The words I never gave you

Chapter 7

I woke before the sun fully breached the horizon, the Mediterranean still a sheet of liquid mercury outside our windows. Bianca was curled against me, one leg thrown over mine, her breath warm on my chest. Morning light caught in her hair and turned it into pale fire. She looked impossibly angelic like this: no makeup, no perfect posture, just soft lips parted in sleep and the faint pink flush of last night still on her throat and collarbones. Mine. The thought was primal, possessive, and entirely unapologetic. I decided then and there that no one else was seeing her like this today. Breakfast in bed. Non-negotiable.

I ordered for us both (fresh croissants, pain au chocolat, ripe figs, a pot of coffee for me, chamomile for her) and was skimming the Financial Times when Adele wheeled the trolley in.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour, Adele. Tout va bien?”

She hesitated, twisting her apron. The woman has worked for the Astors since before I could walk; she doesn’t hesitate unless something is seriously wrong.

“Monsieur… last night, during final rounds, I saw the new guest (Mademoiselle Elena) standing outside your door. When I asked, she said she was looking for the kitchen. I suggested she use the house phone for room service, but…” She lowered her voice. “Your door was ajar. The sounds… I closed it immediately, but she heard. I am so sorry.”

My blood turned to ice. Elena, outside our bedroom while Bianca was screaming my name? While I had my face between her thighs and her nails in my back? The violation hit like a slap.

“Thank you, Adele. I’ll handle it.”

Bianca emerged from the bathroom minutes later, looking like she’d stepped off a runway even in “casual” clothes: grey Louis Vuitton monogram hoodie cropped just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach, matching pleated mini-skirt, sheer black stockings, grey ankle boots. Effortless. Deadly.

She saw the trolley, understood instantly, and gave me that secret little smile that makes my knees weak. Within seconds she was in my lap, legs tangled with mine, koala-style, stealing sips of my coffee while I fed her bites of croissant. We talked stocks (Tesla up 3.7 %, Meta flirting with a new high) and my half-formed idea for a decentralised social protocol that would actually give users ownership of their data. She listened like it mattered, chin propped on my shoulder, fingers tracing idle circles on my wrist. Perfect morning.

By eleven we were in the convoy of Range Rovers heading to Saint-Tropez for shopping. Elena wore jeans again (dark this time, at least) and a simple white shirt. Sarah and Erica had apparently decided that if they couldn’t dress her up, they’d simply pretend she was invisible. Polite frost.

We burned through the usual suspects: Chanel, Dior, Hermès, Cartier. Bianca and I found matching cream cashmere jumpers at Louis Vuitton (hers cropped, mine oversized) and bought them without even looking at the price. Elena lingered by the exit, hands in pockets, until Bianca quietly told the SA to put whatever Elena touched on our tab. Small kindness, but I saw Elena’s shoulders stiffen with pride before she murmured a thank-you.

Afternoon brought skiing at Isola 2000 (an hour and a half by helicopter, because of course). Elena had never skied. The others took off like bullets down the black runs they’d mastered since childhood. Bianca and I hung back, matching Elena’s careful snowplough. She was a quick study, but still a beginner.

Then, halfway down a moderate blue, she suddenly veered hard left, cutting across a rope-marked boundary into a closed expert run. No hesitation. My heart stopped. The sign read DANGER – AVALANCHE RISK. I had no choice. I followed.

The slope was brutal: narrow couloir, ice patches, unforgiving drop-offs. I caught her twenty metres down, grabbing her pole and yanking her to a stop in a spray of snow.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I snarled, adrenaline making my voice sharper than intended. “That was an expert-only route!”

She was breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Where’s Bianca?”

“I told her to wait at the top. This run is too dangerous even for us. Come on, we need to traverse back before—”

“Wow,” she cut in, voice oddly flat. “Bianca… she really is like a princess, isn’t she? You must really love her.”

Something in her tone grated (mocking? pitying?). I answered curtly. “Her mother’s side descends from the House of Grimaldi. Technically she holds the courtesy title of duchess. So yes, princess fits.” I didn’t add that bloodline or not, she’s my princess. That felt too private to share with someone who’d stood outside our bedroom door last night.

Elena pushed on, undeterred. “I heard you were betrothed since you were children…”

Public knowledge. I didn’t see the need to give her a reply.

She filled the silence herself. “After our debate, I kept thinking how strange it is: you control the world, but you don’t control your own lives. No freedom to explore feelings, chase happiness… How do you even know your favourite dessert is macaron if you’ve never tried tiramisu?”

I stopped dead, skis grinding. The implication hit like a slap: poor little rich boy, trapped in his gilded cage, too stupid to know what real choice feels like.

I smiled, cold. “Speaking of late-night wanderings… I heard you got lost looking for the kitchen last night. Funny. Our door is nowhere near the kitchen.”

The colour drained from her face. Perfect.

“I…I always have warm milk before bed,” she stammered. “I wanted to ask Bianca if—”

“Next time, use the house phone. It works exactly like a hotel. I assume you’ve been in one of those.”

The jab was low, and I savoured it. She shut up.

A flash of white and grey appeared above us. Bianca, skiing down the boundary line, face pale with worry. “Edward!”

I pushed off instantly, meeting her halfway. She crashed into me, poles clattering, arms around my neck so tight I could feel her heartbeat hammering.

“I tried to call (no signal),” she whispered, voice cracking. “I thought something happened to you.”

I cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through blonde silk, lips pressed to her forehead. “I’m here, baby. We’re both fine.” Over her shoulder I saw Elena watching us, expression unreadable.

“Let’s go home,” I said against Bianca’s hair. “Hot bath, massage, champagne in bed. Just us.”

She nodded, burrowing closer. The others were waiting at the base lodge, laughing about something trivial. They could keep their black diamonds and their smug superiority.

Tonight, I’m drawing the curtains, locking the doors, and reminding my princess exactly why she never has to worry about losing me.

Elena can find her own way to the kitchen.