Age 18 - University
The lecture hall buzzed with nervous energy. Elizabeth stepped to the podium, her slides projecting behind her with military precision. She'd had her father's lawyers draw them up: impeccable formatting, aggressive typography, and the visual language of someone accustomed to power.
"Traditional banking ignores thirty percent of Britain's small businesses," she began, her voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. "They're underserved, undervalued, and underestimated."
She wasn't interested in helping these businesses. She was interested in owning them.
Professor Martinez leaned forward. The other students, her future competitors, shifted uncomfortably as Elizabeth dissected market inefficiencies with surgical precision. Each flaw she identified wasn't a problem to solve; it was an opportunity to exploit. Each underserved market segment wasn't vulnerable people who needed help; it was sheep waiting to be fleeced.
"My solution targets this gap with AI-driven credit assessments and streamlined lending processes," she continued, her green eyes gleaming with something that went beyond intellectual excitement. "Conservative projections show a forty percent return on investment within eighteen months."
She clicked to her final slide, exponential growth curves that curved upward like the trajectory of a hunting bird in a steep dive.
"I'm seeking fifty thousand pounds in seed funding. Nothing more."
Silence. Then Professor Martinez smiled, that particular smile of recognition that Elizabeth had learnt to cultivate. The smile that meant she'd impressed someone worth impressing.
"Miss Wynsor, I believe we need to discuss your projections over coffee."
Three weeks later, the cheque arrived in a small envelope that felt somehow too light for the weight of what it represented. Elizabeth held it in her hands, turning it over slowly as if it might vanish if she wasn't careful. Fifty thousand pounds. Not because anyone believed in her vision, but because Martinez recognised a predator when he saw one.
Her parents beamed beside her in their modest sitting room. Catherine pressed a cup of tea into her daughter's hands while Alexander reviewed the business plan with a lawyer's precision. They looked proud, the way people look when they've created something exceptional and are desperately hoping it won't destroy them.
"We're proud of you, sweetheart," Catherine said, smoothing Elizabeth's hair with a tenderness that felt somehow accusatory. "Just remember, success means nothing if you lose yourself along the way."
Elizabeth nodded, the way good daughters nod. But her mind was already racing ahead to market penetration strategies, to the competitive positioning that would crush anyone foolish enough to enter her territory.
Her mother's words dissolved into background noise within minutes. Success means nothing if you lose yourself along the way. The whisper followed her out of the sitting room, but she pushed it away. She'd deal with conscience later. Right now, she needed to build an empire.
Age 19-21 - The Refusal
The converted warehouse office thrummed with energy. Elizabeth had rented it specifically for its raw industrial aesthetic, exposed brick, high ceilings, and the visual language of ambitious startup culture. At nineteen, she'd already learnt that surroundings communicated before words did.
Ivy burst through the conference room doors, cheeks flushed with excitement. She was seventeen, brilliant in that undisciplined way of people who'd never had to fight for anything. Elizabeth's baby sister was barely containing her enthusiasm.
"Meredith Holdings wants to partner with us," she announced, practically vibrating. "They're offering to fast-track our Series A funding. We're talking twenty million pounds, Liz."
Across the table, Ash watched with his usual careful attention. At twenty, he'd taken to business like he'd taken to everything else in life: competently, dutifully, without the hunger that drove Elizabeth forward.
"What's the catch?" Elizabeth asked, already knowing the answer. There was always a catch.
"They want majority control," Ash said quietly. "Fifty-one percent."
"No."
Ivy's face crumpled with something between hurt and frustration. "Elizabeth."
"I said no." Elizabeth's fingers moved across her keyboard, already dismissing the proposal, filing it away with the dozens of other attempts to seduce her into complacency. "That's their play. They offer capital, we become dependent, and before we realise what's happened, they've replaced us with their own people. I didn't build this from nothing to hand it over to people who've never had to build anything at all."
It wasn't about the principle of the thing. It was about control. Absolute, unquestionable control.
"But the expansion potential..." Ivy started.
"We'll find another way," Elizabeth interrupted. "A way that doesn't involve ceding command."
She always did find another way. Because Elizabeth Wynsor was constitutionally incapable of accepting limitations or acknowledging that anyone else's judgement might be superior to her own.
Age 22-24 - The Vote
The council chamber roared with desperation. Mrs Longford clutched a faded photograph showing her family across four generations, all gathered on the front steps of a small terraced house. The house that Elizabeth's company wanted to demolish.
"This is my home. My children's home. Four generations of my family have lived on Riverside Street," Mrs Longford continued, tears streaming down her face. "We're not asking for charity. Just time. Time to find somewhere else, time to help our elderly neighbours, time to..."
"Ma'am, your time is up," interrupted the council moderator, who knew better than to let sentiment disrupt proceedings when Elizabeth Wynsor had financial interests at stake.
Elizabeth sat in the gallery, Louboutin heels tapping once. Twice. She shifted forward half an inch, then caught herself and stilled her spine. She was testing the power she exerted simply through her presence. These people were afraid of her. Two hundred families' worth of people, and they were all afraid.
Her phone buzzed. All permits secured. Vote's a formality.
She slipped it into her clutch without responding. She didn't need to respond. The message had been clear: she'd already won.
"All in favour of Development Proposal 847-B?"
Five hands rose in unison, mechanical and obedient.
"Motion carries."
The gavel fell like a guillotine.
Two hundred families. Displaced by afternoon.
Outside on the courthouse steps, Mrs Longford collapsed into her daughter's arms, her whole body wracking with sobs. Elizabeth walked past them toward her car, her heels clicking against rain-slicked pavement with the precision of a metronome.
"You're her, aren't you?" The daughter's voice was sharp with grief and rage. "The Wynsor girl?"
Elizabeth paused. Her hand was on the car door. For a moment, she saw herself reflected in the rain-streaked window: sharp suit, perfect makeup, and green eyes that held no mercy.
"I hope you sleep well at night," the girl continued, her voice breaking. "Knowing what you've done."
Elizabeth slid into the driver's seat without responding. There was nothing to say. She would sleep well at night. She always did.