The words I never gave you

Chapter 3

Dear Diary,

School dragged on after that math class, but by the final bell, my mind was already elsewhere—specifically, on Bianca and the promise of an empty estate. We slipped into the back of my SUV, her hand in mine, the driver knowing better gave us privacy by rolling up the partition. The ride home was quiet, filled with that easy silence we’ve perfected over the years. As we pulled through the gates of Langley Manor—that sprawling beast of glass and steel overlooking the Hudson— I felt the tension of the day melt away. Father wouldn’t be home; he’s never home. Work devours him like a black hole, board meetings in Tokyo or mergers in Dubai always trumping family dinners. Tonight, it’s some investor summit in Geneva. Part of me resents it, the way he’s sculpted our empire—Meta’s social webs, Apple’s sleek devices, Tesla’s electric dreams—into a monument to his ambition, leaving me to navigate the ruins of our family alone. But another part? Grateful for the freedom it buys us.

We headed straight to my room, the “intention” being homework. Ha. My suite is basically a penthouse—king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, a wall of screens for monitoring stock tickers (Father’s idea), and a balcony with views that could make a poet weep. Bianca dropped her bag by the desk, flashing that coy smile as she loosened her tie. “Math first?” she suggested, but her eyes said otherwise. God, she looked irresistible in that uniform. The skirt was shorter than Elysium’s dress code strictly allowed—mid-thigh, hugging her hips just right—but on her, it wasn’t vulgar. It was art. Her model figure turned the blazer into a second skin, accentuating those beautiful curves that photographers fawn over in her endorsements. And those white knee-high socks? They stretched over her toned calves, ending just above the knee, making her legs look endless. I couldn’t help fantasizing—picturing them wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, her heels digging into my back as we lost ourselves.

Thoughts of Elena Miller? Vanished. That defiant brunette with her sharp eyes and record-breaking math skills? A distant echo. Bianca was here, real and warm, pressing against me as I pulled her onto the bed. “Homework can wait,” I murmured, my hands sliding under her blazer. She giggled, that innocent sound that always undoes me, and kissed me deeply. Our uniforms became a tangled mess—her skirt hiked up, my shirt unbuttoned—as passion took over. Her lips were soft against my neck, trailing fire down my collarbone, her gasps and moans filling the room like a symphony. She whispered my name, her breath hot on my ear, her body arching into mine. We moved together in that familiar rhythm, built from months of stolen moments, her nails lightly scratching my back as we reached that peak. It was intense, raw, a reminder that whatever this started as—an arrangement—it had evolved into something electrifying.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, our breaths syncing. Cuddles followed, lazy and sweet, her fingers tracing patterns on my arm. “You’re distracting,” she teased, but there was no complaint in it. Eventually, reality intruded. We dressed enough to be decent, and I helped her with her math homework at the desk. She’s brilliant in law and politics—destined to be a powerhouse in the courtroom—but numbers? Not her forte. I walked her through the calculus problems, patient as ever, watching her brow furrow in concentration. “See? Derivative here, integrate there,” I explained, and her eyes lit up when it clicked. Moments like these make me feel useful, like I’m more than just the heir apparent.

But all good things end. She glanced at her phone, sighing. “I have to go. The gala—Parents insist.” Some black-tie affair for the Astor Foundation, schmoozing with senators and donors. I wanted her to stay the night, curl up watching old movies or just talking until dawn, but duty calls in our world. I walked her to the door, kissing her goodbye under the chandelier in the foyer. “Text me when you’re home,” I said. She nodded, her promise ring glinting as she slipped into her waiting limo. Steve gave me a knowing wink from the shadows—good man, discreet as always.

Alone now, the estate feels like a tomb. Echoing halls, servants ghosting about, the hum of servers in the basement powering our digital kingdom. I poured myself a scotch from Father’s decanter—eighteen-year-old Macallan, because why not?—and retreated to the balcony, staring at the city lights twinkling like fallen stars. My mind wandered to Bianca, to us, to what this all means. Can this be called love? The real kind, not the scripted version our parents penned?

She’s everything you could want: sweet, innocent, kind. Despite the arranged marriage hanging over us like a gilded sword, she’s never resented it. If anything, she’s embraced it, turning obligation into affection. She gets me—the pressure of the empire, the shadow of Father’s expectations, the ache from Mother’s abandonment. We talk about it sometimes, late at night, her voice soothing the old wounds. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered once, after I confessed my fears. And I believe her… mostly. She’s planned our future with such enthusiasm: wedding post-graduation, a quiet ceremony in the Maldives maybe, then Harvard together. Her studying law to bolster the family business, standing by my side as I take the reins from Father. It’s picture-perfect, the kind of union that cements dynasties.

But in the quiet, doubts creep in. Can I trust her with my heart? Truly open up, let her see the cracks beneath the polished heir? Mother’s betrayal scarred me deep— that arranged marriage crumbling, her vanishing without a trace, leaving me to wonder if love is just a transaction gone sour. Father never recovered, turning cold, mechanical. I see echoes of that in myself sometimes, the walls I build. Bianca’s different; she’s warmth where Mother was frost. Yet, what if it’s all facade? What if, when the novelty fades, she realises that I am not enough for her, what if I hope my heart and show my imperfections and I scare her away? What if she bolts like Mother, leaving me shattered?

I swirled the scotch, the amber liquid catching the light. No, that’s paranoia talking. Bianca’s proven herself—our first time last year, the promise rings, the way she clings to me like I’m her world. It’s not just physical; it’s emotional. She listens, supports, loves in that pure way only she can. Maybe this is love, forged in the fires of expectation but real nonetheless. Or maybe I’m fooling myself, clinging to the familiar to avoid the unknown.

Elena flickered back into my thoughts then—unbidden, annoying. That confidence in math class, her refusal to yield my seat. She’s nothing like Bianca: no polish, no pedigree, just raw edge. Why does she intrigue me? A glitch in the matrix of Elysium’s hierarchy. But no, focus on what’s real. Bianca. Our future. I need to shake these doubts, commit fully. Tomorrow, I’ll surprise her—maybe flowers, or skip class for a picnic. Prove to her I’m all in.

For now, sleep calls. The empire waits, but so does my heart.

Edward