Page 82 of Prince of the Palisades

My nose wrinkles. “Paradise or Purgatoryagain?”

“It’s so good.”

“Hard pass,” I exhale. “Where’s Anni?”

“On the phone with your nana.” A small smile brushes his lips. “They talk once a week.”

I didn’t know that. Then again, I’ve lost track of what Annika’s been up to while my life’s falling apart. I should ask more. Stop checking Samuel’s itinerary for her schedule andtalkto my sister. But not now, with my runny nose and swollen eyes and empty ribcage.

It’s been days since everything happened. I’ve managed to act mostly normal around school. But one batch of ruined macarons and I’m undone.

Luc swings his legs around, facing me. “You look—”

“Rough?”

His eyes scan over my damp cheeks and wrinkled clothes. “That’s much nicer than what I was going to say.”

I try to laugh, but there’s a lump in my throat the size of a Skee-Ball, and the tears come again. Thick, ugly ones. I can’t wipe them away fast enough.

I was taught not to cry in public. Royalty keep their chins high, shoulders back. Never let anyone see you break. People don’t respect criers. They want strong leaders, not emotion.

But I can’t help it.

“Léon’s gone,” I say, voice thick.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Luc says with a wry smile, “but from what I heard, that’s good news.”

“Reiss ended things too.”

He pauses, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Very,” I say shakily. I give him the short version. The party and the kiss and the aftermath in Willow Wood’s quad.

He tilts his head. “You don’t usually let people get to you.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of my tight throat. “Luc, I know you’re still new, but people always get to me. It’s my whole history.”

The prime minister, Kip Davies, schoolmates in AmericaandRéverie, Léon, Kofi. My papa. The list keeps going.

“I’m like the world’s worst prince.” I look over my shoulder toward the house, then whisper, “I’ll never, ever be perfect like Anni.”

Luc guffaws. When I glare at him, he says, “Sorry, sorry. It’s kind of funny because, Your Highness, the crown princess isn’t perfect. She’ll be the first to tell you.”

I stare blankly at him.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You two are a lot alike. Fearless. Stubborn. No fucks given.”

“Um, Luc, that’s the future queen you’re talking about.”

“I know, I know!” But he’s grinning in a way I’ve never seen from him. “She doesn’t give up. And neither should you.”

I pull my legs to my chest, chin on my knees.

“Forgive me for being informal,” Luc continues, “but you’re badass. Black, queer, and powerful. Three things thisworld loves to hate. Don’t let them win. Prove the assholes wrong.”

He laughs. I do too.

Luc moves over to my chair. He unlocks his phone—hiding his lock screen, as if I’d steal his passcode—then opens his camera roll. The most recent photos are of Annika. She’s on USC’s campus. Shots of her from Fisher Museum of Art and Alumni Park, then the Village.

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