29October
Im late again, and this time it feels like the world is conspiring against me. Im due at the Grand Oak Hotel to finalize the banquet for a hundred guests, approve the menu, taste the dishes, discuss the floral arrangements and the seating planall before tomorrows wedding to Arthur. The traffic on the M25 is a sea of brake lights, the evening rush turning the road into a static ribbon of red. My temples throb with every minute that slips away.
Sophie Whitmore, thirtyseven, owns a chain of five upscale beauty salons called Enchantment. Shes a hardnosed, successful businesswomanoften called a steel magnoliawho knows exactly what she wants from her work, her staff, her life. Except for love. Ten years I poured into building an empire of beauty, leaving no room for romance, family, or even a quiet moment for myself. My heart was a hollow until he appeared: Arthur. Polite, attentive, impeccably dressed, with a flawless résumé. It seemed fate finally handed me a shot at personal happiness.
The jam finally cleared when I veered onto a side street, and within fifteen minutes I was pulling up outside the opulent Grand Oak. My pulse hammered; a checklist of questions raced through my mind. As I turned toward the entrance, a small figure darted into my path.
A barefoot girl, about ten, in a threadbare dress that had seen better days, clutched a sagging bunch of wilted roses. The scent around her was of dust and neglect.
Could I have some flowers, please? she whispered, offering a drooping rose whose petals were already falling.
Not now, love, I tried to brush her aside, hurrying toward the revolving doors. She was quicker, stepping back into my way, her wide, tooold eyes pleading desperately.
Please, I really need them. This is the last bunch, she pressed the flowers to her chest, and I could see the tremor in her shoulders.
Good heavens, I have no time for this! I snapped internally. And besides, Im supposed to be buying flowers from gentlemen, not street kids.
Just as I reached the doors, she called out, voice suddenly steadier, Dont marry him.
I froze, the world jolting to a halt. What what did you say? My breath caught.
She stared at me, unblinking, her gaze cutting straight through me. Dont marry Arthur. Hes lying to you.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. How could you possibly know my fiancés name? I asked, voice shaky.
I saw everything, she said. Hes seeing another woman. Theyre spending his moneyyour money. She drives a white car with a dent in the left wing, just like yours.
My mind raced. The dentyes, Id nicked the left wing of my car last month in an underground garage. Wed never told anyone, never had it repaired. How could this girl know?
You youve been watching me? I breathed.
Watching him, she corrected, calm as a stone. He killed my mother. Not with his hands, but with his lies. She died of a broken heart.
I sank onto the pavement, lowering myself to her level. The streetlight illuminated each freckle on her pale face, the grime on her cheeks, the thin, scraped toes of her feet.
Tell me everything, I whispered. Who was your mother?
Her name was Iris, the girl said, a sorrow older than her years spilling from her voice. She owned a huge flower shop that smelled like heaven. Then he arrivedMax, thats what he called himself. He gifted her a massive bouquet, visited daily, whispered sweet things. She fell for him, like a child.
My mind flashed to Arthur, not Max, but the description felt eerily familiar.
Perhaps youve got the wrong man? I suggested, hoping denial.
She shook her head, her braids swaying. Its the same. He has a scar on his right hand, right here, she traced a line on her wrist. He always wears a grey suit with a cherryred silk tie. You gave him that tie for his birthday, and he bragged about it to his mother on the phone. She wept.
My throat went dry. I had indeed bought him that tie in Milan a month ago, telling myself it was a token of affection. I felt the floor tilt beneath me.
Please, go on, I implored.
My mother poured all her savingsthree hundred thousand poundsinto his business. He promised a chain of restaurants, the very kind were standing in now, she pointed at the Grand Oak. She sold the shop, the flowers, her dreams, gave him everything. He promised marriage, a life by the sea, then vanished. She wrote, called, waited two months later she was dead, heart failure from the stress.
I remembered investing four hundred thousand pounds of my own money into Arthurs venture. The numbers aligned like a nightmare.
She dug a crumpled photograph from the pocket of her dress. It showed a man and a woman embracing in a park. The mans hair was shorter, his beard less full than Arthurs, but the eyes were unmistakable.
Where did you get this? I asked, my voice trembling.
It was the only photo Mum kept. I found it two weeks after she was buried, she whispered. I saw him on the street, wanted to ask why, got scared, then started watching. I saw him pull up to your house, watched you kiss him, and thought I had to warn you so you wouldnt suffer as my mother did.
Tears welled as I stared at the barefoot girl, her tiny hands clutching proof of my folly. Whats your name? I asked, throat tight.
Poppy, she replied.
Are you hungry? I asked, softening.
She nodded, the simple motion speaking volumes of her loneliness.
Come with me. Eat first, then tell me everything from the start.
The hotels maître d, a polished gentleman in a crisp suit, greeted us with a smile that faded when he saw my companion. Mrs Whitmore, youve brought a child? he asked, a hint of disapproval in his tone.
Yes, please set us a table in the quiet corner, and bring the menu, I said, cutting him off before he could protest.
I ordered a full dessert platter, a creamy soup, and a tender filet mignon for Poppy. She ate with a careful neatness taught by a mother shed never known, each bite reverent, each swallow a reminder of the dignity she tried to preserve. My earlier harshness filled me with shame.
Where do you live now, Poppy? I asked when she paused.
In a temporary care home called The Beacon. Theyre looking for a permanent family for me, she replied.
A care home for a tenyearold, alone in a cruel worldmy heart clenched.
Tell me about your mother and this Max, I prompted.
She set her spoon down, folded her hands, and began a calm, detached account, as if reciting a report. Iris had been a soughtafter florist, catering to corporate events, single, strong, yearning for a partners support. Maxwho introduced himself as Maximarrived with grand promises, a massive bouquet, daily visits, and tender words that melted her heart. He claimed he was building a chain of elite restaurants but lacked startup capital. He swore hed return the money with interest, marry her, and take her to the seaside. She invested three hundred thousand pounds, gave him the shop, the flowers, everything. He vanished, leaving her in a spiral of messages, unanswered calls, and endless grief until she died of a broken heart.
My own story mirrored his, except my empire comprised five beauty salons, a more substantial property portfolio, and a larger sumfour hundred thousand poundsinvested in Arthurs restaurant venture.
Did she ever go to the police? I asked, already knowing the answer.
She did. They said it was a failed investment, not fraud. No crime, no evidence. She kept pleading, sending messages, seeing the blue doubleticks, but he never replied. She eventually stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stared out the window each day until she simply stopped breathing.
Poppys eyes glistened. Yesterday I saw him at the Gallery Mall buying a mink coat for another woman. The shop assistant called out Mrs Whitmore, happy shopping! using my name. He paid with the gold card I gave him for expenses.
My heart sank. That was my spare credit card, given to him for incidental costs.
Could you show me this woman? I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Poppy nodded confidently. Shes tall, blonde, wearing the same perfume as you, she described, sweet, floral.
After lunch I drove Poppy back to The Beacon, a brick building on the outskirts, then home to my townhouse Id bought before meeting Arthur. He was there, lounging on the sofa in my slippers, a laptop open, a film playing. He greeted me with a dazzling, almost cinematic smile.
Hello, sunshine. Hows the menu? All set? he asked, pulling me into an embrace, his breath scented with mint and coffee.
I froze, then mechanically returned the hug, pressing my cheek to his chest, inhaling the familiar scent that now turned my stomach. Yes, everythings approved, I managed. Our wedding is in a month.
He whispered sweet, deceptive words into my hair, promising a future that now felt like a lie. Later, when he fell asleep, I slipped to his laptop, recalling the password hed bragged about777777because we were supposed to have no secrets. I opened his inbox and the world collapsed.
Folders were neatly arranged with correspondence to five women. Each message echoed the same phrases: youre my only one, my sunshine, Im dreaming of our future. Each pleaded for moneyinvestment in a startup, temporary business troubles, partners have defaulted, need urgent help.
Photos showed him with different women in various cities, arms around them, kisses, eyes full of feigned love. The same charming Arthur in every frame.
Then a spreadsheet titled Accounts listed names and sums: Sophie £40,000, Svetlana £20,000, Elena £15,000, Iris £30,000, Olga £8,000. Total £113,000.
It was a meticulously crafted scam using womens trust as capital. I shut the laptop, lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Sleep, my dear liar, I thought, this is your last peaceful night in this bed.
Morning arrived. I performed my role flawlessly: a kiss, a gentle smile, a loving I love you. When he left, I set my plan in motion with cold precision.
First, I hired a seasoned private detective through trusted contacts. He traced every woman, arranged meetings under the pretense of a reunion. Each woman, shocked and humiliated, recounted the same patternflowers, dinner dates, grand promises, empty wallets, sudden disappearance.
The detective summed it up: A professional golddigger, toptier. He targets successful, emotionally hungry women, extracts large sums, and vanishes after the wedding, when he can claim half the assets.
I asked, What should I do?
Report him to the police immediately. Gather the victims, file a joint statement. You have overwhelming evidence.
I did exactly that. Three women agreed to testify, and we convened in the back room of my flagship salon, a private, plush space where four strangers bound by betrayal shared their stories. The atmosphere was heavy with shame and anger.
The police need a solid case, the detective told us. But theyll need to catch him redhanded, receiving money or negotiating a new deal.
Ill provide that moment, I replied, my resolve icecold.
I continued living with Arthur as if nothing had changed, laughing at his jokes, planning the wedding, and the honeymoon, all while plotting his downfall. Two weeks later, over dinner, I suggested a celebratory dinner at the Grand Oak for the anniversary of our first meeting.
His eyes lit up with greedy anticipation. Perfect! Lets book the best table, champagne, oysters, the works!
The table was set on a raised platform by a panoramic window, candles flickering, a violin playing. Unbeknownst to him, the police had taken a discreet position at the adjoining table, microphones ready.
I arrived in my most elegant black gown, heirloom jewellery, determined to watch his facade crumble. He was dazzling, showering me with compliments, holding my hand, gazing at me like a lover. I raised my glass and said, Arthur, may I ask where all those other women are? Svetlana? Elena? Iris? Or perhaps you prefer to be called Max?
His smile faltered, the mask slipping. What what are you on about, Sophie? he stammered, panic flickering.
Im saying the games over, I replied. Your many passports, many lives
He tried to rise, but two uniformed officers in crisp suits stepped up to our table.
Arthur Whitaker, youre under arrest for fraud on a large scale, one announced. The badge read Detective Inspector Hart.
He was handcuffed, his scarred wrist flashing steel cuffs as he gave me a look of pure, bitter hatred. You he hissed.
I sipped my champagne, feeling a strange, bitter liberation. Im just a woman who was saved by a barefoot girl with wilted roses. The very girl whose mother you drove to her death.
The officer led him away; I finished my steak, polished off the Napoleon cake, and toasted to my own small celebration.
The trial lasted six months. Arthur tried to paint himself as a victim of business misfortune, but the evidenceemails, bank statements, the spreadsheet, photographswas undeniable. He was sentenced to seven years strict imprisonment and ordered to repay the stolen £113,000 to the victims.
I recovered just over £22,000 after legal fees; the rest he had already spent on lavish gifts and further scams. The lesson was stark: trust must be earned, not handed out to a charming smile.
After the verdict, I visited The Beacon to see Poppy. She sat on the same porch, bare feet tucked beneath her, the autumn wind rustling her hair.
Hey, hero, I said, sitting beside her.
Did they take him away for good? she asked.
For a long time, I answered. Seven years.
She gave a small nod, the weight of her loss evident in her eyes.
I want to adopt you, I blurted, feeling the words tumble out. Would you like to live with me?
She turned her face toward me, eyes widening in disbelief. Live with you? Like a daughter?
Yes. Ill be your mum, I said softly. I cant replace your real mother, but Ill love you, protect you, give you a home.
She hesitated, then a tremor ran through her lips as she whispered, Will you be like a mother to me?
Ill try my best, I promised. You saved me, Poppy. Youre my guardian angel now.
We later completed the adoption process, navigating paperwork, background checks, and interviews. My business continued to flourish, now overseen by an excellent manager, allowing me more time at home. The laughter of a child proved richer than any profit.
Months later, a new client named Anna, a thirtyfiveyearold professional, entered my flagship salon. Mrs Whitmore, Ive heard your story, she said, eyes wide with anxiety. Im involved with a man who seems perfect but now wants money. I think he has another woman.
I listened, recognizing the familiar cadence of deception. Anna, dont give him a penny, I advised. Check everything, hire a detective if you must. Trust your gutif it tells you somethings wrong, it probably is.
She left with resolve, and I returned to my office, thinking of the countless women I might still help. That inspired me to launch a small charity, Second Chance, offering free legal aid and psychological support to victims of romantic fraud.
Poppy beamed at me one evening, calling me Mum. Can I call you just Mum? she asked, hope shining in her gaze.
Yes, love, I whispered, tears of joy spilling over. Thats all I ever wanted.
Our family grew when, a year later, we visited The Beacon and met a shy sixyearold boy named Samuel, abandoned at a train station. Poppy instantly took him under her wing, teaching him to use a fork, reading bedtime stories, shielding him from the worlds harshness. We adopted him, completing our unconventional, loving household: me, my two children, and my thriving salons.
Life settled into a rhythm of business meetings, school runs, art classes, and evenings curled upAnd as the house settled into quiet contentment, I realized that the love I had long chased was finally blooming within the family I had built.
