The words I never gave you

October 13, 2025 Dear Diary, Another crisp autumn morning at the estate, and I’m suiting up for what feels like the millionth time for Elysium Institute. God, how I love the ritual of it all—slipping into that uniform that’s more like armor for the elite battlefield we call high school. The blazer is bespoke wool from Savile Row, midnight blue with the school’s crest embroidered in gold thread that catches the light just so, making you look like you’re wearing a piece of the night sky. The tie is silk, knotted perfectly by habit, and the trousers are tailored to perfection, no wrinkles, no give. Even the shoes are Italian leather, polished to a mirror shine by Steve, my footman. Speaking of which, as I headed out, I slipped him a crisp hundred from my wallet. “For the extra buff on these Oxfords, Steve,” I said with a grin. He chuckled, that warm, familiar laugh of his, and clapped me on the shoulder like we were old pals heading to a pub. “Young Master Edward, you’d make a fine lord if you weren’t so damn likable,” he replied, pocketing it without the fake humility some servants pull. I’ve known Steve since I was toddling around in diapers; he’s more friend than employee. All the staff here are like that—I treat them with respect, share laughs over breakfast in the kitchens when Father’s away, and in return, they’ve got my back. Loyalty earned, not demanded. It’s the one part of this gilded cage that feels real. But Father? That’s a different story, a colder one. Our conversations these days are clipped emails or terse nods across the dining hall. It wasn’t always like this, but after Mother left… well, everything froze over. She vanished when I was seven, no note, no backward glance—just poof, off to chase whatever freedom she craved beyond the iron gates of our empire. An arranged marriage, of course; that’s how it goes in our world. Two powerhouses forced together for alliances, not affection. Father’s family built this tech behemoth by taking ownership of the biggest companies after the 2019 economic collapse, we control Tesla, Meta, and the whole digital and tech world, but we weren’t “old money.” No ancient titles, no dusty estates passed down through centuries. Mother came from that world, distant relative of barons, but the name was all her family had, no wealth or power, only beauty. Hence her marriage to my father was completely out of convenience, however, when the spark never ignited, she bolted, leaving me with this gnawing betrayal. I used to cry myself to sleep, wondering why I wasn’t enough to make her stay. Father buried himself in work, turning our home into a fortress of silence. You’d think that trauma would make him swear off the cycle, right? Let me choose my own path, break the wheel. Ha. I was so naive. Ten years ago, just shy of my eighth birthday, he sat me down in his study— that room with walls lined in mahogany and screens flickering with stock tickers—and introduced me to my future. “Edward, meet Bianca Eleanor Astor,” he said, as if announcing a merger. She was this tiny vision in a frilly dress, heir to a dynasty of senators and Supreme Court justices. The Astors own half of New York, chunks of London and Paris—real estate empires that make our tech billions look nouveau riche. Even at eight, I got it: this wasn’t about love; it was strategy. Their political clout could smooth regulations, open doors in Washington, shield our businesses from antitrust hawks. I was furious, adding another layer to the ice between Father and me. How could he do this after what happened with Mother? But then I met her properly, away from the adults’ scheming eyes. Bianca was… ethereal. Her name means “white” or “pure,” and she embodied it. Skin like porcelain, radiant under any light, with a delicate facial structure that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. Those large, soulful eyes—bright blue, framed by lashes that swept like feathers—conveyed such warmth, such kindness, it melted my reservations. Her hair was a cascade of voluminous wavy blonde, always smelling faintly of lavender, and her lips… full, inviting, curved in a shy smile that day. We were both awkward at first, two kids thrust into an adult game, exchanging stilted hellos over tea in the garden. But as the playdates piled up—forced hangouts turning into secret adventures in the estate’s woods—we clicked. Not because we had to, but because we wanted to. She laughed at my dumb jokes, shared stories of her family’s stuffy galas, and suddenly, the arrangement didn’t feel like chains. It felt like fate. By thirteen, we were “dating” in that innocent way—holding hands, stolen kisses behind the stables. Last year, though, things deepened. We were both virgins, nervous as hell, but in her family’s Hamptons villa one summer night, we took that step. It sealed us, made the engagement real. We exchanged promise rings—hers a diamond band from Cartier, mine engraved with our initials—and talked futures under the stars. Bianca’s all in: marriage right after graduation, before college. She insists on attending the same Ivy—Harvard or Yale, wherever I land—to study law. “I’ll be your right hand in the empire,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Handle the legal battles while you conquer the tech world.” It’s flattering, this devotion, and I care for her deeply. She’s my anchor in this sea of privilege. But sometimes, in quiet moments, I wonder if it’s truly love or just the path laid out. Father’s shadow looms large. Anyway, back to today. The SUV purred up to Elysium’s gates—those wrought-iron monstrosities flanked by marble lions—and I stepped out into the fray. Elysium Institute isn’t just a school; it’s a forge for tomorrow’s rulers. Heirs to presidents mingle with senator’s kids, billionaire scions plot with future justices. The campus is a sprawling estate: ivy-clad buildings, manicured lawns, classrooms with smart boards that cost more than most people’s houses. We’re the elite, the untouchables, and Bianca and I? We’re the king and queen. Everyone knows it—envies us, apes our style, but bends the knee. Or so I thought. My crew was waiting: Jason (oil tycoon heir, all bluster), William (tech startup kid, genius hacker vibes), and Austin (Hollywood royalty, charm for days). They were yapping about some transfer student—rumors of a scholarship kid or something exotic. “Heard she’s from nowhere special,” Jason snorted. “Gonna shake things up.” I tuned them out; who cares? This place is our playground, full of trust-fund toddlers playing at power. We sauntered toward first period—AP Global Economics, naturally—when bam. This short brunette barrels into me like a freight train. My phone—latest prototype from our labs, worth a small fortune—clatters to the flagstones. Gasps ripple through the hall; whispers erupt. My friends freeze, expecting another fan hoping for my attention. But this girl? Unfazed. She scoops up the phone, hands it back with a mumbled “Sorry, I’ll compensate if it’s damaged,” and dashes into class without a glance my way. I stood there, dumbfounded. Was she crazy? Blind? She didn’t even register who I was—no wide eyes, no blushing, no apologies laced with awe. Just… indifference. More tomorrow. For now, class calls. Edward