From the moment she was born, Eleanor knew she was beautiful. Even as a child, she understood one truth: beauty was currency, and marriage was the most profitable contract. While her mother tried to drill recipes for Sunday roasts into her, Eleanor watched with pity. Her parents lifea relentless grind of pinching pennieswas her greatest cautionary tale.
Listening to her mother cry at night, the girl vowed: *My home will smell of Chanel, not gravy. Ill have a penthouse, not a council flatand a housekeeper to clean it.*
Eleanor knew university fees were out of the question, so she studied relentlessly and chose a degree that promised an escape hatch: Law. It was a world of professionals who earned welland, more importantly, wealthy clients.
She made no secret of her views on love. By freshers week, she told anyone whod listen that she wanted a rich husband, that love wasnt romance but a sound investment.
Her friends teased her:
«Ellie, millionaires dont grow on trees!»
«No, but theyre always suing each other over money,» she shot back. «Until then, there are art galleries, networking events, and Michelin-starred restaurants. And frankly, itd be daft to waste my life in a kitchen when nature gave me everything to hit the jackpot.»
She studied her reflectiontall, statuesque, with chestnut hair and striking green eyesand admired herself without shame.
No doubt about it, she was stunningand she intended to use it. Men fell into two categories: those who stammered and those who saw her as a trophy. Naturally, she preferred the latter. She wasnt looking for lovejust a lucrative ROI.
By third year, Eleanor switched to part-time studies and took a job as a clerk at a London court. «I need experienceand access to the right circles,» she told her mother, who begged her to reconsider.
Her opportunity came quickly.
A plaintiff in one casea distinguished man in his fiftiesnoticed not just her looks but her sharp wit. After the trial, he offered her a job as his advisor.
Her life became a whirlwind of negotiations, cocktail parties, and charity galas. She was his secret weaponcharming clients, defusing tension, remembering every detail. For a while, she let herself hope hed leave his wife. But on that front, he was unmovable.
«Family is the foundation, Ellie,» hed say, adjusting his cufflinks. «Youre my penthouse suite.»
So she shifted tactics. She studied his inner circleand found her new target. His business partner, Charles Whitmore. Owner of a luxury car dealership. Single, balding, with sad, tired eyes. Perfect prey.
Eleanor crafted her plan meticulously. She «accidentally» bumped into him, «forgot» her scarf, asked clever questions during his speeches. Of course, he bitquickly.
Their first date lasted five hours. Charles talked business, loneliness, his weariness of fake people. Eleanor listened, nodded, gazed adoringlywhile thinking, *God, hes dull. But loaded. Worth enduring.*
Within a year, she had a Mercedes. Within two, a Mayfair flat. She wasnt a caged bird; she was a skilled solicitor, useful in deals. After every win, she splurged on designer clothes, facials, spa retreatsdelighting in being his most expensive accessory.
When her mother fretted she was wasting her youth on empty romance, Eleanor smirked.
«Relax. Hes mine. Just biding his time.»
She was certainuntil five years passed. Nearing thirty, with no ring, she gently hinted at marriage. Charles blinked, amused. «Why bother with paperwork, darling? Were happy as we are.»
Then came the thunderclap.
He took her to *their* restaurantthe site of their first date. She wore a new dress, anticipating a proposal.
«Eleanor, Ive married,» he said, sipping wine.
«*What?* Who?»
«Margaret. From accounts. You wouldnt know her. Shes… different. Makes a cracking shepherds pie. Pickles just like Mums. With her, its… peaceful.»
Her world crumbled.
«Youre joking,» she hissed, rage simmering. «Some frumpy bean-counter who makes *pickles* stole my future?»
«Darling, no one stole anything,» he said, maddeningly earnest. «Youll always be the most beautiful woman Ive known. But a wife… she should be kind. Nurturing. *Homely.* Thats not you, my rose.»
It wasnt a slapit was annihilation. In seconds, she grasped the truth: shed been used, then discarded. Somehow, she kept her composure, even smiled. But leaving, one thought burned: *Wrong man to cross.*
She stopped taking pillsa reckless gamble, but her last shot. Two months later, the test showed two lines. Weeks after, she marched into his office, glowing.
«Charles, were having a baby. *Your* heir.»
She handed him the ultrasound.
Instead of joy, he paled.
«What have you *done*?» he whispered. «Trying to blackmail me?»
«Hes *yours*!»
«I thought you were smarter than gold-diggers. Did you really think Id let you leech off me forever?»
«Charles, I love you,» she lied badly.
«I wont raise a bastard with my mistress,» he spat. «Two choices. Either you terminate»
«Too late. Ive planned this.»
He stared, hatred flashing, then said coldly,
«Fine. Youre the solicitorhave it your way. Have the brat, vanish, and take a one-off payment. Enough for comfort. But one condition: *No one* learns who the father is. *Ever.* Or you get nothing.»
The sum he named was staggeringenough to buy not just a flat, but a *life.* He wasnt just purchasing silence; he was erasing his child. Her stomach plummeted. This man was colder, shrewder than shed imagined.
But even in defeat, she bargained.
«Twenty percent more,» she said, steel in her voice. «And its a *gift* in the contractairtight. So you and your *homely* wife cant claw it back later.»
He studied her, something like respect flickering.
«Done.»
Two weeks later, the money cleared. Payment for disappearing. So her dream hadnt unfolded as plannedbut shed still sold her youth at a premium.
Before the birth, she moved to Bath. Bought a cosy townhouse. The money meant no panic, no scrambling for work. She could think.
When her son turned six months, she hired a nanny. Office life was impossible with a baby, so she started smallonline consultations, freelance casework. She spent sparingly, investing in education: elite online courses in international law, private English tutors. Suddenly, she *needed* to proveto herself, to everyoneshe wasnt just a pretty face.
It was a slow, gruelling climbpram in tow, sleepless nights, endless fatigue. Sometimes, shed look at her son, guilt gnawing. *William* had his fathers eyesa man hed never meet. Shed grit her teeth and think, *But we have seed money. This is our shared stake.*
Years passed.
Eleanor now runs a boutique firm specialising in remote corporate law. She has a name, a reputation, security. She no longer hunts for a millionaire husbandbecause she *became* what she sought: strong, independent, self-made. The path just wasnt through a bedroom. It was through cold calculus, relentless work, and the brutal lesson life taught her.
