Page 7 of Prince of the Palisades

Oh, that.Again. I don’t answer him.

Since thePeoplearticle came out, even more attention is on me. At least two of Samuel’s devices vibrate every other minute. I had to mute my alerts this morning.

What’s even more annoying is the smile he gives me when he posits, “It will be great for what you’re trying to accomplish here.”

Great for them, he means.

Willow Wood is California’s most exclusive prep school. Yearly, they graduate more future political figures andinfluencers and entrepreneurs than anywhere else. Having a prince on their roster certainly makes them more appealing to parents.

But there’s something in this for me too.

In the history of Réverie’s royal lineage, education after secondary school hasn’t been an option. As an only child, Papa’s commitments to the throne prevented him from going to university. It’s been the same for every heir before him. But Annika’s next in line, not me.

My life doesn’t have to be meetings and handshakes and speeches. I can attend university. Willow Wood keeps me on track for that.

“Jadon?” Samuel attempts. “Do you agree?”

I ball my hands in my lap. What’s the point of bonding with classmates? Putting in the effort to get to know anyone? I tried that once—with Kofi. No matter what, it always ends the same for me: alone.

I’m a royal. Friendship isn’t a luxury I’m allowed to want.

Exhaling, I say, “Is it really necessary?”

“Absolutely.” Samuel sips from his travel mug of chai. “You’re great with new people!”

“Have you met me?”

“That was the old Jadon.New Jadonlikes his peers. He makes a concerted effort to be friendly—”

Ajani covers a snort by clearing her throat.

I thump the back of my skull against the leather headrest. A stress zit is forming on my left cheek. Just what I needed: puberty and socializing.

“Trust me, it’ll help,” Samuel says, switching devices. Hisconfidence is nauseating. “It’s only the first day. Try being cordial.”

“It’s too early for that,” I grunt.

“How aboutpleasant?”

I suck in my cheeks. “Sounds exhausting.”

The SUV slows to a stop. Outside the tinted windows, shops with umbrellaed patios, sun-washed exteriors, and chalkboard signs line the street. There’s an emptiness behind all the cozy gloss. Like this neighborhood was built for aesthetics, not community.

It’s nothing like Réverie’s marketplace.

Something catches my eye: a corner coffee shop. The Hopper. Lush vines crawl up the pink exterior. A short green-and-peach awning shades the pavement where an older Black man is sweeping. On one of the windows, someone’s painted an espresso bean with white bunny ears.

I muffle a laugh with my fist. It’s so charming. Right out of the photos of Mom on my phone. I want to hide inside. But I can’t.

The light finally changes. We turn left, leaving that one moment behind.

“Jadon?” Samuel prompts again.

I watch scenery blur past the window. Resigned, I say, “I’ll try.”

Samuel smiles widely until I add, “But I can’t promise there won’t be at least onesmallchemical fire by Friday.”

“Bien sûr,” Samuel sighs, no doubt wanting to throw himself into traffic.

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