Page 86 of Prince of the Palisades

“I don’t,” I confirm.

It’s the Réverie way.Neutrality. But that’s not me.

“Sometimes the only way to be seen,” I continue, smirking, “is to burn down everything else around you.”

The SUV slows in front of a campus half the size of Willow Wood.Home of the Mustangsis broadcast across the digital welcome board. There’s a thick crowd standing outside. At least a hundred people, signs raised, fists in the air. Blue and white lights from a group of nearby police cars shining on their determined faces.

“My prince,” Ajani says while opening my door, “is this truly a good idea?”

I pause.

Ahead, the protestors’ chants are like a drumline. Rainbow flags fluttering above their heads. Light blue, pink, and white stripes painted across their cheeks. Teens and adults. Jocks and drama geeks and drag queens, arms linked.

My heart beats to their noise. To their unwillingness to break.

I hear Léon:How do you want them to see you?

I hear Luc:Don’t let them win. Prove the assholes wrong.

A grin splits my face. “It’s a terrible idea,” I tell Ajani. “That’s never stopped me before.”

Morgan leads us into the swarm. In the center, she stops to introduce a tall, fair-skinned girl with a black-and-blond pixie cut and a wicked grin. “This is Olivia,” Morgan says, almost self-conscious. “She, um, goes here.”

Olivia gives a playful eyeroll, unzipping her track jacket. Then, I see it. The charm at the end of her silver chain: an M.

And now Morgan’s in my head:As if I’d date anyone from our school.

It takes every muscle not to laugh. But there’s no time to interrogate Morgan. A sign is shoved in my hand. I’m nudged toward the front of the line. Within seconds, I’ve memorized the chants and I’m yelling relentlessly.

This. This is what I want. To scream about what matters. To be heard over the people trying to erase me, my mom,anyonethat doesn’t “fit” into their ideal world.

To stop standing aside like Réverie always has.

What’s the use in having power if you don’t make a meaningful change with it?

Soon, news reporters arrive. Cameras zoom in. Uniformed officers watch us, arms crossed, but never moving closer.

Our numbers expand. Our voices grow louder. I keep my fist raised to the sky until the sun fades away.

“Your Highnesses. I’m Ambassador Ime from the Réverie Embassy. Thank you so much for inviting me to this dinner.”

Ime is a statuesque woman. Taller than me. She’s in all dark green with a tiny Réverian flag pin. Ruby lips stand out against cool dark skin and elegantly bundled locs. After bowing, she shakes our hands.

“Wonderful to meet you,” Annika says.

Ime raises an eyebrow while releasing my hand. “Quite the week you’re having, Your Highness.”

My face heats. I try for a laugh that comes out like a cough.

“It’s my brand, right?”

Ime hums in a way that tells me she doesn’t see the humor in my latest headline.

“Let us eat,” she advises.

Senator Miller secured a private dinner inside a stylish, multicultural fusion restaurant. “One of Santa Monica’s finest,” according to the online reviews I read. Paper lanterns cast the space in crimson and gold. A long table draped in white linen awaits us. So do Grace, Kaden, and the senator.

He’s a grayer version of his daughter—green eyes, strong cheeks, a blindingly white politician’s smile. “This is fantastic,” he says with camera-ready enthusiasm as servers bring out dishes. “All of us meeting for the first time.”

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