The words I never gave you

Chapter 4

November 04, 2025

Dear Diary,

Weeks have blurred into a monotonous haze since that corridor bump and the math class showdown. Elysium Institute hums along like a well-oiled machine—classes, cliques, the occasional whispered scandal about some heir’s yacht party gone wild. Elena Miller, the enigmatic transfer, keeps popping up like a glitch in the system. Her intelligence is undeniable; she’s topped me in a few quizzes now, her answers precise and innovative in ways that make even Mr. Hargrove pause. But the novelty’s wearing thin. At first, her rebellious streak—the way she ignores the invisible hierarchies, sits where she wants, speaks without filtering for approval—piqued my interest. Now? It’s just background noise. Especially after the hundredth blowout with Father last weekend.

He cornered me in his study after dinner, the air thick with the scent of aged leather and his perpetual cigar smoke. “Edward, your future isn’t a suggestion,” he barked, slamming a report on the desk—projections for our next Meta acquisition.

“You’re the heir. Act like it. Stop wasting time on frivolities.” Frivolities? Like having a life beyond boardrooms and balance sheets? I fired back, words I’d rehearsed in my head a thousand times: “What if I don’t want this? What if I want to choose my own path?” He laughed, that cold, mirthless sound.

“Choice is for the weak. We build empires, not dreams.” The argument escalated, doors slamming, echoes in the empty halls. Steve found me later on the balcony, nursing a soda (no scotch this time; I wasn’t in the mood to drown sorrows). “Your father’s a hard man, but he means well,” he said, but we both knew it was bullshit. All I could think about was escape—breaking free from this gilded cage of privilege, where every door is locked with expectations and every window barred by legacy.

At least, that was my fixation until debate class today. Mrs. Kensington paired us up for the big assignment: Modern politics and democracy versus ancient monarchy and dictatorship. The core? How a selected few maintain control over the masses. Irony much? It’s like she tailored it for me—the son of the man who owns the platforms that shape opinions, the cars that move the world, the devices that spy on it all. I was assigned to defend the elite’s dominance: why the few should rule the many.

Elena, of course, got the counter—advocating for rebellion against such systems. Due in a week, with oral presentations today. We had to prep speeches, cite sources, the whole nine yards. Bianca offered to help me research over the weekend, but I waved her off. This one felt personal.

I was confident going in. Hell, I’ve been groomed for this my whole life—debate clubs since I could talk, strategy sessions with Father’s advisors masquerading as family vacations. When it was my turn, I stood at the podium, uniform crisp, voice steady. “In every era, from ancient pharaohs to modern CEOs, a select few have guided the masses,” I argued. “Democracy sounds noble, but it’s chaos without direction. The elite—those with vision, resources, and intellect—ensure stability. We manipulate? Call it leadership. People crave guidance; we provide it. Free markets thrive under controlled influence, not anarchy.” It was conservative, sure, laced with that subtle manipulation Father’s mastered. The class ate it up—nods from the heirs, smirks from my crew. Jason whispered, “Nailed it, king.” I knew I’d win; in this room, power recognizes power.

Then Elena took the stage. She didn’t have my polish—no rehearsed gestures, no tie straightened just so—but damn, she had fire. Passion poured out, her brown eyes blazing as she paced. At first, some snickered—Jason and Austin exchanging eye rolls when she dove into “woke” ideals: women seizing more control in boardrooms and ballots, universal healthcare to level the playing field, free education as a right, not a privilege. “These aren’t pipe dreams,” she insisted, voice rising. “They’re necessities in a true democracy. But as long as the elite hoard power—lobbying against reforms, rigging systems to favor the rich—nothing changes. In America, we dominate markets, but at what cost? The majority suffers while the few feast.” The room shifted; a few girls nodded, even Sarah looked thoughtful. But it was when she hit the personal note that I froze.

“We live in gilded cages,” she said, her gaze sweeping the class but lingering on me for a split second—or maybe I imagined it. “Trapped by expectations, served paths on silver platters that choke our dreams. We should have the freedom to choose what we want and who we are, because this is what America stands for—the land of dreamers, the land of the free. But there is no achievement without rebellion, there is no change without risk.

We must choose our own path and not the one served for us on a silver platter.” She concluded with a fist on the podium, the words hanging like a challenge. The class was silent, then erupted in murmurs. Mrs. Kensington called time, and when votes were tallied (anonymous, of course), I edged her out—probably because half the room fears upsetting the status quo I represent.

But victory tasted hollow. As we filed out, her words echoed in my skull: freedom from the cage, rebellion for change, choosing your path. It was like she’d peeked into my diary, voiced the rebellion I’ve buried under duty. Bianca met me after class, linking arms with that warm smile. “You were brilliant,” she said, leaning in for a quick kiss. We grabbed lunch in the suite, her legs entwining mine as usual, but my mind wandered. She chattered about the gala last night—some senator’s boring speech—but I nodded absently. Elena’s speech had cracked something open. All my life, I’ve followed the script: the empire, the marriage, the throne. What if I rebelled? What if I chose?

Hence, my decision: follow my own path, starting small. Befriend Elena Miller. Not out of pity or strategy, but curiosity. Maybe she holds the key to breaking free. Tomorrow, I’ll approach her—casually, in the hall or after math. Ask about her speech, see if that fire translates off-stage. I wonder how Bianca would react to this, would she welcome her in our circle or would she see it as slumming with the scholarship kid? Father? He’d explode. But screw that. Rebellion starts with risk, right?

For the first time in weeks, I feel alive. Not just existing in the cage, but plotting my escape.

Edward