Chapter 356: Something as Overrated as Principles and Justice

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

."

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—something 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 cameras and tabloids."

He took a breath—long, weary.

"Even

Abigail Price

—the second child, the one who negotiated this arrangement—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 means that when Evan Price walked into your office, you had no possible way of identifying him."

Eleanor felt something loosen in her chest—small, fragile relief.

Finally. Finally someone 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 media would have devoured it. Social media would have amplified it. The Price family’s reputation—carefully cultivated over generations—would have been destroyed in an afternoon."

He met 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 argument 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 intermediaries 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 time in hours, something 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 met 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 me 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 name 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 me about its days ago, I

accepted.

I understood

my role

. My

duty.

My

place

in this family and what was expected of me."

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 meet 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 moment. Touched her arm. Whispered something that might have been

I’m sorry

or might have been

I love you

or might have been nothing at all.

Then she was gone too.

Eleanor didn’t sleep that night.

She sat in her apartment and stared at the walls and thought about choices. About duty. About what it meant to be born into a family that measured success in centuries and expected sacrifices measured 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 arrangement, the alliance, the opportunities it would create for the

WitchBourne

name—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 something real. Something true. Something that might have cracked open this whole rotten system and let some 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 agreement 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.