I was late. Again I was late for the meeting with the restaurant manager, the very man who would sign off on the banquet for my wedding a month from now. A hundred guests, a menu to be approved today, a tasting, the floral arrangements, the seating planeverything hinged on this visit. Yet I was stuck in a sea of brake lights on the M25 at the height of the evening rush, feeling the pulse of my temples throb with every passing second.
Sophie Green, thirtyseven, owned a chain of five luxury beauty salons called Charm. She was a razorsharp, successful ironlady who always knew exactly what she wanted from her business, her staff, and her lifeexcept for one thing: a personal life. Ten years she had poured into building her empire, leaving no room for men, true feelings, or a family. Her heart lay empty until he appeared. Ethan. He seemed perfectcourteous, attentive, with impeccable taste and an equally flawless résumé. It felt as if fate itself had finally handed her a chance at happiness.
The traffic jam finally broke. I swerved onto a side road and, fifteen minutes later, I was pulling up outside the opulent restaurant The White Hart. My heart hammered, a list of questions for the manager spun through my head. As I rushed toward the entrance, I nearly collided with a child.
A barefoot girl, about ten, in a threadbare dress that was nearly torn, clutched a sagging bunch of wilted roses in skinny hands. She smelled of dust and neglect.
Please, could you buy these flowers? she whispered, offering a rose whose bud was already drooping.
Not now, darling, I tried to be polite but firm, stepping past her toward the revolving doors. She was quicker than I expected, slipping back into my path, her large, toooldforherage eyes pleading.
Please, I really need them. Its the last bunch, she pressed the wilted roses to her chest, trembling as if on the verge of tears.
Lord, I dont have time for this! I snapped internally. Im supposed to be buying flowers from gentlemen, not street children.
Just as I reached the doors, her voice, suddenly steady and sharp, cut through me like a cold needle in the back.
Dont marry him.
I froze, as if shocked by an electric shock. I turned slowly, the world ringing in my ears.
What what did you say?
She stared at me without blinking. Her clear, piercing gaze seemed to see straight through me.
Dont marry Ethan. Hes lying to you.
A shiver of revulsion ran down my spine. The air grew heavy, thick.
How how do you know his name? My voice quivered.
I saw everything. Hes with someone else. They spend his moneyyour money. She drives a white car with the same dent on the left door as yours.
My mind narrowed to that dent. I had nicked the left wing of my car last month on a garage pillar, never telling anyone, never fixing it. How could she possibly know?
You youve been watching me? I breathed.
Watching him, she corrected, unflinching. He killed my mother. Not with his hands, but his greed tore her heart apart.
Something cracked inside me. I crouched down to her level, the world becoming small enough for us to share the same ground. I saw every freckle on her pale face, the dirt smudges on her cheeks, the thin, scraped legs.
Tell me everything. Start from the beginning. Who was your mother? I asked, softening my tone.
Her name was Irene, the girl said, her voice heavy with a sorrow far beyond her years. She ran a huge flower shopsmelling of heaven. Then a man named Max came in, gave her a massive bouquet, visited daily, whispered sweet promises. She fell in love like a child.
My fiancé is Ethan, not Max, I thought, a cold doubt flashing through me.
Maybe youre wrong. Hes the same man, the girl replied, shaking her head. He has a scar on his right hand, right here, she traced a line on her wrist. He always wears a grey suit, a silk tie the colour of ripe cherries. You gave him that tie for his birthday; he bragged about it to his mother on the phone, and she wept.
My throat went dry. That silk tieI had bought it in Milan a month ago and given it to him as a token for small expenses. It was supposed to be his lucky charm.
Please, go on, I whispered.
My mother invested everything in his business. He said he was opening a chain of restaurants like this one, she gestured toward The White Hart. She sold her shop, her flowers, her dream, three hundred thousand pounds. He promised marriage, a life by the sea, then vanished. She searched, messaged, calledno answer. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping, sat by the window until she died of a broken heart.
Three hundred thousand pounds. I had invested four hundred thousand pounds in his venturethe very sum he had been hunting for.
How do you know its the same man? I asked, fear tightening my voice.
She dug a crumpled, edgeworn photograph from her dress pocket. It showed a man and a woman embracing in a park. I stared, and my heart sank. The man was Ethanonly his hair was a shade shorter, his beard not yet grown as I had asked him to.
Where did you get that? I asked, my voice cracking.
It was his mothers only photo. I found it two weeks after her funeral, saw him on the street, tried to approach, got scared, then started watching, she explained. I saw him pull up to your house, watched you kiss him, and knew I had to warn youso you wouldnt suffer as my mother did.
I looked at the limp, barefoot girl with the wilted roses, and every fiber of my being screamed that she was telling the trutha raw, bitter truth.
Whats your name? I asked, tears threatening.
Poppy.
Are you hungry? she asked simply.
She nodded, the motion carrying the weight of her lonely existence.
Come with me. Eat first, then tell me everything from the start. Everything you remember.
The restaurants manager, a polished gentleman in an immaculate suit, greeted us with a smile that vanished the moment he saw my companion.
Ms. Green, youve brought a child? he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and mild reproach.
Yes. Please set us a table in the quietest corner, and bring the menu, I snapped, leaving no room for debate.
I ordered the full dessert spread for Poppy, plus a hot soup, a tender fillet mignon with vegetables. She ate hurriedly but with a strange, childlike propriety, as if a mother had taught her to be proper. Each bite was chewed reverently, and my earlier harshness turned to shame.
Where do you live now, Poppy? I asked when she paused.
In a temporary foster home called Sunbeam, until a permanent family is found, she whispered.
A foster home. Tenyearold Poppy, alone in a harsh world, motherless, burdened by loss.
Tell me about your mother. About Max, I urged.
She set down her spoon, folded her hands, and began a steady, emotionless recounting, as though reading a report. The calm was more terrifying than any outburstit was the calm of a child whose tears had long been shed.
My mother, Irene, was a successful florist. Her boutique shipped flowers all over the city, serving big corporate clients. She was beautiful, strong, and raised me alone, yearning for a mans support. Then Max appearedpolite, attentive, with grand plans. He claimed he needed startup capital to launch a chain of elite restaurants. He promised returns, marriage, a future together. He swore hed marry me.
A mirror of my own story, only her shop, not my salons, was the prize. I too had built an empire of five salons.
Did your mother ever go to the police? I asked.
She did. They said it was a bad investment, not fraud. No crime, no evidence. She kept messaging him; his read receipts turned blue, but he never replied. She went mad.
The cruelty of it all made my knuckles whiten.
Did you see him spending money with another woman? I pressed.
Yes. Yesterday, at the Mall Westfield, he bought a mink coat for a woman. She laughed, kissed him, and he paid with a gold card. I pretended to look at handbags and heard the clerk say, Thank you, Ms. Green, enjoy your purchase.
My gold cardmy extra card Id given him for incidental expenses a month ago. Id trusted him blindly.
Could you show me that woman if you saw her again? I asked, voice low, tense.
She nodded confidently.
Shes tall, like you, with long blonde hair, wearing the same perfume you usesweet.
After lunch I drove Poppy back to Sunbeam, a drab brick building on the outskirts, then home to my flat in Chelsea, the one I bought with my own money before meeting Ethan.
He was there, lounging on my sofa in my slippers, watching a film on my laptop. He flashed a Hollywood smile as I entered.
Hey, sunshine. Hows the menu? All set? he stood, embracing me, his breath scented with mint and coffee.
I froze, then mechanically returned the hug, pressing my face to his chest. His familiar perfume, once intoxicating, now made me nauseous.
Yes, everythings approved. The weddings a month away, I managed.
He whispered in my ear, his voice honeyed and deceitful.
I cant wait, he murmured.
I played the part, smiling like a happy bride. Later, when his breathing steadied and he fell asleep, I slipped to his laptop. I knew the password777777the one hed said we should share all secrets.
Inside his inbox lay a nightmare. Neatly filed were messages with five women, each addressed to my love, my sunshine, my future. He begged for money: investment in a startup, temporary business trouble, partners defaulted, need urgent help.
Photos showed him with different women in various cities, kissing, embracing, smiling into the camera as the charming Ethan I thought I knew.
A spreadsheet titled Accounts listed names and sums in pounds: Sophie £40,000; Svetlana £20,000; Elena £15,000; Irene £30,000; Olga £8,000. Total £113,000.
A detailed business plan emerged, built on the trust of vulnerable women.
I closed the laptop, lay beside him, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep, my dear liar. Sleep, I whispered. This would be his last night of peace in this bed.
Morning came, and I performed my role flawlesslybreakfast kiss, soft smile, a tender I love you. As he left, I set my plan in motion with icy precision.
First, I hired a seasoned private investigator, a grizzled former policeman, and gave him everything. He traced the women, met them under false pretences, and each story matched: flowers, dinner dates, promises, and sudden disappearances.
The pattern is classic, the detective said. A highlevel con man who preys on successful, emotionally starved women, extracts huge sums, then vanishes.
Not on me, I replied. He planned to marry me.
Because youre the biggest prize, he said. Your salons, your property. Hed likely force you to sell assets or take a massive loan after the wedding, then disappear with the money.
I asked, What should I do?
Go to the police immediately. File a collective complaint with all the evidence, the detective advised.
I did. I gathered three other women ready to fight, and we met in a discreet room in my salon. Four strangers, bound by one mans deceit, sat togetherawkward, bitter, ashamed.
I thought he was destinys gift, confessed Svetlana, a poised fortyyearold with tired eyes. After my divorce I trusted no one, and he melted the ice.
Hes a professional, said Elena, a young modelagency owner. He knows psychology, knows what to say, how to look. My own training couldnt see through him.
We compiled the messages, screenshots, bank statements, witness testimonies, and handed them to Detective Harris, the lead officer on serious fraud cases.
The case is solid, but for a conviction we need to catch him in the act, receiving money or negotiating a new deal, Harris warned.
Ill give you that moment, I promised, coldly. Ill do it myself.
The plan was simple. I kept living with Ethan as if nothing had changedkissing, laughing, discussing wedding plans, playing the naive fiancée. Two weeks later, during dinner, I suggested:
Ethan, lets celebrate our anniversary with a small party at the restaurant where we first met. You know, the one with the view?
His eyes glittered with greedy anticipation.
Brilliant! Well book the best table, champagne, oysterseverything! he replied.
Unbeknownst to him, a police team was stationed at the neighboring table, hidden with recording equipment.
That evening I slipped into my most elegant black gown, pearls that had belonged to my grandmother, and approached the venue like a queen about to watch a tyrants downfall.
We were led to a raised table by a panoramic window, candles flickering, a violin playing. Ethan was charming as ever, showering me with compliments, his hand warm on my arm, his gaze lovefilledif I believed the truth, his smile could have fooled anyone.
You know, I think Im the luckiest man alive, he cooed, running his fingers over my knuckles. Meeting a woman like you is a jackpot.
Im curious, I said, raising my glass. What about Svetlana, Elena, Irene or even Max?
His smile faltered, the mask slipping. Panic flickered in the corners of his mouth.
What what are you talking about, Sophie? he stammered, trying to feign confusion.
Im saying the game is over, Ethan. Whats your real name, anyway? You probably have several passports, several lives.
He lunged for his seat, but two uniformed officers in crisp suits stepped silently to our table.
Ethan Victor Medvedev? Youre under arrest for fraud on a large scale, one declared, snapping handcuffs on his wrists. The scar on his right hand showed as the metal cuffs clicked.
He stared at me, a silent, murderous hatred burning in his eyes.
You you he hissed, a weak sound.
I took a sip of champagne, feeling a bitter, liberating calm. Im just a woman who was saved by a barefoot girl with wilted roses. The same girl whose mother you murdered with your greed.
The waiter, pale and shaken, approached.
Ms. Green, may I get you anything? More water? he asked.
No, thank you. Just bring the Napoleon cake and another glass of champagne. Its my celebration, I replied.
The trial and investigation dragged on for six months. Ethan tried to paint everything as business failures and mutual misunderstandings, but the mountain of evidencemessages, testimonies, photographs, financial recordswas overwhelming. He received a sevenyear sentence, and the court ordered him to repay the stolen £113,000 to the victims.
I recovered just over £22,000; the rest had vanished into his lavish lifestyle, gifts for other women, and his polished façade.
The real victory came later, on the day the judge announced the verdict. I drove to Sunbeam to see Poppy. She sat on the same doorstep, barefoot despite the crisp autumn air, staring into the distance.
Hello, hero, I said, sitting beside her.
Hello hes gone for a long time? she asked, eyes bright.
Yes. Seven years, I replied.
She nodded, the gesture full of the sorrow shed carried.
Now my mother can rest, I whispered. Her soul is avenged.
At ten, she spoke with the wisdom of someone who had already seen the worlds cruelty.
Can I stay with you forever? she asked, her eyes wide with hope.
Id love to adopt you, I said. Youll be my daughter.
She hesitated, then asked, Will you be like a mother to me?
Ill try my best. I cant replace your real mother, but Ill love you, protect you, give you a home, I promised.
Why? she whispered, tears forming. Why do you want this?
Because you saved me, Poppy. You, a barefoot girl with ruined roses, showed me the truth I refused to see. You gave me a second chance. And because I was lonely too, until I met you, I said, my voice shaking.
She burst into sobs, the first genuine tears shed ever shed. She clung to me, her small head pressed against my shirt, washing away the layers of pain that had built up over years.
We completed the adoption paperworka mountain of forms, endless checks, interviewsbut I saw it through. My business continued to thrive; I hired a top manager, freeing more time for home. The laughter of my children soon outweAnd for the first time in years, I truly felt whole.
