Bad Prince (ROYAL OAKS PREP #3)
Prologue
Stella
ROYAL OAKS PREP
NEWPORT, RI
The gym smells like cheap perfume, floor wax, and lies.
Royal Oaks Prep Homecoming—where the rich kids pretend they’re normal and the scholarship kids pretend they belong.
Streamers hang from the rafters in gold and navy. Someone rented chandeliers. Because apparently fluorescent lighting isn’t tragic enough.
I stand by the punch bowl, stabbing the ice cubes with a plastic fork like they personally offended me.
Everyone else looks effortless.
Girls in silk dresses that cost more than my mom’s monthly rent.
Guys in tailored suits like they walked out of a watch commercial.
And then there’s me.
Curve-hugging clearance rack.
Drugstore lipstick.
Heels that already blistered my toes.
Scholarship chic.
“Relax,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a dance. No one’s looking at you.”
A lie.
They’re always looking.
Just not the way you want them to.
Across the gym, Tristan Vale laughs at something Leo says.
Golden boy.
Perfect hair like he rolled out of a cologne ad. Broad shoulders. Lazy, dangerous smile.
Trust fund legs for days.
The bad prince every girl within a five-foot radius leans toward him like he’s gravity.
And stupid, me?
I know exactly what his mouth probably feels like.
Not from kissing.
From almost.
From hallway conversations after class.
From the way he leans too close and says my name like it tastes good.
Stella.
Soft. Slow. Like a secret.
Earlier today he’d brushed his fingers over my wrist and said,
“You going to the dance tonight?”
Like it meant something.
Like maybe—he’d ask.
He didn’t.
He never does.
He flirts in private.
Pretends I don’t exist in public.
Story of my life.
I should hate him.
Instead, my stomach flips every time he looks at me.
Pathetic.
The DJ switches songs. Lights dim.
Someone screams, “BLACKOUT!”
The whole gym plunges into darkness.
Girls squeal. Phones light up. People scatter.
And then—
A hand.
Big. Warm. Firm around my waist.
I barely get out a “What the—” before I’m pulled hard against a chest.
Velvet brushes my cheek.
Curtain.
Behind the stage.
Hidden.
My back hits something solid.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Hot.
Hungry.
Like he’s been starving.
My brain short-circuits.
It’s Tristan.
It has to be.
No one else smells like cedar and clean soap and trouble.
My fingers fist his jacket without permission.
He kisses like he does everything—confident, reckless, like the world belongs to him.
Teeth grazing my bottom lip. Breath mixing. Hands sliding to my waist like he’s claiming territory.
I’m drowning.
Floating.
Burning.
All at once.
“Tris—” I gasp.
Is this finally happening? Him. Me. Us?
He makes this low sound in his throat that wrecks me.
And for one stupid, fragile second…
I let myself believe it.
Believe maybe he didn’t ask me to dance because he didn’t want an audience.
Maybe this is ours.
Maybe I’m not a joke.
Maybe—
The lights slam back on.
Music crashes back.
Voices everywhere.
And we’re suddenly visible.
The curtains opened sometime when we were in the dark.Sometime when I was lost in this insane kiss and what if’s.
And now we were the main show.
My lipstick smeared. His hands still on my hips.
People staring.
Then—laughter.
Howling.
Whistles.
“YO—”
“NO WAY—”
“HE ACTUALLY DID IT—”
My stomach drops.
Tristan steps back first.
Like I burned him.
Like touching me was a mistake.
His face goes red.
Not flushed.
Embarrassed.
Leo appears out of nowhere, grinning like a shark.
He slaps Tristan on the shoulder.
“Guess I owe you five grand,” he laughs. “Didn’t think you’d actually make out with the scholarship girl, man.”
The words hit slower than the kiss.
They made a bet.
My ears start ringing.
No.
No no no.
This isn’t—
Tristan doesn’t laugh.
But he doesn’t deny it either.
Doesn’t look at me. His eyes are locked on Leo’s and at the crowd behind me.
Heat crawls up my neck.
My hands start shaking.
I taste humiliation where his mouth was a second ago.
“Qué estúpida eres, Stella,” I whisper to myself.
God, you’re so stupid.
I was never the girl. Just the joke. Just the dare.
Just the scholarship charity case he could practice on in the dark.
My chest feels too tight.
If I stay, I’ll cry.
And I will not cry in front of these people.
So, I shove past the curtain.
Past the stares.
Past the laughter.
He calls my name once—
“Stella—”
Too late. Leo says something to him and I slip away.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t look back.
Because that’s the night I learn something important about princes.
They don’t rescue girls like me.
They bet on how fast we fall.
Laughter follows me down the hallway. I text Mama to come get me as I flee.
It echoes.
Bounces off marble floors and trophy cases and glass cabinets full of medals won by boys whose parents donated science wings.
My heels slip on the stairs.
I almost fall.
Would’ve been fitting.
Outside, the air is knife-cold.
My breath comes out broken. I wait behind a frozen shrub for the familiar comfort of our family’s beat up Honda.
Same dent on the bumper. Same heater that only works if you kick it twice.
Mamá doesn’t ask questions.
She just unlocks the passenger door and reaches across to squeeze my knee.
That’s all it takes.
I shatter.
Mascara streaks. Shoulder-shaking sobs. The kind that makes your ribs hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what, mija?”
“I aimed too high.”
My voice cracks in half.
“You always told me to go for the stars,” I say, staring out at the dark houses flying past, “but you never told me the stars burn.”
Silence.
The blinker ticks.
She exhales through her nose, long and tired.
First, in Spanish. Low. Furious. Hurt.
Then English.
“They had the best volleyball program in New England,” she says. “I thought it would help you get recruited. I thought—”
Her voice breaks.
I hate that.
I hate that she sounds like she failed.
“Mamá,” I whisper, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I can’t go back there. You don’t understand.”
She pulls the car over.
Hard.
Hazards flashing against the quiet street.
Turns fully toward me.
Eyes blazing.
“Oh no,” she says. “Don’t you say that to me. Don’t you ever say you can’t.”
“You didn’t see what they—”
“So what?” she fires back. “He has old money? Fancy bloodlines? A last name that opens doors?”
Her accent thickens when she’s angry. Rolls harder. Stronger.
“You know who you are?”
I blink at her.
She taps her chest.
“We are from the mines. From the earth. From the people who built pyramids with their hands. We have culture. History. Blood older than theirs.”
A watery laugh slips out of me.
“Mamá… he can probably trace his family back to like… Julius Caesar or something.”
She scoffs.
“Por favor.”
Then, sharp and proud:
“Roma cayó en un día.”
She looks at me.
“Rome fell in a day. Ours didn’t.”
“Mamá,” I say, sniffing, “no one even knows what happened to our civilization.”
She waves her hand like I just said something ridiculous.
“I know what happened.”
“What?”
“The Mayans went to the heavens.”
I blink.
“What, like Stargate?”
She gasps, offended. “No te burles de mí.”
But she’s smiling I that crazy mysterious way of hers. She cups my face with both hands. “There’s magic in you, Stella,” she says quietly. “You don’t beg boys like that to choose you. You don’t shrink yourself to make them comfortable.”
Her thumb wipes the last smear of mascara from my cheek.
“He saw it too,” she says. “That’s why he couldn’t stay away.”
I don’t respond. My eyes move to the familiar dark streets, while my heart wished for magic tonight—it got crushed instead.
It had been ten days since homecoming. Since I was kissed like I mattered. Then promptly discarded as if I was a leper.
Volleyball State Finals.
The gym is packed—navy and gold everywhere. Banners hanging like declarations of superiority. Parents in pearls and power suits. Alumni writing checks in the booster section.
I’m a freshman.
Which means I’m invisible.
Except I’m not.
Because everyone knows why I’m here.
Scholarship Latina freshman with a future D1 potential.
Which makes me a threat-especially to Melody Van Hinkenberg.
She’s a junior—starting outside hitter.
Legacy admission.
Daddy owns half of Wall Street.
Mom runs every charity gala within a hundred-mile radius.
And she wants Tristan.
Correction—wanted him.
He dumped her last month.
Publicly.
And now there’s me.
The rumor.
The hallway whispers.
The scholarship girl he lingers too close to after class.
Coach pulls me aside before warmups.
“Don’t worry, Stella,” he says quietly. “You’re going to be something. I’ve got my eye on you.”
My heart thuds.
“But you gotta earn your keep around here,” he adds. “You know what I’m saying. I can’t start a freshman over her.”
We both glance toward Melody, laughing with her friends near the bench. Blonde ponytail. Diamond studs. Confidence like it’s inherited.
I nod, knowing how this works.
Talent matters. But pedigree matters more. The playoff match starts.
We’re tight. Tied. Back and forth.
If we lose, we have to wait another year for a shot at a state championship game.
I stay ready on the bench, palms sweating, knees bouncing.
Melody’s playing fine.
Not great.
But fine.
Then it happens.
She jumps for a set and comes down wrong.
Ankle folds.
She screams.
The gym goes silent.
Coach swears under his breath.
Trainer rushes out.
Melody’s crying now. Dramatic. Shaking her head.
I feel it before he says it.
“Cortez,” Coach barks. “You’re in.”
My heart explodes.
This is it.
This is the moment.
I rip off my warmup and sprint onto the court.
The girls avoid eye contact.
Except one.
Harper.
Senior. Melody’s best friend.
She stares at me like I just spit on the school crest.
We rotate.
It’s our serve.
Crowd roaring.
I can feel Mamá somewhere up there in the cheap seats, hands clasped like she’s praying.
I take my position.
Harper steps to the back line with the ball.
She doesn’t look at the net.
She looks at me.
For half a second I think—
No.
She wouldn’t.
Whistle blows.
She tosses.
Swings.
Not toward the opposing court.
Toward me.
Boom.
The ball slams into the back of my head.
White flash.
The floor rushes up.
Gasps.
Someone laughs.
I hit hardwood.
The world tilts sideways.
I see stars.
Coach is yelling.
Ref blows the whistle.
“Service error!”
Harper shrugs. “Sorry. Slipped.”
I push myself up.
Dizzy.
Humiliated.
The crowd is murmuring.
They would rather tank our chances at a state championship run than let me shine.
Let that sink in.
Before letting a scholarship Latina freshman take the crown and help the school earn a berth.
Coach helps me to the sideline.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
But I don’t go back in.
Concussion protocol.
Precautionary.
Melody’s injury suddenly “not as bad as we thought.”
She’s back in before the set ends.
Royal Oaks wins. But not with me in the game. And by the way the trainer keeps looking at me and frowning—I doubt I’ll even see minute in states.
The hospital lights are too bright.
They make everything feel sterile and small.
“Minor concussion,” the nurse says. “Two days no school. No devices. No screens. Rest. We’ll clear her before playoffs.”
Playoffs.
I almost laugh.
Mamá signs the paperwork.
I sit in a wheelchair because protocol says I have to, even though I can walk. The humiliation of it is almost worse than the hit.
Outside, the air smells like rain and exhaust.
We get back into the Honda.
Silence fills the car.
My head throbs in slow pulses.
No phone.
No distractions.
Just my thoughts.
Tears slip down into my ears.
I don’t wipe them away.
“Mamá,” I say quietly.
She glances at me but doesn’t speak.
“I’m done.”
Her jaw tightens.
“No,” she says immediately. “No, you don’t give up on me.”
“I’m not giving up.”
My voice is steady now. Clear.
“But I’m not doing this for four more years.”
The blinker clicks.
“You are strong enough—”
“That’s not the point.”
She looks at me.
I turn to face her fully.
“I can’t keep walking into rooms where they’re waiting for me to fail.”
Silence.
“I’ll transfer,” I say. “Wasn’t there that other school I got into? The one I turned down?”
Her hands tighten on the wheel.
“That’s a boarding school, honey.”
“I know.”
“It’s far.”
“I know.”
She hesitates.
“It’s free, right?”
Her lips press together.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll transfer after Christmas break. Start spring semester clean.”
She shakes her head. “No, mija. No. That is not why we sent you there. Not so you could run when it gets hard.”
I inhale slowly.
“This isn’t about hard.”
I swallow.
“It’s about hostile.”
She doesn’t answer.
“It’ll be one less mouth to feed,” I say quietly. “Fifty to seventy-five dollars less a week in groceries.”
“Stella—”
“I eat a lot, Mamá. I’m in season. Protein’s expensive.”
Her eyes flash with hurt.
“And you could use the time you spend driving me to give Mateo and Camila more attention.”
Her face softens at their names.
“I can still get recruited,” I continue. “I can still get a full ride. I can still be the first Cortez to go to university.”
My voice doesn’t shake.
“I just don’t have to do it there.”
The rain starts tapping on the windshield.
Soft.
Relentless.
She says something under her breath in Spanish. Fast. Emotional. Prayer and frustration mixed together.
Then she exhales.
Long.
“You promise me,” she says, “this is not because of a boy.”
I don’t hesitate.
“It’s because of a system.”
She studies my face.
Searching for weakness.
Finding none.
Finally.
She nods once.
“We call them tomorrow.”
They answer on the second ring.
The admissions director sounds almost giddy.
“We were devastated when Stella declined,” she says. “State finalists as a freshman? We’d love to have her. Our program is competitive. And we have multiple scholarship students. She wouldn’t be alone.”
Wouldn’t be alone.
That part sticks.
By January, I pack my life into two suitcases.
Connecticut, inland.
No ocean.
No beach.
No chandeliers in the gym.
Just snow and brick buildings and a coach who shakes my hand like I earned something.
I don’t cry when we drive away.
I don’t look back.
Because that’s the last night I let Royal Oaks decide who I am.
And I swear I’ll never let a boy likeTristan Vale touch me in the dark ever again.