From the moment she was born, Eleanor knew one truth: beauty was currency, and marriage the most lucrative contract. While her mother tried to drill recipes for pickled onions into her head, she watched with pity. Her parents lifeobsessed with pinching pennieswas her greatest cautionary tale.
Listening to her mother weep at night, the girl made a vow: *My home will smell of Chanel, not vinegar. Ill have a penthouse, not a council flat, and a housekeeper to scrub the floors.*
Eleanor knew university fees were out of reach, so she studied relentlessly, choosing a degree with doors to better realitiesLaw. Barristers earned well, but more importantly, they mingled with the right kind of wealthy.
She never hid her views on love. By freshers week, she declared her ambition: a rich husband. Romance wasnt about hearts; it was ROI.
Her mates teased:
*»Ellie, billionaires dont grow on trees!»*
*»No,»* she shot back, *»but theyre always suing each other. Until then, theres art galleries, networking dinners, Michelin-starred restaurants. Why waste my looks on some bloke who cant even afford a deposit?»*
She studied her reflectiontall, poised, chestnut hair cascading past her shoulders, eyes like polished sapphires. She *was* exquisite, and shed wield it like a blade.
Men fell into two camps: those who stammered, and those who eyed her like a trophy. Naturally, she chose the latter. She didnt want love. She wanted leverage.
By third year, she switched to part-time studies and took a clerks job at the High Court. *»I need access to the right circles,»* she told her mother, who pleaded for caution.
Her opportunity came swiftly.
A claimant in a high-stakes casea silver-haired financier in his fiftiesnoticed her sharp mind as much as her looks. Post-trial, he offered her a role as his advisor.
Her life became a whirl of negotiations, champagne flutes, and Mayfair soirées. She was his secret weaponcharming rivals, diffusing tensions, memorising every detail. For a while, she let herself dream hed leave his wife. But on that front, he was immovable.
*»Familys the foundation, darling,»* hed say, adjusting his cufflinks. *»Youre the penthouse.»*
So she pivoted. Scanned his orbit. Found her mark: his business partner, Richard Ashford. A luxury car dealership mogul. Bald, paunchy, with sadhound eyes. Perfect prey.
She engineered their meeting*»accidentally»* spilling wine, *»forgetting»* a glove, asking shrewd questions at his speeches. He bit. Hard.
Their first date lasted five hours. Richard droned about mergers, loneliness, his weariness of gold-diggers. Eleanor nodded, doe-eyed, while thinking: *God, youre dull. But your portfolios divine.*
Within a year: a Bentley. Two: a Knightsbridge flat. She wasnt cagedshe *earned* her keep, drafting contracts, smoothing deals. After each triumph, shed splurge on couture, facials, anything to stay his most dazzling asset.
When her mother fretted she was wasting her youth, Eleanor smirked: *»Relax. Hes mine. Just playing the long game.»*
She believed ituntil Year Five. Nearing thirty, she dropped hints about a registry office. Richard blinked, amused: *»Why ruin perfection with paperwork, pet?»*
Then, the thunderclap.
He took her to The Ivytheir first-date spot. She wore La Perla, ready for a proposal.
*»Eleanor,»* he sipped his claret, *»Ive married.»*
*»What? Who?»*
*»Margaret. From accounts. Shes… different. Makes shepherds pie like my mums. With her, its… easy.»*
The world cracked.
*»Youre joking,»* she hissed. *»Some frumpy bookkeeper stole my future?»*
*»No one steals what was never yours, darling,»* he said, painfully earnest. *»A wife should be… cosy. Youre a masterpiece. Not meant for aprons.»*
It wasnt a slap. It was an obituary. She played her part flawlessly, left without scene. But that night, she plotted.
She stopped her pills. Desperate? Yes. But her last gambit. Two months later: two blue lines. At six weeks, she marched into his office, radiant:
*»Richard… youre going to be a father.»* She handed him the sonogram.
She expected tears. Instead, his face drained.
*»You scheming little»*
*»Hes *your* son!»*
*»Thought you were smarter than this,»* he sneered. *»Youll get one offer: a lump sum to vanish. Never breathe my name. Or Ill drag you through courts until youre penniless.»*
The figure he named could buy a life. Not just silencehis childs future. Her stomach plummeted. Hed outplayed her.
But even checkmate had terms.
*»Raise it twenty percent,»* she said, steel in her voice. *»Draft it as a giftlegally airtight. So your *homely* wife cant claw it back.»*
Something flickered in his gazealmost respect. *»Done.»*
The money hit her account. Payment for erasure. Not the gilded fairytale shed dreamed of, but shed sold her beauty high.
Before the birth, she fled to Bath. Bought a Georgian townhouse. The funds meant no panic, no grind. Just time to think.
By the babys first birthday, shed hired a nanny, skipped the 9-to-5. Started small: freelance consultancies, online LLM courses. She spent sparingly, investing in one thing: proving she wasnt just a pretty face.
The climb was slowsleepless nights, relentless guilt. Her son, William, had his fathers chin, a ghost in his smile. Shed whisper: *»This moneys our share.»*
A decade later, Eleanor Ashford Legal (no coincidence in the name) specialised in offshore corporate law. She had prestige, wealth, security. No need for a millionaire husbandshed become one.
The path wasnt through a bedroom. It was through ice-cold calculus, sleepless grind, and lifes cruelest lesson:
Even the most beautiful pawn could learn to play the king.
