Page 81 of Prince of the Palisades

“Jadon, enough.” He clucks his tongue. “Whatever you’re trying to prove, stop. You were fine before all this.”

I frown at the crimson-pink sky. “Was I?”

“Call your parents. Tell them you’re coming home to apologize to my pa—”

I laugh hollowly. “You would thinkI’mthe one who shouldapologize.” There’s a large gap between us in the middle of the quad. An ocean’s worth. “You still have no idea what he said.”

He shrugs. “Would it matter?”

“Yes, Léon, it would!” The heat coming off me could melt Antarctica. “Why did you come here? Tell me the truth.”

His lips purse. “Listen, Your Highness, none of these people understand what it’s like.”

We stare at each other. The same way we did when we were fourteen. When this life was too much and neither of us had anywhere to turn.

After a slow exhale, Léon says, “I do. We get very few choices in life. It’s all decided for us.”

I chew the inside of my cheek.

“But Ichooseto make the world respect me,” he continues, jaw tight. “Sometimes, that means doing things people don’t like. Being the bad guy. But that’s how they always see me, isn’t it?” He smiles bitterly. “I’m a Black boy with power. They’re never going to love me.”

But I did, I think. Because I thought no one else could see me like he did.

Maybe I never knew the real Léon.

A new wave of tears stings my eyes. I don’t blink. Léon doesn’t either. We stand quietly, and I don’t know why I’m surprised by this turn of events. With him, with Reiss.

This is how it always ends for me—lonely. Letting someone walk away because it’s too hard to keep them close.

“You never answered my question,” I say, my voice neutral. “Why are you here?”

His face hardens. “I can’t…say.”

I nod. He can’t say because it wasn’t his choice. But this—this isdefinitelymine.

“Go back to Réverie,” I tell him. His lips open to argue, so I add, “I can handle this on my own. I always do.”

Andfinally, I’m the one who walks away first.

A cloud of smoke hangs over the kitchen.

I haven’t burned macarons since I was nine and tried baking some for Papa’s birthday. The pastry chef nearly had a heart attack when she found me. Now, there’s a charred tray of raspberry macarons sitting on the marble island and tears clouding my eyes.

Scowling, Ajani fans a tea towel around. When the air clears, she trades looks between the tray and me.

“I’m fine,” I tell her in a wobbly voice.

“My prince, I mean no disrespect,” she says calmly, “but get out of the kitchen before you set us all on fire.”

I drag the back of my hand across my wet eyes. Very prince-like. “But—” I try, sniffling.

“Now.”

Ajani has been trained in at least twenty different styles of unarmed combat. And she’s one motion away from a knife. Royal or not, I don’t tempt her with a sarcastic retort.

I stumble outside, hoping the fresh air will clear my head. It doesn’t. I flop onto one of the lounge chairs, head throbbing, and am contemplating jumping into the pool when I hear, “Whoa, you look like Caroline when Gabe voted her out of the villa.”

I blink against the sunlight to see Luc stretched out on the next chair, wearing a T-shirt and swim trunks. He tugs out his earbuds, locking his phone.

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