From childhood, Emily Whitmore learned one truth: beauty is currency, and marriage is the most profitable contract. While her mother tried to drill pickling recipes into her head, she looked at her with pity. Her parents lifeconsumed by penny-pinchingwas the ultimate cautionary tale for their daughter.
Listening to her mother cry at night, the girl vowed: *My home will smell of expensive perfume, not vinegar. Ill have a grand flat and a housekeeper.*
Emily knew her family couldnt afford private education, so she studied relentlessly, choosing a degree that could lift her into a better world. Law. It promised respectable earnings and, more importantly, wealthy clients.
She never hid her views on love. Even as a fresher, she declared her dream of a rich husband, insisting romance was mere sentimentlove was an investment.
Her friends teased, *»Em, tycoons dont grow on trees!»*
*»No, but theyre always suing over money,»* she countered. *»Until then, there are galleries, business seminars, and fine dining. Why waste my life in a kitchen when nature gave me everything to win the jackpot?»*
Emily studied her reflectiontall, statuesque, with chestnut hair and large, striking eyesand admired herself without shame.
There was no doubt she was beautiful, and she intended to use it fully. Men fell into two categories: those who stuttered nervously and those who saw her as a trophy. Naturally, she preferred the latter. She sought not love, but a lucrative opportunity.
By her third year, she switched to part-time studies and took a secretarial job at a courthouse. *»I need experienceand access to the right circles,»* she told her mother, who tried to dissuade her.
Her chance came swiftly.
A claimant in one case, a distinguished man in his fifties, noticed not just Emilys looks but her sharp wit. After the trial, he offered her a role as his advisor.
Her life became a whirl of negotiations, cocktail parties, and high-society events. She was his secret weaponable to charm partners, defuse tension, recall every detail. For a while, she nursed hope he might leave his wife for her. But on that front, he was immovable.
*»Family is the foundation, Emmy. Youre my penthouse suite,»* hed say, adjusting his cufflinks.
She changed tactics, studying his inner circleand found her new target. His business partner, James Wilton. Owner of a luxury car dealership. Unmarried, balding, with sad eyes. Perfect prey.
Emily crafted her plan. She «accidentally» bumped into him, «forgot» a scarf, asked clever questions during his talks. Of course, he took the bait.
Their first date lasted five hours. James spoke of business, loneliness, the exhaustion of insincerity. Emily listened, nodded, gazed adoringlywhile thinking, *How dull. But how promising. Ill endure.*
Within a year, she had a car. Within two, a penthouse in Mayfair. She wasnt caged; she was a skilled solicitor, proving useful in deals. After each success, she lavished money on clothes, cosmetics, treatments. She relished being his most expensive accessory.
When her mother lamented her wasting her best years on empty affection, Emily smirked. *»Relax. Hes mine. Just biding his time.»*
She was certainuntil five years passed. Nearing thirty, with no proposal in sight, she gently hinted at marriage. James looked baffled, brushing it off. *»Why bother with paperwork, Em? Were happy as we are.»*
Then, disaster struck.
He invited her to *their* restaurantwhere theyd had their first date. She wore a new dress, expecting a ring.
*»Emily, Ive married,»* he said, sipping wine.
*»What? Who?»*
*»Claire. From accounts. You wouldnt know her. Shes different. Bakes incredible pies. Her pickles taste like my mums. Its peaceful with her.»*
Her world shattered.
*»Youre joking,»* she hissed, rage barely contained. *»Some mousy accountant who cans vegetables stole my future?»*
*»No one stole anything, darling,»* he said, unbearably earnest. *»Youre the most stunning woman Ive known. But a wife should be kind. Homely. Thats not you, my rose.»*
It was worse than a slap. She played her role flawlessly, left with one thought: *Hell regret this.*
She stopped taking pillsa reckless gamble, but her last chance. Two months later, a test showed two lines. Weeks after, she entered his office, radiant.
*»James, were having a baby. Your heir.»* She handed him the ultrasound.
She expected tears of joy. He paled.
*»What have you done?»* he whispered. *»Blackmail?»*
*»Hes yours!»*
*»I thought you were smarter than gold-diggers. Did you really think Id let you leech off me forever?»*
*»I love you,»* she tried weakly.
*»I wont raise a bastard with a mistress,»* he snapped. *»Two choices. Get rid of it»*
*»Too late. Ive planned everything.»*
He glared, then said coldly, *»Fine. Keep it. Disappear. Youll get a one-time paymentenough for comfort. But one condition: no one ever knows Im the father. Break that, and you get nothing.»*
The sum was staggeringa lifes worth. He wasnt just buying silence; he was buying his childs future. Her stomach dropped. He was crueler, sharper than shed imagined.
But even defeated, she bargained.
*»Increase it by twenty percent,»* she demanded. *»And structure it as a tax-free gift. Legally airtight. So you and your *cosy* wife cant claw it back.»*
His icy stare flickeredsomething like respect. *»Done.»*
Two weeks later, the money arrived. Payment for silence. Perhaps not the fairytale shed dreamed of, but shed sold her youth and beauty at a premium.
Before the birth, she moved awaybought a modest flat. The money meant no panic, no scrambling for work. She could think.
When her son turned six months, she hired a nanny. Office work was impossible, so she freelancedconsulting, drafting documents, handling minor cases. She spent sparingly, investing mostly in education: elite online courses in international law, private English tutors. Suddenly, she needed to prove she wasnt just a pretty face.
It was a slow, grueling climbpushing a pram, sleepless nights, endless fatigue. Sometimes, guilt overwhelmed her. William looked so much like the father hed never meet. Shed grit her teeth and think, *But we have capital. This money is his share too.*
Years passed.
Emily now runs a boutique firm specialising in remote business law. She has a name, reputation, security. She no longer hunts for a millionaire husbandshe became what she sought: strong, independent, wealthy. Only the path wasnt through a bedroom, but cold calculation, hard work, and the brutal lesson life taught her.
