Her mother looked away.
Of course she looked away.
Because they both knew the answer. In their world—the world of old money and older traditions—won with no power but only their family nas, were supposed to endure. To accommodate. To smile through discomfort and call it politeness.
To let entitled n take what they wanted and pretend it was part of the bargain.
Eleanor had never been good at that.
"Was I supposed to be psychic?" she continued, voice bitter and cracking. "Was I supposed to sohow know this was the oh-so-mighty Evan Price of the Price Legacy Family? Am I an angel, Mother? Do I have divine sight that lets identify every entitled rich boy who walks through my door and decides he’s allowed to grope ?"
"Eleanor—"
"His face isn’t public!" she snapped. "The Prices keep their other children hidden—everyone knows that. Only the heir is known to the outside world. The rest are shadows. Ghosts. Nas without faces."
She laughed again, and it sounded wrong, broken—even to her own ears. "I couldn’t have recognised him if I tried. No one could have. That’s the entire point of how Legacy families operate!"
Edmund had stopped pacing.
Was watching her with an expression she couldn’t read—sothing between exhaustion and reluctant respect.
"Your point," he said slowly, "is valid."
Eleanor blinked. "What?"
"Your point is valid. You couldn’t have known who he was. The Prices deliberately keep their younger children out of public view. Only the firstborn son is known to the world. The others exist only in Paradise, among the families, away from caras and tabloids."
He took a breath—long, weary.
"Even Abigail Price—the second child, the one who negotiated this arrangent—is only known to the most elite circles. The most powerful people in the world might recognise her face, but the general public? Never. It’s intentional. Protective. And it ans that when Evan Price walked into your office, you had no possible way of identifying him."
Eleanor felt sothing loosen in her chest—small, fragile relief.
Finally. Finally soone was acknowledging that this wasn’t her fault.
"Furthermore," Edmund continued, being a father for once today. "you showed remarkable restraint."
"I broke his nose." She chuckled.
"You didn’t call the police." Her mother added with a laugh of her own.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"Had you called the authorities," Edmund said quietly, "the scandal would have been... catastrophic. Not for you. For him. For the Prices. A Legacy heir assaulting a woman? The dia would have devoured it. Social dia would have amplified it. The Price family’s reputation—carefully cultivated over generations—would have been destroyed in an afternoon."
He t her eyes—steady, unflinching.
"But we would’ve been the one facing the consequence’s of that. Forget the marriage. The entire WitchBourne family would have been erased within the hour. Every hotel. Every property. Every asset we possess. Gone. Not because we did anything wrong, but because we embarrassed them. Because we made them look bad. Because in Legacies, reputation is everything, and anyone who threatens a Legacy family’s reputation..."
He didn’t need to finish.
Eleanor understood.
The Prices wouldn’t have destroyed them out of justice or anger or even revenge. They’d have done it reflexively.
The way an immune system attacks an infection. Not because the infection is evil, but because it’s foreign. Because it threatens the body.
And the WitchBournes, for all their centuries of history and billions in assets, were just a minor infection compared to the Legacy immune system.
"So." Eleanor’s voice was small now. "What happens now?"
The argunt continued for hour.
Her mother sad softly in the corner. Her father alternating between cold fury and desperate strategising. Phone calls to lawyers, to advisors, to the mysterious interdiaries who handled communication between regular wealthy families and Legacy ones.
Eleanor sat in her blood-stained blouse and said nothing.
What was there to say?
She’d done what any woman would do. What any person would do when a stranger tried to put hands on them without consent. She’d defended herself. Protected herself.
And now that training might cost them everything.
The irony was almost funny.
Almost.
Around midnight, Edmund’s phone rang.
He answered it. Listened. Said nothing for approximately three minutes.
Then: "I understand. Thank you. We’re grateful for the opportunity."
He hung up.
Turned to Eleanor.
And for the first ti in hours, sothing like hope flickered in his exhausted eyes.
"We’ve been given another chance."
Eleanor’s heart stuttered. "What?"
"The Prices." Edmund ran a hand over his face. He looked older than he had this morning. Decades older. "They’re willing to... overlook the incident. Under certain conditions."
"What conditions?"
Edmund t her eyes.
"You apologise. In person. To Evan Price and the Price family. You go to Paradise, you stand before them, and you take responsibility for the... misunderstanding."
Eleanor felt her stomach drop through the floor.
"You want to apologise," she said slowly, "for defending myself. After being assaulted."
"I am begging you to save this family."
"By admitting I was wrong when I wasn’t?"
"By understanding that being right doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with people who can end you!" Edmund’s voice cracked. Broke. The careful control he’d maintained all evening finally shattering.
"This isn’t about justice, Eleanor. This isn’t about fairness. This is about survival. The Prices could destroy us. Completely. Utterly. They could erase every trace of the WitchBourne na from history and no one—no one—would lift a finger to stop them. And you want to stand on principle?"
He laughed. It was an awful sound—hollow, broken.
"Principles are a luxury. A privilege of the powerful. We are not powerful. Not compared to them. We’re ants looking up at giants and hoping they don’t step on us."
Eleanor said nothing.
Her mother was crying again—soft, hopeless sobs.
"I accepted this marriage, father. Without aurging or fighting you over it." Eleanor said finally. Her voice was hollow. Empty. "When you told about its days ago, I accepted. I understood my role. My duty. My place in this family and what was expected of ."
Edmund nodded. "Then—"
"What I didn’t understand," she continued, and now there was steel in her voice again, cold and sharp, "was that I was expected to accept abuse as part of that duty. What I didn’t understand was that defending my own body from an unwanted touch would be considered an offence worth apologising for."
She stood.
"What I will never agree to—"
"The jet is ready."
Edmund’s voice cut through hers like a blade.
"It will take you to Paradise International Airport directly. Accommodations have been arranged. Transportation has been arranged. In few days being there, you will et with the Price family. You will apologise. You will make this right."
He was already walking toward the door.
"Father—"
"This discussion is over."
And then he was gone.
Eleanor stood alone in her office. Blood drying on her blouse. Tears she refused to shed burning behind her eyes.
Her mother lingered for a mont. Touched her arm. Whispered sothing that might have been I’m sorry or might have beenI love you or might have been nothing at all.
Then she was gone too.
Eleanor didn’t sleep that night.
She sat in her apartnt and stared at the walls and thought about choices. About duty. About what it ant to be born into a family that asured success in centuries and expected sacrifices asured in souls.
She’d accepted the marriage.
That was the thing she kept coming back to. She’d accepted it. When her father had explained the arrangent, the alliance, the opportunities it would create for the WitchBourne na—she’d nodded.
Said yes.
Understood that this was her role. Her purpose. The price of being born with silver in her mouth and expectations on her shoulders.
She hadn’t even argued.
What was the point? This was how their world worked. How it had always worked. Daughters were currency. Sons were heirs. Everyone served the family, and the family served the legacy, and the legacy served... what, exactly?
She’d never asked.
Never thought to ask.
And now here she was. Packing a bag for a trip to Paradise, preparing to apologise to a man who’d tried to assault her, because the alternative was watching her entire family burn.
What I didn’t understand was that I was expected to accept abuse as part of that duty.
Her own words echoed in her mind again.
She’d been so close. So close to saying sothing real. Sothing true. Sothing that might have cracked open this whole rotten system and let so light in.
What I will never agree to—
She’d never finished the sentence with her father, so she didn’t finish it her mind either.
Her father had cut her off. Walked out. Made it clear that her agreent wasn’t required. That her consent—to the marriage, to the apology, to any of it—was decorative at best.
She was a WitchBourne.
WitchBournes did what was necessary.
End of discussion.
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