By the time Eleanor Pierce turned thirty-four, she had built a reputation for seeing through everyone else’s illusions while becoming nearly impossible to see herself.

As chief executive of Pierce Living, the home-goods company her father had started in a rented warehouse and she had turned into a national brand, she was known for calm instincts, disciplined risk, and an almost eerie ability to tell when someone in a room wanted something they had not yet said out loud.

Investors admired it.

Employees respected it.

Journalists wrote admiring profiles about her intelligence and restraint.

None of those profiles mentioned that she had not trusted a romantic compliment in almost six years.

The problem had not started with strangers.

It had started with Adam Lang, the man she had once planned to marry.

Adam had loved expensive restaurants, clean white shirts, and the idea of being one-half of a power couple.

What he did not love, as Eleanor learned too late, was Eleanor herself.

He loved the access her last name gave him, the ease with which doors opened when he stood beside her, and the private assumption everyone made that he belonged in her world.

She learned this the hard way when she overheard him at a charity event joking that marrying her would be better than any startup exit.

There would be stock, real estate, and no need to grind for the next thirty years.

She ended the engagement the next morning.

After that, the dates blurred together into a pattern she could no longer ignore.

Men who acted casual until they learned where she lived.

Men who were fascinated by her opinions only after discovering her net worth.

Men who said they wanted a partner but really wanted rescue, status, introductions, or a lifestyle upgrade dressed up as love.

Eventually, Eleanor designed her own experiment.

She created a second dating profile under the name Ellie.

No photos that revealed anything distinctive.

No luxury settings.

No mention of business.

No mention of inherited wealth or magazine covers or a penthouse apartment with windows high enough to turn thunderstorms into theater.

In the profile, she worked retail.

She rented a small place.

She liked old movies, grilled cheese, and bookstores.

That last part was true.

So was the hope behind it.

Then she began meeting men at a diner on the far edge of the city, a place with flickering lights, sticky booths, and coffee that tasted like regret.

She wore thrift-store clothes, no jewelry, and a cheap plastic watch she had once bought at a drugstore checkout lane.

Near the end of each date, she performed the same scene.

She checked her purse.

She let worry touch her face.

She quietly admitted she had forgotten her wallet.

Twenty-seven men told her something useful.

Some were instantly irritated, as though the inconvenience itself had insulted them.

Some paid but made a point of announcing their generosity.

Some tried to turn the moment transactional, hinting that perhaps she could make it up to them in other ways.

One man laughed and told her he did not date women who could not cover a sandwich.

Another paid, asked what her credit score was, and never contacted her again.

By the time date number twenty-eight approached, Eleanor was no longer sure she believed