingoutof the headlines unless it was for a good cause.”

“To be fair, kissing a boyisa good cause,” I offer, half-smiling. “I like him. He’s American. Really nice.”

“That’s…nice,” Mom says evenly. “But—”

---