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—women with no power but only their family names, were supposed to endure. To accommodate. To smile through discomfort and call it politeness.
To let entitled men 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 somehow 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 me identify every entitled rich boy who walks through my door and decides he's allowed to grope me?"
"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. Names without faces."
