The words I never gave you

Chapter 2

Dear Diary,

By the time first period ended, the incident in the corridor had ignited Elysium Institute like a match to dry tinder. The school’s private forum—a digital playground for the privileged—was a wildfire of reactions. Some of my more rabid fans (yes, I have those, cringe as it sounds) were tearing into the new girl for her “impoliteness,” clutching their pearls over her audacity to collide with me, Edward Langley, heir to the tech empire that owns half the world’s screens and cars. Others, predictably, were swooning, gushing about how they’d kill to be the one “close enough to brush against the king.” It’s exhausting, this pedestal. I scrolled through the posts on my phone as we walked to the campus suite, my friends buzzing around me like flies to honey. Austin, especially, was in his element, thriving on the drama like it was oxygen. “She’s a nobody, Ed,” he said, eyes glinting with that gossip-hound gleam. “Elena Miller, transfer from some public school in the Midwest. Scholarship kid, can you believe it? Her dad’s, like, a professor or something.

No money, no name.” Jason chimed in, smirking, “Bet she’s here to climb the social ladder. Bumping into you? Classic move.” William, quieter but no less nosy, added, “Heard she aced the entrance exam. Like, perfect score. Weird, right?” I shrugged, playing indifferent, but my photographic memory was already cataloging every detail—Elena Miller, Midwest, professor dad, scholarship, perfect score—tucked away in some mental hard drive I’d rather not admit I have. Knowledge is power in this place, and I’m not dumb enough to ignore it.

We reached the campus suite, our private sanctuary for the elite of the elite. It’s this absurdly luxe lounge—plush leather sofas, a espresso machine that costs more than a car, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the quad—reserved for the top dogs like me, Bianca, and a select few others. Bianca was already there, perched on a velvet armchair like a queen holding court, her friends Sarah and Erica flanking her. Their curious smiles screamed they’d heard about the corridor clash, but Bianca? Cool as ever. Her poise is a fortress—classy, untouchable, not a blonde hair out of place. She greeted me with that perfect smile, all warmth and grace, and asked about my weekend with Father. “How was the trip with your dad?” she said, voice soft but probing. She knows how much I dread those outings. Father dragged me to tour his latest investment—a green energy startup in Silicon Valley—another attempt to mold me into the perfect CEO. It’s his version of bonding: spreadsheets and boardrooms, not father-son heart-to-hearts. I grumbled about it, and she listened, nodding, her hand brushing mine in that subtle, comforting way she has.

We ate lunch apart from the others, just us at a small table by the window. Bianca barely touched her food—a habit that drives me nuts. She’s a model for some high-end brands, always posing for Chanel or Dior, and I wonder if that’s why she skips meals, starving herself to fit some impossible ideal. Or maybe she’s just too busy, always juggling school, endorsements, and planning our future. Early in our relationship, I’d scold her for it, worried she was hurting herself. We made a deal: one proper meal together daily, no excuses. Today, she nibbled at a salad while I wolfed down a steak sandwich, and she did that thing that makes my heart skip—entwining her legs with mine under the table, leaning her head on my shoulder like a koala clinging to a tree. It’s her love language, physical touch, and when it’s just us, she sheds that icy, noble veneer she wears for the world. She’s all softness and innocence, giggling at my dumb quips, her soulful blue eyes sparkling. “You’re too charming for your own good,” she teased, and I felt that familiar flutter. She can seem cold to others, superior even, but with me? She’s my Bianca, pure and unguarded.

After lunch, I headed to Advanced Math, expecting the usual routine: ace the class, dodge the teacher’s attempts to challenge me, coast on my reputation as Elysium’s top brain. But when I walked in, there she was—Elena Miller, the corridor crasher—sitting at my desk. Third row, middle seat, known school-wide as Edward Langley’s throne. Everyone respects the unwritten rules here; it’s how we maintain order in this gilded jungle. Apparently, nobody sent Elena the memo. I approached, keeping my tone calm but firm. “This is my seat,” I said, expecting the usual flustered apology and a quick retreat. Instead, she looked up, her brown eyes locking onto my green ones, and said, “I don’t see a name on it.” No hesitation, no deference—just pure, unapologetic confidence. I was floored. The room went quiet, my friends exchanging shocked glances, the kid whose seat I’d have to take looking like he’d been slapped. With class about to start, I didn’t push it. Call it curiosity, call it being a gentleman—I let it slide and took the seat behind her, ignoring Jason’s baffled stare.

As the lesson kicked off, I couldn’t stop watching her. Elena Miller was… unexpected. She wasn’t just some clueless transfer; she was sharp, scarily so. Mr. Hargrove, our math teacher who loves to stump us with brutal equations, threw out a differential calculus problem that’s been my personal record for fastest solve—42 seconds flat. Elena? She solved it in 38. Hand up, answer scrawled on her tablet, correct down to the last decimal. Hargrove’s eyebrows shot up, and I felt my jaw tighten. I’m the best in this school—always have been. Math, physics, debate, you name it, I own it. But this girl, this nobody from nowhere, just beat my record. And she didn’t even gloat—just leaned back, scribbling notes like it was nothing. I caught myself staring at her profile: short, brunette, unremarkable at first glance, but there was this fire in her posture, this quiet defiance. Her eyes, when they met mine earlier, weren’t just brown—they were sharp, like they could see through the whole Elysium charade.

The rest of the class, I was distracted, replaying that moment in the corridor, her voice, her nerve. My friends would say I’m slumming it, letting a scholarship kid get under my skin, but it’s not that. It’s the anomaly of her. In a place where everyone plays their part—sycophants, rivals, wannabes—she’s an outlier. She doesn’t bow, doesn’t fawn, doesn’t even seem to care who I am. And that speed in math? That’s not just talent; that’s hunger. I know it because I used to have it, before this life of privilege dulled the edges. Father’s always saying I need to stay sharp, that the empire won’t run itself. Maybe he’s right, but for the first time, I’m wondering if someone else might be sharper.

Elena Miller. Who the hell are you? And why do I care?

Edward