I was running lateagain, late for the appointment with the manager of the restaurant where my wedding is set to take place in a month. A banquet for a hundred guests, the menu had to be approved today, a tasting, the floral arrangements, the seating planall hinged on my visit. And there I was, stuck in a snarled traffic jam at the height of the evening rush, feeling utterly helpless as I stared at an endless line of red taillights ahead. Each ticking minute throbbed in my temples.
Emily Grace Whitaker, thirtyseven, owned a chain of five upscale beauty salons called Enchanted. She was businesssavvy, successful, a true iron lady who always knew exactly what she wantedfrom her company, from her staff, from life. Except when it came to her personal life. Ten years I had poured everything into building my beauty empire, leaving no room for men, for genuine feeling, for a family. My soul was empty until he appeared. Andrew. He seemed perfectcourteous, attentive, with flawless taste and an equally flawless résumé. It felt as if fate itself finally handed me a chance at personal happiness.
I battled the damned jam, slipped onto a side road, and in fifteen minutes I was out of the car and standing at the entrance of the luxurious restaurant The White Hart. My heart hammered, a list of questions for the manager spinning in my head. Then I almost ran into a little girl. About ten, barefoot, wearing a dress threadbare to the point of holes, clutching a massive, wilted bunch of roses in her skinny arms. She smelled of dust and neglect.
Please, could you buy some flowers? Her voice was soft but insistent. She handed me a single drooping rose, its petals already browning.
No, love, not now, I tried to be polite yet firm, edging past her toward the grand doors. She was quicker, stepping back into my path, her large eyesfar too mature for a childfilled with desperate pleading.
Please. I really, really need them. This is the last bunch, she pressed the flowers to her chest, and I thought she might break down at any moment.
Lord, how many times must I hear this! I have no time for this! I snapped in my mind. Girl, you dont understandI have absolutely no time. Besides, flowers should be given by men, not bought by streetkids, I said harsher than I meant.
Just as I reached the revolving doors, her voice, suddenly steady and clear, sliced through me like an icecold needle:
Dont marry him.
I froze as if struck by lightning. Slowly I turned, my ears ringing.
What what did you say?
She stared at me without blinking. Her earnest, piercing eyes seemed to look right through me.
About Andrew. Dont marry him. Hes lying to you.
A shiver of cold dread ran down my spine. The air grew heavy.
How do you know his name? How did you? My voice trembled.
I saw everything. Hes with another woman. Theyre spending moneyyour money. She drives a car just like yours. White, with the same dent on the left fender.
My world narrowed to that dent. Yes, Id nicked the left fender last month, scraping a post in a underground car park. Id never told anyone, never got it repaired. How could she know?
You youve been watching me? I breathed.
Watching him, she corrected, unflinching. He killed my mother. Not with his hands, but because of him she died. Her heart broke from grief.
Something inside me fractured. I crouched down, meeting her at her level, seeing every freckle on her pale face, the dirt on her cheeks, the thin, scrapedup legs.
Tell me everything, calmly. Who was your mother? I asked, trying to keep my voice soft.
She was, the girl said, her tone heavy with an adults sorrow. Her name was Irene. She ran a huge flower shopbeautiful, fragrant, like a garden of Eden. Then he arrived. He called himself Marcus. He gave her a massive bouquet, started coming every day, saying lovely things that made her heart flutter. She fell in love, like a child.
Marcus? But my fiancé was Andrew. A cold puzzlement softened the blow for a heartbeat.
Dear, perhaps youre mistaken? Its a different man?
No, she shook her head, her braids swaying. The same. He has a scar on his right handright here, she traced a line on her wrist. He always wears a grey suit, very expensive, with a silk tie the colour of a ripe cherry. You gave him that tie for his birthday; he bragged about it to his mother on the phone, and she wept.
My mouth went dry. The tieyes, I had brought him that silk tie from Milan a month earlier, telling him it was his lucky charm. I felt the ground slip from under me.
Please, go on, I urged.
My mother poured all her savings into his business. He said he was opening a chain of restaurantsexactly like this one, she nodded toward The White Hart. She sold her shop, her flowers, her dream, and gave him three hundred thousand pounds. He promised to marry her, to take her to the sea, then vanished. She messaged, called, but he never answered. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping, just stared out the window every day. Two months later she dieddoctors said stress stopped her heart.
Three hundred thousand pounds. I, too, had invested four hundred thousand pounds in his businessthe very sum he said he needed to launch the restaurant.
How do you know its the same man? I whispered, fearing the answer.
The girl, never breaking eye contact, reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a crumpled, edgeworn photograph. In it a man and a woman embraced happily in a park. I stared, and my heart dropped.
Andrew. It was unquestionably himjust hair a bit shorter, no tidy beard hed grown at my request.
Where did you get that? My voice cracked.
My mother kept itthe only photo they had together. I found it two weeks after her funeral, saw him on the street, tried to approach, got scared, started watching. I saw him drive up to your house, saw you greet him, kiss him. I thought I had to warn you, so you wouldnt meet the same fate as my mother.
I looked at the barefoot, mudcaked child holding proof of my foolish happiness, and every fibre of my being screamed that she spoke the trutha cold, stark, merciless truth.
Whats your name? I asked, tears gathering.
Emily.
Emily, are you hungry?
She only nodded, and that simple motion held the weight of her lonely existence.
Come with me. First eat, then tell me everything from the start. Everything you remember.
The restaurant manager, an impeccably dressed gentleman, greeted us with a bright smile, but his expression turned to disbelief when he saw my companion.
Mrs. Whitaker, you with a child? he asked, a mix of curiosity and mild judgment in his tone.
Yes. Please get us a table in the quietest corner. And the menu, I cut him off, leaving no room for discussion.
I ordered Emily a full dessert spread, a hot soup, a tender filletmignon with vegetables. She ate ravenously yet with an oddly proper delicacy, as if shed been taught to behave properly. Each bite she chewed slowly, reverently, and I felt a sting of shame for my earlier harshness.
Where do you live now, Emily? I asked gently when she paused.
In a temporary foster home called Sunbeam. Theyre looking for a permanent family for me.
A foster home. My God, she was ten and alone in this harsh worldno mother, no home, a burden of loss too heavy for any adult.
Tell me about your mother. About this Marcus. Anything you remember.
Emily set down her spoon, clasped her hands on her knees, and began her calm, haunting recount. She spoke without a single tear, as if reading a report. That calm was more terrifying than any hysteriait was the calm of someone who had already cried every tear.
Irene had been a successful, soughtafter florist. Her boutique, with delivery service, was known citywide, serving big corporate accounts. She was a single, beautiful, strong woman raising her daughter alone and, it seemed, desperately craving a mans shoulder. She met the man of her dreamscourteous, attentive, with grand plans. He claimed he dreamed of opening a chain of elite restaurants but lacked startup capital. He promised returns, a shared future, marriage.
Exactly the same script, word for word. Only I owned five beauty salons, not one flower shop; my property was far more substantial.
Did your mother ever go to the police after he disappeared? I asked, already knowing the answer.
She did. They said it wasnt fraud, just a failed investmentno crime, no evidence. She kept messaging him, begging for any money back so she could survive. He read her messages, the blue ticks showed, but never replied. She went mad.
What a monster. What a calculating beast. I pressed a napkin until my fingers whitened.
Emily, you said you saw him spending money with another woman?
Yes. Yesterday, at the Mall shopping centre. He bought her a mink coat, she laughed, kissed him constantly, and he paid with a goldcard. I pretended to look at bags and heard the clerk say, Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker, enjoy your purchase.
My gold card. Hed been using the additional card Id given him a month ago for small expenses, dear, so youd be comfortable. Id trusted him blindly.
Emily, could you show me this woman if you saw her again? My voice trembled.
She nodded confidently.
Shes tall, like you, with the same long blonde hair, wearing the same perfumesweet, like yours.
After lunch I drove Emily back to the foster homea drab brick building on the outskirtsand then home to my flat, the one Id bought with my own money before meeting him.
He was there, lounging on my sofa in my slippers, watching a film on my laptop. He flashed a dazzling Hollywood smile when I entered.
Hey, sunshine. Hows the menu? All set? He rose, embraced me, his breath scented with mint and coffee.
I froze for a second, then mechanically returned the hug, pressing my face to his chest, inhaling his familiar, onceenchanting aroma, now nauseating.
Yes, everythings fine. The menus approved. In a monthour wedding.
I cant wait for that day, he whispered into my hair, his voice sweetly deceptive.
I played along, acting the loving bride. Later that night, when his breathing steadied and he fell asleep, I slipped into his laptop. The password was 777777, the one hed said we shouldnt keep secrets from each other. Bitter, cynical irony.
Inside his email, I found hell. Neatly filed conversations with five women. To each he wrote the same words Id heard: Youre my only one, Sunshine, I dream of our future. He asked each for moneysome claimed startup investment, others temporary business trouble.
Photos showed him with different women in various cities, kissing, embracing, eyes full of false love. All of them featured the same charming Andrew.
Then a file titled Accounts. A tidy spreadsheet: name, amount, status. From Emily£40,000. From Sarah£20,000. From Helen£15,000. From Irene£30,000. From Olga£8,000. Total£113,000.
A detailed business plan, built on the gullibility of trusting women.
I closed the laptop and lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Sleep, my dear liar. Sleep peacefully. This is your last peaceful night in this bed.
The next morning I performed my role flawlesslybreakfast kiss, gentle smile to his I love you. When he left, I set my plan in motion with cold, measured fury.
First, a private investigatora grizzled, worldworn exdetective. I handed over every shred of evidence. He traced the women, met them under benign pretences, and each recounted the same tale: flowers, dinners, promises of heaven, pleas for cash, then a sudden, devastating disappearance.
The pattern is textbook, the detective said. A highlevel professional golddigger. He targets successful, emotionally hungry women, ropes them in with a rehearsed romance, extracts large sums, then vanishes.
But he didnt vanish on me, I added. Hes about to marry me.
Because youre his prize catchfive salons, property, assets. Hell likely force you to sell or leverage your wealth after the wedding, then disappear with the millions. He explained the legal advantage a husband gains over his spouses assets.
What should I do? I asked, ice resolve building inside me.
Call the police immediately. Compile all evidence, file a comprehensive joint statement. You have enough.
I did exactly that. I gathered three other women willing to fight, invited them to a private meeting in a cosy back room of my salon. Four strangers, bound together by one man. It was awkward, bitter, humiliating.
I thought he was a gift from fate, confessed Sarah, a refined fortyyearold with weary eyes. After my divorce I trusted no one, and he melted the ice. Turns out he just emptied me.
Hes a professional, said Helen, a young attractive owner of a small modelling agency. He knows psychology, knows what to say, how to look. I work with people, but his act was flawless.
We filed statements, attaching screenshots, bank extracts, witness testimonies, and handed them over to a senior detective in the major crimes unit.
The case has potential, the detective warned, but for a guaranteed conviction we need to catch him in the actreceiving money or discussing a new deal with another victim.
Ill give you that moment, I promised coldly. Ill be the one to set the trap.
The plan was simple. I continued living with Andrew as if nothing had changedkissing him, laughing at his jokes, discussing wedding plans and the honeymoon. I played the lovesick, blind fool, and I played it perfectly.
Two weeks later, over dinner, I suggested:
Andrew, darling, shall we host a little celebration? Commemorate the anniversary of when we first met, at the same restaurant, remember?
His eyes lit with greedy excitement.
Of course, love! Brilliant idea! Well book the best table, champagne, oysters the whole works!
The best table. And the police, hidden at a neighbouring table with recording gear.
That evening I donned my most expensive black dress, jewellery that once belonged to my grandmother, wanting to look dignified and invincible as his tower of lies finally collapsed.
The restaurant welcomed us with regal treatmentelevated table by a huge panoramic window, candles, a live violin. Andrew was as charming as ever, showering me with compliments, holding my hand tenderly, gazing at me with a lovers intensity that, knowing the truth, could have fooled anyone.
You know, I think Im the happiest man on earth, he cooed, playing with my fingers. To have a woman like you its a jackpot.
Really? I smiled sweetly, raising my glass. And what about Sarah, Helen, Irene, or perhaps you prefer to be called Marcus?
He froze. The smile slipped like a mask falling away. His eyes, moments ago soft, turned cold and sharp as shards of ice.
What what are you saying, Emily? he stammered, feigning confusion, but panic flickered at the corners of his mouth.
Im saying the game is over, Andrew. Or whatever name you usemultiple passports, multiple lives.
He lunged to stand, but at that instant two stout men in sharp suits approached our table silently.
Andrew Whitaker? Youre under arrest on suspicion of largescale fraud, one announced. Please come with us.
Whitakera perfectly ordinary surname. No grandeur, just Whitaker.
I watched as steelcuffed bracelets clanged on his wrists, his scarred hand visible. He didnt resist, giving me a single, venomous stare that sent a fresh shiver down my spine.
You bastard, he hissed, pitifully small compared to his crimes.
No, Ill have a drink, I replied, finishing my champagne, feeling a strange, bitter liberation. Im just a woman who was saved by a barefoot girl with wilted roses. The same girl whose mother you murdered.
When they led him away, I stayed at the table, finishing my steak, polishing off the champagne. It felt like my own private celebration of salvation.
A pale, nervous waiter approached.
Mrs. WhitThe waiter, eyes wide, whispered, Congratulations, Mrs. Whitakeryour new family awaits, and I smiled, knowing at last I had finally built the home my heart had always deserved.