The words I never gave you

Chapter 8

The jet hums beneath me, but the cabin feels colder than the air outside. Four rows ahead, Bianca is asleep with her head in Sarah’s lap, blonde hair spilling like silk over Sarah’s black cashmere coat. Erica strokes her temple gently, the way you comfort a wounded bird. Every time the seat-belt sign pings, one of them glares back at me as if I personally caused turbulence.

We have never fought. Not once in ten years of arranged play-dates, stolen kisses, shared summers, and nights that left us both trembling. Until yesterday.

Christmas morning started perfectly. We slept until noon (club hangovers and tradition), then gathered under the twenty-foot Nordmann fir in the grand salon. Sinatra crooned “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” while the fire crackled and the sea glittered beyond the windows. Presents were wrapped in Hermès paper and tied with satin ribbons thick as my wrist.

Bianca went first, as hostess. Sarah and Erica gave her the new limited-edition Birkin in “Gris Perle” and matching Louboutins, then read a poem they’d written about unbreakable friendship, sisterhood through scandals and spotlights, that made her cry into her champagne. The boys handed over absurdly generous gifts: Jason a week on Richard Branson’s yacht, William a seven-figure donation to her ocean-conservation foundation in her name, Austin a hamper from Petrossian the size of a small coffin. Elena, shy and flushed, offered a handmade bracelet woven from sea glass and shells she’d collected on the beach, plus a Starbucks gift card. Bianca accepted it gracefully, even pulling Elena into a genuine hug. “It’s beautiful—thank you.”

Then it was my turn. I saved the black velvet box for last. Inside: a white-gold and diamond pendant shaped like an open infinity loop, our entwined initials engraved on the back. A placeholder for the ring waiting in the vault at home. I watched her face light up, watched her fingers tremble as she clasped it around her neck, watched her mouth “I love you” across the room. I had to look away or everyone would have seen the tears I refused to let fall.

My gifts were predictably extravagant, but Bianca’s stole the morning. She had collaborated with Nike on a capsule of trainers (only twelve pairs in the world), each hand-painted with symbols that represented the recipient. Mine were midnight blue with tiny constellations on the soles and “E & B” stitched inside the tongue. With them came a leather-bound diary and a photo album, the first page inscribed in her perfect handwriting:

To the boy who was promised to me,

and somehow became my favourite choice.

Can’t wait to fill every page with our future.

Forever yours, B.

I hid behind jokes and champagne so no one would notice my eyes burning.

Presents dwindled, everyone buzzing with contentment—until Elena’s turn. She had eight boxes stacked neatly (odd; seven of us, excluding her). Maybe an extra from staff? She chose an elegantly wrapped one first, silver paper with a crimson bow. Inside, on a bed of what looked like dried herbs and tiny white larvae, lay a miniature bottle of milk and three chocolate-chip cookies. A card, written in delicate calligraphy, read:

For the parasite who feeds on others.

Gold-diggers don’t belong at the table.

Do us all a favour and disappear.

The room froze.Elena’s face crumpled, tears spilling as she bolted from the room, sobs echoing down the hall. Shock froze us all. Who the hell would do that? I excused myself and followed, knocking softly on her mini-suite door.

“Are you okay?” I asked when she let me in, her eyes red-rimmed.

“No, Edward, I’m not. If this was your sick way to punish me for the other night, it’s not funny.”

“What are you talking about?” I was Genuine confusion.

“You saw it—the milk, cookies. Who else knew about that except you and the housekeeper?”

“You think I did this? Why invite you just to bully you and ruin Christmas?”

“Then who? Unless your precious girlfriend wanted to send a message.”

That lit a fuse. Accusing Bianca? The girl who’s been nothing but kind—inviting Elena despite the side-eyes, defending her at dinner, wearing her damn bracelet? Bianca’s the epitome of grace: wealth, power, beauty, yet humble, sincere. Her charities aren’t tax write-offs; she visits orphanages, funds scholarships. Everyone adores her because she’s real.

“Are you implying Bianca did it?” My voice turned ice-cold.

She backed down, fidgeting. “No… but last night at the club, I overheard Sarah and Erica in the bathroom. They called me a parasite, said I don’t belong, that I’m after you. And now this note? Too coincidental.”

Eavesdropping again—impressive, in a creepy way. But on a serious note. Sarah and Erica are snobs, yes—old-money purists who hate disruption. They’ve been frosty, but evil? Plotting this? Still, no one knew about the kitchen incident except me and Adele. And Adele answers to Bianca ultimately.

“I’ll investigate,” I said, softer now. Unacceptable for a guest to be targeted under our roof.

Back downstairs, brunch waited untouched—eggs Benedict congealing, mimosas flat. Mood shattered. We dispersed to rooms. On the stairs, I caught Sarah whispering to Erica: “It’s her again, ruining everything. Why did she have to come?”

Didn’t help their case.

In our suite, Bianca was admiring her new pendant in the mirror, Elena’s bracelet already on her wrist. Proof: she’s too good for pettiness.

“You okay?” she asked, concern knitting her brows.

I hesitated, then: “Did Adele tell you anything… about our first night here?”

She blushed crimson. “Like what?”

“Anything unusual.”

Her cheeks flamed deeper. “Edward, Adele’s known us forever. Why would she discuss… that?”

Perplexed, embarrassed—Adele as a pseudo-aunt figure, watching us grow from playdates to this.

Confirmation: Bianca knew nothing.

“Why ask?” she pressed.

“That gift was messed up.”

“I know. I asked Adele—she’s as baffled as us. How did it get there?”

“ well…It didn’t just appeared, someone must have put it there. And Sarah and Erica… they don’t like Elena.” I tried to be as delicate as possible in my suspicions.

Bianca’s eyes flashed (something I’d never seen directed at me). “They would never do something so vile. Are you implying they did it?” Upset now, voice rising.

Bianca’s too trusting, innocent. But even she must see their meanness.

“I’m saying they push boundaries sometimes.”

“They’d never do something so unladylike!”

“Bianca, I know they’re your best friends, but the people around us can reflect on us positively or reflect on us negatively.” My voice was a bit firm and maybe a bit harsh, but I was trying to protect her from the idea people like Elena was trying to attached to her only base on the action of her friends. Especially knowing that she was nothing like them.

Tears welled in the corner of her delicate eyes, clear like crystals. “Well, I’m grown enough to choose my friends, thank you. But do you know yours? People you’ve grown up with, shared everything—or someone you just met? Maybe I’m too trusting, but it’s that trust that allows me to accept your ‘innocent’ curiosity about Elena Miller.”

“I accepted Elena because you asked,” she whispered. “I comforted her when everyone treated her like an intruder. But if you trust her words over mine—”

She left. Didn’t come back to our room that night. I drank half a bottle of Père Jules Calvados alone on the terrace and watched the sea swallow the moon.

Now we’re on the jet home and she hasn’t spoken to me in thirty-six hours. She let Sarah hold her while she slept rather than sit beside me where she belongs. The boys keep shooting me looks that say fix this, i***t. Even Elena, two rows behind me, looks pale and hollowed-out.

Sarah and Erica keep glaring back (though I suspect they still have no idea what the fight was actually about). Bianca is protecting my reputation even while furious with me. That’s who she is.

I keep replaying her parting shot in the villa: the same trust that allows me to accept your sudden curiosity toward Elena Miller is innocent…

But, while staring at the clouds, I l’m also asking myself the question Elena threw at me on the ski slope:

How do you know your favourite dessert is macaron if you’ve never tasted tiramisu?

Because if I’m honest (and I hate that I have to be), Elena makes me feel things I don’t have names for. Restlessness. Curiosity. The dangerous whisper that maybe there’s a world outside the script Father wrote for me.

But Bianca… Bianca is home. She’s the girl who understands me without having to say much, who knows how I take my coffee, who packs my suitcases, who cries at charity letters, who lets me feed her macarons in bed and comes apart under my tongue like it’s the first time every time. She’s the future I’ve never questioned.

And I might have just broken her heart defending someone who might not deserve it.