**Diary Entry**
From the time she was a little girl, Emily Whitcombe understood one truth: beauty was currency, and marriage was the most lucrative contract. While her mother tried to drill pickling recipes into her head, Emily would watch with pity. Her parents livesconsumed by penny-pinching and endless choreswere the ultimate cautionary tale.
Listening to her mother cry at night, the girl made a vow: *My home will smell of expensive perfume, not vinegar. Ill have a grand flat and a housekeeper.*
Emily knew university wouldnt be funded for her, so she studied relentlessly, choosing a degree that promised upward mobilityLaw. It was a world of well-paid professionals and, more importantly, wealthy clients.
She never hid her views on love. By her first term, she openly declared her ambition to marry rich. *Love isnt romance,* shed say. *Its an investment.*
Her girlfriends teased her. *”Emily, millionaires dont grow on trees!”*
*”No,”* shed retort, *”but theyre always in court over money. Until then, there are art galleries, networking events, and high-end restaurants. Why waste my life in a kitchen when Ive been given everything to win the lottery?”*
Emily admired her reflectiontall, poised, with chestnut hair and striking eyes. Undeniably, she was stunning, and she intended to use it. Men fell into two categories: those who stammered nervously and those who saw her as a trophy. Naturally, she favoured the latter. She wasnt after loveonly profit.
By her third year, she switched to part-time studies and took a secretary job at a courthouse. *”I need experience and access to the right circles,”* she told her mother, who urged her to reconsider.
Her opportunity came quickly.
A plaintiff in one casea distinguished man in his fiftiesappreciated not just her looks but her sharp wit. After the trial, he offered her a role as his advisor.
Her life became a whirlwind of negotiations, cocktail parties, and galas. She was his secret weapon, charming clients and remembering every detail. For a while, Emily hoped hed leave his wife for her. But he was immovable.
*”Family is the foundation, my dear,”* hed say, adjusting his cufflinks. *”Youre my penthouseluxurious, but not where I live.”*
So, she shifted tactics. She studied his circle and found a new target: his business partner, Richard Hawthorne. Owner of a luxury car dealership. Unmarried, balding, with sad eyes. Perfect prey.
Emily crafted her plan. She *”accidentally”* bumped into him, *”forgot”* her scarf, asked clever questions at his talks. Of course, he took the bait.
Their first date lasted five hours. Richard rambled about business, loneliness, and how tired he was of insincerity. Emily nodded adoringly while thinking, *God, hes dull. But rich. Ill endure it.*
Within a year, she had a car. Within two, a penthouse in Mayfair. She wasnt cagedshe was a skilled lawyer, useful in his deals. After each success, she revelled in spending obscene amounts on clothes, cosmetics, treatments. She loved being his most expensive accessory.
When her mother fretted that she was wasting her youth on empty romance, Emily smirked. *”Relax. Hes mine. Hes just dragging his feet.”*
She was certainuntil five years passed. Nearing thirty, she delicately hinted at marriage. Richard just chuckled. *”Why bother with paperwork, sweetheart? Were happy as we are.”*
Then, the hammer fell.
He took her to their favourite restaurantthe site of their first date. She wore a new dress, expecting a proposal.
*”Emily,”* he said, sipping his wine, *”Ive married someone else.”*
*”What? Who?”*
*”Margaret. From accounts. Shes different. Bakes amazing pies. Her pickles taste just like my mothers. Shes peaceful.”*
Her world shattered.
*”Youre joking,”* she hissed. *”Some plain, pickle-making mouse stole my future?”*
*”No one stole anything,”* he said, painfully earnest. *”Youre the most beautiful woman Ive ever known. But a wife? She should be kind. Homely. Thats not you, my rose.”*
It wasnt a slap. It was annihilation. She played her part flawlessly that night, but inside, she seethed: *You picked the wrong woman.*
Emily stopped taking her pillsa reckless gamble, but her last hope. Two months later, the test was positive. Weeks after, she marched into his office, radiant.
*”Richard, were having a baby. Your heir.”* She handed him the sonogram.
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 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, or”*
*”Too late. Ive thought this through.”*
He stared, hateful, then coldly laid out terms: shed vanish, take a lump sum, and never reveal the childs parentage. The amount was staggeringenough to buy not just a flat, but a life. He was buying her silence, his childs future. Her stomach twisted. He was crueller, sharper, than shed imagined.
But even in defeat, she bargained.
*”Increase it by twenty percent,”* she demanded. *”And draft it as a giftlegally airtight. So you and your *cosy* wife cant contest it later.”*
Something like respect flickered in his gaze. *”Done.”*
Two weeks later, the money arrived. Payment for her disappearance. Maybe it wasnt the fairy tale shed envisioned, but shed sold her youth at a premium.
Before the birth, she moved to Bristol. Bought a modest flat. The money bought her timeno panic, no scrambling for work.
When her son turned six months, she hired a nanny. Office life was impossible with a baby, so she started small: online consultations, freelance cases. She spent sparingly, investing in educationelite online law courses, English tutors. Suddenly, she needed to prove she wasnt just a pretty face.
It was a slow, gruelling climb. Sleepless nights, relentless fatigue. Sometimes, shed look at her sonso like the father hed never meetand guilt would choke her. *But we have a head start,* shed think. *This money is our stake in the world.*
Years passed.
Emily now runs a boutique law firm specialising in remote business services. She has a name, a reputation, security. She no longer chases a wealthy husbandshe *is* what she once sought: strong, independent, prosperous. The path just wasnt through a bedroom. It was through cold calculation, hard work, and the brutal lesson life taught her.
**Lesson learned:** Beauty opens doors, but only cunning and grit keep them from slamming shut.
