From the moment she was born, Eliza knew she was beautiful. Even as a child, she understood one truth: beauty was currency, and marriage the most profitable contract. While her mother tried to drill recipes for pickles into her head, Eliza watched with pity. Her parents’ lives, consumed by petty economies, were the very example of what she would never become.
Listening to her mother cry at night, the girl vowed that her home would smell of expensive perfume, not vinegar. She would have a grand London flat and a maid.
Eliza knew university fees were beyond her means, so she prepared early, choosing a degree with prospectsLaw. Here, shed find professionals who earned well and, more importantly, wealthy clients. She made no secret of her views on love. By her first year, she declared to anyone whod listen that she dreamed of a rich husbandlove wasnt romance but a shrewd investment.
Her friends teased her. “Eliza, tycoons dont grow on trees!”
“No,” shed retort, “but theyre always suing over money.” In the meantime, she frequented galleries, business seminars, and high-end restaurants. “Its foolish to waste away in a kitchen when nature gave me everything to win the jackpot.”
She admired her reflectiontall, statuesque, with chestnut hair and large eyeswithout shame. There was no doubt she was beautiful, and she intended to use it. Men around her fell into two camps: those who stammered nervously and those who saw her as a trophy. Naturally, she preferred the latter. She sought not love but profit.
By her third year, she switched to part-time studies and took a job as a clerk at a courthouse. “I need experience and access to the right circles,” she told her mother, who tried to dissuade her.
Her chance came swiftly.
A plaintiff in one casea distinguished man in his fiftiesnoticed not just Elizas looks but her sharp mind. After the trial, he offered her a position as his advisor.
Her life became a whirl of negotiations, cocktail parties, and society events. She was his secret weapon, charming partners, easing tensions, remembering every detail. For a while, she nursed hopes hed leave his wife for her. But on that front, he was immovable.
“Family is the foundation, my dear,” hed say, adjusting his cufflinks. “Youre my penthouse.”
So she changed tactics, studying his circle. And she found her new target: his business partner, Henry Whitmore. Owner of a chain of motor dealerships. Unmarried, balding, with sad eyes. Perfect prey.
Eliza crafted her plan meticulously. She “accidentally” bumped into him, “forgot” her scarf, asked intelligent questions at his speeches. Of course, he took the bait.
Their first date lasted five hours. Henry spoke of business, loneliness, his weariness of insincerity. Eliza listened, nodded, gazed adoringlywhile thinking, *How dull. But how useful. Ill endure it.*
Within a year, she had a car; within two, a lavish flat in Mayfair. She wasnt a caged birdshe was a skilled solicitor, often proving indispensable. After every deal where she played a part, she indulged in extravagant clothes, cosmetics, treatments. She relished being his most expensive accessory.
When her mother lamented her wasting her best years on empty affection, Eliza smirked. “Relax. Hes mine. Hes just stalling.”
She was certain of it. Yet five years passed. Nearing thirty, still unwed, she gently hinted at marriage. Henry only laughed. “Why bother with papers, my dear? Were happy as we are.”
Then came the thunderclap.
He invited her to *their* restaurantwhere theyd first dined. She wore a new dress, expecting a proposal.
“Eliza,” he said, sipping wine, “Ive married.”
“What? Who?”
“Margaret. From accounts. You wouldnt know her. Shes different. Bakes wonderful pies. Her pickles taste like my mothers. With her, its peaceful.”
The world shattered.
“Youre joking,” she hissed, fury barely contained. “Some plain little mouse who cans vegetables stole my place?”
“Your place cant be stolen, darling,” he said, stupidly earnest. “Youre the most beautiful woman Ive ever known. But a wife she must be kind. Homely. That isnt you, my rose. Surely you see that?”
It was worse than a slap. It was the end. In an instant, she knew shed been used and discarded. Miraculously, she didnt throw her drink in his face. Noshe played her role flawlessly. But as she left, one thought burned: *Youve picked the wrong woman.*
She stopped taking her pills. A reckless gamble, but her last chance. Two months later, the test showed two lines. Weeks after, she stood in his office, radiant.
“Henry, were having a child. Your heir.” She handed him the sonogram.
She expected joyous tears. Instead, he paled.
“What have you done?” he whispered. “You think to blackmail me?”
“Hes your son!”
“I thought you smarter than greedy girls. Did you truly believe Id let you leech off me forever?”
“I love you,” she attempted weakly.
“I wont raise a bastard with a mistress,” he snapped. “Two choices. Get rid of it, or”
“Too late. Ive thought of everything.”
He glared, then hissed, “Of courseyoure a solicitor. Fine. Have it. Disappear. Youll get a single paymentenough to live comfortably. But one condition: no one ever learns hes mine. Or youll be penniless.”
The sum he named was staggering. Enough to buy not just a flat but a life. He was purchasing her silenceand his childs future. Her heart plunged. This man was colder, sharper than shed imagined.
But even in defeat, she bargained.
“Twenty percent more,” she demanded. “And the transfer is a giftlegally clean. So you and your *homely* wife cant contest it later.”
Something like respect flickered in his gaze. “Agreed.”
Two weeks later, the money was hers. Payment for silence. So it hadnt gone as shed dreamed in youthbut shed still sold her beauty dearly.
Before the birth, she left London. Bought a cosy flat in Bath. The money meant no panic, no frantic job hunts. She could think.
When her son turned six months, she hired a nanny. Office work was out of the question, so she began smallonline consultations, freelance cases. She spent frugally, investing in education: international law courses, English tutors. Suddenly, she needed to prove she was more than a pretty face.
It was a slow, grinding climb. Pushing a pram, sleepless nights, endless fatigue. Sometimes, gazing at her sonVictor, so like the father hed never knowguilt swallowed her. But she clenched her teeth. *This money is our shared stake.*
Years passed.
Eliza opened a small firm, specializing in remote business law. She had a name, a reputation, security. She no longer sought a wealthy husbandshed become what she once hunted: strong, independent, prosperous. Only the path hadnt been through a bedroom, but cold calculation, hard work, and lifes cruel lesson.
