Page 65 of Prince of the Palisades

Posing in Armani ads, wearing Tom Ford on Parisian runways, or doing silly dances for millions of social media followers, chances are you’ve seen (and secretly crushed on) eighteen-year-old Léon Barnard. He’s the son of a prime minister, an occasional model, and the ex-boyfriend of a certain rebel prince. Here’s all the tea we have on the world’s favorite new heartbroken heartthrob!

“How is he even here?” I shout.

Thankfully, this Palisades house is in a secluded neighborhood. We’re on the main lawn. Me, Samuel, and a very smug Léon. I’ve considered shoving him in the pool more than once.

“Almost thirteen hours on acommercialairline, actually,” he says. “I expected more from the monarchy.”

Samuel facepalms, like Léon wasn’t supposed to mentionthat part. I tear my glare from my soon-to-be-ex-royal liaison, arms crossed as I wait for Léon to explain more.

“I tried to warn you.” He adjusts the sleeves of his suit jacket. Of course, he’d show up unannounced looking like a GQ daydream. I hate him. “Do you ever check your DMs?”

“Not ones from demon ex-boyfriends,” I retort.

“And how many of those do you have now?”

I stiffen. There’s an unsubtle arch to one of Léon’s eyebrows.

“Why are youreallyhere?” I ask, avoiding his question. If he’s not going to mention the photos, neither am I.

“Mon beau—”

“Don’t,” I snap, “call me that.” It’s infuriating, the goosebumps freckling my forearms. How that one nickname undoes me.

“Fine. Your Highness.” His grin doesn’t slip. “I thought you needed me.”

“I don’t—”

“Let me finish,” he asserts, holding up a finger. “I know the media’s all over you. Especially after those…photosappeared.”

Fuck. Now he said it.

“It hurt, Jadon.” He sounds anything but. “Seeing that you moved on so quickly, so easily, so”—he pauses, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye, sniffing—“miserably.”

“Annoyed the spotlight wasn’t on you for once?”

Was that petty? Maybe. Gratifying when his fake-endearing expression slips, his nostrils flaring with agitation? Definitely.

It wasn’t always like this. We’ve known each other since wewere ten. When Barnard was elected prime minister and then, soon after, Papa’s coronation. Both of us shoved into a bigger spotlight before we were ready. We’ve seen each other’s worst moments—his parents’ divorce; my, well,everything—and our best—coming out to each other; our first kiss in the shadows of the palace gardens.

He was the one person I could lean on, other than Kofi. The only one who really knew me.

Now there’s this Léon with the perpetually bored expression as he says, “I don’t care about the photos. Or your new boytoy.”

“He’s not—”

He cuts me off. “I’m here to tour American universities. Maman says I can’t coast by on my looks. I need to get a real education.”

My face twists up. “Wait,you, who thinks the world of Réverie? Who constantly says we’re better than the rest of the world—”

“Because we are.”

He sounds so much like his dad, I want to scream. Or throw him off the cliffside. I refrain only because Samuel’s still present.

“Maman says there are great schools here,” Léon points out. His defiant grin resurfaces. “And, as I was saying earlier, me being here benefits you too.”

“How?” I ask, dryly. “In what world doesyou being in LAbenefit me?”

“Well,” he begins, “a certain someone mentioned—”

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