Page 92 of Prince of the Palisades

“Sweet Jesus!” she yells.

Soon, I hear a pair of bare feet. A wide-eyed Dominic takes us in before happily yelping.

Another hidden voice: “Why is everyone around here always so extra?”

Then, it’s him.

Reiss freezes in the living room, a fluffy towel hanging around his neck. His hair has faded to a soft peach. He’s shirtless, beads of water rolling down his brown chest, dotting the waistband of his ratty joggers.

As I wave sheepishly, he mouths,Holy fuck.

“Guess I should’ve called ahead?” Mr. Hayes says apologetically.

Mrs. Hayes gives him the politestwhat the hell do you think?stare I’ve ever witnessed. “Your Highness,” she says, trying to bow, “I—”

“No, no, please,” I urgently say. “Nothing formal. I’m just Jadon. I go to school with your son.” I peek in Reiss’s direction—notstaring at his glistening skin—to see if he wants me to add more.

He’s still too shocked to comment.

“This is Ajani.” I wave behind me. “My Royal Protection Guard.”

“RPG?” Mr. Hayes makes a face. “Like D&D?”

Mrs. Hayes exhales. “Welcome to our home, Jadon and Ajani. We’d be honored if you joined us for dinner.” She side-eyes her husband like he forgot to mention that part. “Greg, help me in the kitchen. Dom, set the table. Thefancyplates.”

“Mama, we don’t have fancy—”

“Now, Dom!” Before marching back into the kitchen, she adds, “Reiss, go put a shirt on! This isn’t that type of party.”

For a second, Reiss doesn’t move. He watches me, his mouth a thin line. It’s better than him yelling. Or kicking me out. He shakes his head.

“You look…nice.” Then, he disappears down the hall.

A helpless smile tugs at my lips. While Ajani sits on a navy-blue sofa, I find myself curiously roaming.

The apartment’s small but comfy. A coffee table layered in homework packets and drawings autographed by Dominic and thick books on filmmaking. A USC sweatshirt thrown over a wicker chair. A plastic bowl with leftover Halloween candy and Hopper paraphernalia. Reiss’s canary-yellow tie peeking from under the sofa.

Inside Centauri Palace, there are dozens of rooms for show, nothing else. Quiet halls and soulless spaces. No sign that a family lives there.

It’s not the same here. From the kitchen, I hear whispering:

“Michaela, it’s okay.”

“Greg, royalty is in our living room, and Iburnedthe damn meatloaf.”

“I’ll run to the market. You can make him your special.”

“I’m not making the prince sloppy joes!”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I say, stepping around the corner.

Reiss’s parents freeze. There’s a slight smokiness in the air. On the stove, an oven mitt barely hides a charred dish. But I spot a bottle of honey next to a jar of Nutella on the counter. Two empty pans.

A grin takes over my face. “I spent lots of time with the palace cooks. Can I help?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hayes says, delighted.

Mrs. Hayes smacks his arm. “He’s aguest.”

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