From the moment she was born, beauty was her currency, and marriage the most lucrative contract. As a child, while her mother tried to drill pickling recipes into her head, Eleanor watched with pity. Her parents’ lifea relentless grind of pinching pennieswas the ultimate cautionary tale.
Listening to her mothers muffled sobs at night, the girl swore: *My home will smell of Chanel, not vinegar. Ill have a townhouse and a housekeeper.*
Eleanor knew university wouldnt come cheap, so she studied relentlessly, choosing a degree that promised an escape hatch: Law. Lawyers earned well, but more importantly, they mingled with the right sortthe wealthy.
She never hid her views on love. By freshers week, shed announced her ambition to land a rich husband. Romance, to her, wasnt hearts and flowers; it was a calculated investment.
Her mates teased:
Ellie, millionaires dont grow on trees!
No, she shot back, but theyre always suing each other. Meanwhile, Ill be at galleries, networking events, and Michelin-starred restaurants. Why waste my looks slaving over a stove when I could hit the jackpot?
She studied her reflectiontall, statuesque, with chestnut waves and piercing blue eyesand admired herself without shame.
Of course, she was stunning, and she intended to cash in. Men fell into two camps: those who stammered and those who eyed her like a trophy. Naturally, she preferred the latter. She wasnt after lovejust a solid ROI.
By third year, she switched to part-time studies and took a clerks job at a courthouse. I need experience *and* access, she told her bewildered mother.
Her opportunity arrived swiftly.
A plaintiff in a high-stakes casea distinguished man in his fiftiesnoticed not just her looks but her sharp mind. After the trial, he offered her a role as his advisor.
Her life became a whirl of negotiations, champagne receptions, and society parties. She was his secret weapon, disarming clients with charm and memorising every detail. For a while, she nursed hopes hed leave his wife. But on that front, he was unmovable.
Familys the foundation, Ellie, hed say, adjusting his cufflinks. Youre my penthouse.
So she pivoted. She studied his circleand found her mark: his business partner, Geoffrey Whitmore. A chain of luxury car dealerships. Bald, homely, with sad eyes. *Perfect.*
She engineered accidental encounters, forgot her scarf, asked clever questions at his talks. He bitquickly.
Their first date lasted five hours. Geoffrey rambled about mergers, loneliness, his weariness of fakery. Eleanor nodded, feigning adoration, while thinking: *Dull. But loaded. Worth the grind.*
Within a year, she had a Mercedes. Two, and a Mayfair flat. She wasnt caged; she was usefuldrafting contracts, smoothing deals. After each win, she splurged on couture and facials, relishing her role as his most exquisite accessory.
When her mother fretted she was wasting her youth on empty romance, Eleanor smirked:
Relax. Hes mine. Just biding his time.
She was certain. Until five years passed, her thirties loomed, and no proposal came. Gentle hints about marriage were met with dismissive chuckles: Why fuss with papers, darling? Were happy as we are.
Thenthe thunderclap.
He took her to *their* restaurantthe site of their first date. She wore new Prada, expecting a ring.
Eleanor, he said, sipping Bordeaux, Ive married.
*What?* Who?
Margaret. From accounts. You wouldnt know her. Shes different. Bakes a mean Victoria sponge. Pickles like my mums. With her, its peaceful.
The world shattered.
Youre joking, she hissed. Some frumpy *bookkeeper* stole my future?
No one *stole* it, he said, oddly earnest. Youll always be the most beautiful woman Ive known. But a wife shes meant to be warm. *Homely.* Thats not you, my rose.
It wasnt a slapit was annihilation. Somehow, she kept her composure, left without dumping her drink on him. But one thought burned: *Wrong man to cross.*
She stopped taking the pill. A gambleher last card. Two months later, the test showed two lines. Weeks after, she marched into his office, beaming:
Geoffrey, were having a baby. *Your heir.* She handed him the scan.
She expected tears. Instead, he paled.
What have you *done?* he whispered. Blackmail?
Hes *yours!*
I thought you were smarter than gold-diggers. Did you *seriously* think Id let you leech off me forever?
I *love* you
I wont raise a bastard with my mistress, he snapped. Option one: get rid of it.
Too late. Ive planned this.
He stared, hatred flashing, then hissed:
Fine. You birth it, vanish, and take a lump sumenough for comfort. But *no one* learns hes mine. *Ever.* Break that, and youre penniless.
The figure was staggeringa lifes ransom. He wasnt just buying silence; he was erasing his child. Her stomach dropped. He was colder, shrewder than shed imagined.
But even in defeat, she bargained.
Raise it by twenty percent, she demanded. And draft it as a *gift*ironclad, so your *cosy* wife cant claw it back.
A flicker of respect crossed his face. Done.
Fortnight later, the money hit her account. Payment for disappearing. Not the fairy tale shed dreamed of, but shed sold her youth at a premium.
Before the birth, she fled to Brighton. Bought a cosy flat. The cash meant no panic, no dead-end jobsjust time to think.
At six months, she hired a nanny. Office work was out, so she freelancedonline consults, drafting contracts. She spent sparingly, investing in courses: international law, elite tutors. Suddenly, she *needed* to prove she wasnt just a pretty face.
It was a slow, gruelling climbpram in tow, sleepless nights, exhaustion gnawing. Sometimes, shed study her sons faceso like his fathersand guilt would choke her. *William will never know him.* But shed grit her teeth and think: *This moneys our stake in the world.*
Years passed.
She launched a boutique firm, specialising in remote corporate counsel. Now, she had a name, a reputation, security. She no longer hunted a millionaire husbandshed *become* what shed sought: powerful, self-made.
The path just hadnt been through a bedroom. It was forged in cold calculus, sweat, and the brutal lesson life had dealt her.
