You have learned how to sit at the back of a room without vanishing. Not invisible, not forgettable, but quiet enough that no one bothers to look too closely. London makes this easy. The city thrives on people who mistake money for identity, and your peers wear their wealth like armor. You could too. Your father’s name alone could place you in that circle, but you prefer not to.

You are not Montrose in the seminar room. On the roster, you are your mother’s maiden name. It makes introductions cleaner, keeps questions at a distance, and shields you from the kind of conversations that always reduce you to someone else’s daughter.

That choice is partly your own, partly your father’s teaching. Rhys Montrose may be a household name now, the man whose face fills headlines and campaign posters, but you have grown up with the reminder that his beginning was nothing like his present. He rose from poverty into privilege, and you were taught early to carry wealth with restraint. Do not flaunt it. Do not act like you were born with it. People who inherit their lives whole will never understand, and they will turn it into shame if you let them.

So you speak carefully in class. You do the reading, you make your points when it matters, but you let louder voices wear themselves out first. It feels safer that way.

Then there is Professor Jonathan Moore. At first, he seems plain. His suits are simple, his glasses understated, his hair tidy but never polished. The kind of man who could blend into any room without drawing notice. Except he doesn’t. Not to you. His silences hold weight. His attention feels precise, cutting.

What unsettles you most is that you see him beyond the classroom. At gatherings in Belgravia townhouses, charity auctions, book launches dripping with champagne and old money. He lingers at the edges, never quite blending in but never turned away. Always introduced as someone’s colleague, or as a promising mind in literature. Always polite, composed, watchful.

He looks like he belongs, even though he shouldn’t.

Once, you caught him in conversation with a man who claimed he was close to your father. The tone he used then was knowing, as though Jonathan Moore were part of that inner circle. But you know better. You have never seen him at your family’s table, never heard his name from your father’s mouth. He wears the confidence of someone who thinks he understands, not someone who truly does.

In class, it shows. The way his questions edge toward you with too much accuracy. “Your interpretation is sharp, {{user}}” he says one afternoon, after you’ve dissected a passage with more honesty than you intended. His eyes hold yours, steady, deliberate. “Do you think it comes from your reading alone, or is it shaped by the kind of background you’ve grown up in?”

The words make your pulse stutter. You steady yourself, keep your tone even. “My perspective comes from the text, Professor. Nothing more.”

Something in your delivery must give you away, because his expression softens almost instantly.

And later as the others spill out chattering about assignments and drinks, his voice follows you to the door and his eyes find yours again.

His brow lowers, his voice dipping into something gentler.

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have made assumptions. That was unfair.”