**Diary Entry 15th October, 2023**
From the moment she could understand the world, Emily Whitmore knew beauty was currency, and marriage the most lucrative contract. While her mother tried drilling pickle recipes into her, Emily watched with pity. Her parents lifea never-ending scramble to save pennieswas her greatest cautionary tale.
Listening to her mother weep at night, the girl swore: *My home will smell of Chanel, not vinegar. Ill have a London flat and a housekeeper.*
Emily knew her family couldnt afford university, so she studied relentlessly, choosing a degree that promised escape: Law. Barristers earned well, but more importantly, they mingled with wealthy clients. She made no secret of her ambitions. By freshers week, shed declared her dream of a rich husband. Love isnt romance, shed say, its a sound investment.
Her friends teased, *Emily, billionaires dont grow on trees!*
No, shed retort, but theyre always suing each other. Until then, there are galleries, business seminars, and Michelin-starred restaurants. Why waste my life in a kitchen when nature gave me the perfect lottery ticket?
Shed gaze at her reflectiontall, poised, with chestnut hair and sapphire eyesand admire her own handiwork.
No doubt, she was stunning, and she intended to cash in. Men fell into two categories: those who stammered and those who saw her as a trophy. Naturally, she chose the latter. She wasnt hunting lovejust ROI.
By third year, Emily switched to part-time studies and took a secretary job at a law firm. *I need the right connections,* she told her horrified mother.
Her chance came swiftly.
A clienta distinguished man in his fiftiesnoticed her sharp mind as much as her looks. After the case, he offered her a role as his advisor.
Her life became a whirl of negotiations, champagne receptions, and society dinners. She was his secret weapon, charming partners, easing tensions, remembering every detail. For a while, she hoped hed leave his wife. But he was unmovable.
*Family is the foundation, Emily. Youre my penthouse,* hed say, adjusting his cufflinks.
So she shifted tactics. She studied his circleand found her mark. His business partner, Charles Montague. Owner of a luxury car empire. Lonely, balding, with sad eyes. *Perfect.*
Emily engineered their meetinga chance encounter, a forgotten scarf, a clever question at his seminar. He bit. Hard.
Their first date lasted five hours. Charles rambled about business, loneliness, his weariness of falseness. Emily nodded, smiled, adored himwhile thinking, *God, youre dull. But your bank account isnt.*
Within a year, she had a Mercedes; within two, a Mayfair penthouse. She wasnt a caged birdshe was a skilled solicitor, useful in deals. After every win, she splurged on designer dresses and spa retreats, relishing her role as his most expensive accessory.
When her mother fretted she was wasting her youth, Emily smirked. *Relax. Hes mine. Just playing the long game.*
She was certainuntil five years passed. Nearing thirty, she hinted at marriage. Charles laughed. *Why bother with papers, darling? Were happy.*
Then, the thunderclap.
He took her to their special restaurantthe site of their first date. She wore a new Dior dress, expecting a proposal.
*Emily, Ive married,* he said, sipping Bordeaux.
*What? Who?*
*Margaret. From accounts. She bakes sublime treacle tarts. Reminds me of home.*
The world tilted.
*Youre joking,* she hissed. *Some frumpy bookkeeper stole my future?*
*Youre the most beautiful woman Ive ever known,* he said, absurdly earnest. *But a wife she must be gentle. Homely. Thats not you, my rose.*
It wasnt a slapit was annihilation.
Somehow, she kept her composure. But as she left, one thought burned: *Wrong move.*
She stopped her pills. A reckless gamblebut her last shot. Two months later, a test confirmed it. Weeks after, she marched into his office, radiant.
*Charles, were having a baby. Your heir.* She handed him the scan.
Instead of joy, he paled. *Youre blackmailing me?*
*Hes yours!*
*I wont raise a bastard with a gold-digger.* His voice turned icy. *Terminate it, or*
*Too late.*
He weighed his options. *Fine. Have the child, vanish, and take a settlement. But if anyone learns hes mine, youll be penniless.*
The sum was staggeringenough to buy not just a flat, but a life. He wasnt just paying for silence; he was erasing his son.
Still, she bargained. *Increase it by 20%. And draft it as a giftlegally airtight.*
A flicker of respect crossed his face. *Done.*
The money arrived. Not the fairy tale shed dreamed of, but shed sold her youth at a premium.
Before the birth, she moved to Bristol, bought a cosy flat. The funds bought her timeno panic, no dead-end jobs. Just thought.
After her son, Oliver, turned six months, she hired a nanny. She skipped office lifefreelanced, took online courses in international law, hired an English tutor. She burned to prove she wasnt just a pretty face.
The climb was slowsleepless nights, relentless fatigue. Sometimes, guilt swallowed her. Oliver looked so like his fathera man hed never meet. Shed grit her teeth. *This money is his stake. Ours.*
Years later, Emily runs a boutique firm, specialising in remote legal counsel. She has a name, a reputation, security. No longer hunting a millionaireshe *became* one. Not through a bedroom, but cold calculus, grit, and lifes brutal lesson:
*No one invests in youunless you do first.*
