The Barefoot Girl Selling Flowers Outside the Restaurant

I was lateagain late for the meeting with the maître d of the restaurant where, in a months time, my wedding would be celebrated. A banquet for a hundred guests, a menu that had to be signed today, a tasting, flower arrangements, seating plansall hinged on my arrival. Yet I sat stuck in a snarled rushhour jam on the A40, the sea of red brake lights ahead pulsing like a frantic heartbeat in my temples.

Sophie Margaret Whitmore, thirtyseven, owned a chain of five luxury beauty salons called Enchantment. She was a steelhearted, razorsharp businesswoman, always knowing exactly what she wanted from her empire, her staff, her lifeexcept, perhaps, from love. Ten years she had poured everything into building her empire, leaving no room for romance, children, or a husband. Her heart was a hollow room until he appeared. Arthur. He was impeccablecourteous, attentive, with a flawless taste and an equally flawless résumé. It seemed fate finally handed her a chance at personal happiness.

The cursed traffic cleared when I slipped onto a side street, and within fifteen minutes I was pulling up outside the grand façades of The White Hart, the upscale London restaurant where my wedding was to be planned. My heart hammered, a list of questions about the menu and seating whirring in my mind. Then, as if summoned by the very air, a small figure darted into my path.

A barefoot girl, about ten, in a threadbare dress with holes at the elbows, clutched a sagging bunch of wilted roses in skinny hands. She smelled of dust and neglect.

Please, could you buy some flowers? she whispered, offering a drooping rose whose petals were already shedding.

No, dear, not now, I tried to be polite but firm, attempting to sidestep her as I rushed toward the revolving doors. She was quicker, blocking my way again, her large, unusually solemn eyes pleading desperately.

Please, its very, very important. This is the last bunch, she pressed the flowers to her chest, and I thought she might burst into tears at any moment.

Lord, how much longer can I bear this! I have no time! I thought, the words stabbing my consciousness. Girl, you dont understandI have no time, and in any case, men are supposed to give me flowers, not me buying from street children.

I was almost through the doors when her suddenly clear voice stabbed into my back like an ice needle:

Dont marry him.

I froze as if struck by electricity, turning slowly, ears ringing.

What what did you say?

She stared unblinkingly, her clear, penetrating gaze seeing straight through me.

Dont marry Arthur. Hell deceive you.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. The air thickened, turning viscous.

Howhow do you know my fiancés name? my voice trembled.

I saw everything. Hes with another woman. They spend my money. She has a white car with a dent on the left wingjust like yours.

My world narrowed to that dent. Yes, Id nicked the left fender of my car a month earlier, scraping it on a pillar in the underground car park, never telling anyone, never fixing it. How could she know?

Did you were you watching me? I asked, breath shallow.

Watching him, she corrected, her tone steady. He killed my mother. Not with his hands, but his lies made her die. Her heart broke from grief.

Something inside me cracked. I lowered myself to a crouch, coming level with her, and finally saw every freckle on her pale cheek, the smudges of grime on her cheeks, the thin, scratched legs.

Tell me everything, calmly, from the start. Who was your mother? I asked, trying to keep my voice gentle.

She was, the girl said, a hollow, adult sorrow swelling in her tone. Her name was Irene. She owned a huge flower shopfragrant, heavenly. Then he came. Maxim, thats what he called himself. He gifted her a massive bouquet, visited daily, whispered sweet things that made her heart flutter. She fell for him like a child.

My fiancé is Arthur, not Maxim, I thought, the confusion freezing me for a heartbeat.

Perhaps youre mistaken? Another man? I pressed.

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 ripe cherries. You gave him that tie for his birthday; he bragged to his mother on the phone, and she wept.

My throat went dry. The tie. Yes, I had brought that silk cherryred tie from Milan a month ago, telling him it was his lucky charm. My breath stopped, feeling the ground slip away.

Please, continue, I urged.

My mother poured all her savings into his business. He claimed he was opening a chain of restaurantsjust like this one, she gestured at The White Hart, so she sold the shop, the flowers, her dream, giving him three hundred thousand pounds. He promised marriage, a life by the sea, then vanished. She wrote, called, left messagesno reply. She stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stared out the window every day. Two months later she died; doctors said a broken heart.

Three hundred thousand pounds the same amount I had invested in his business, four hundred thousand pounds for the restaurants launch. I felt my heart collapse into a pit.

How do you know its the same man? I whispered, fearing the answer.

She dug a crumpled, edgeworn photograph from her dress pocket. It showed a man and a woman embracing in a park. I stared; the mans hair was shorter, his beard absent, but the eyes were unmistakably Arthurs.

Where did you get that? I asked, voice shaking.

My mother kept itthe only photo they had. I found him two weeks after her funeral, saw him on the street, tried to confront him, fled, then began watching. I saw him pull up to your house, saw you greeting him, kissing him. I thought I had to warn you so you wouldnt share my mothers fate.

I looked at the barefoot girl, her dirty feet and trembling hands clutching proof of my naïve happiness, and every fiber of my being shouted that she spoke the bitter, unvarnished truth.

Whats your name? I asked, tears gathering.

Poppy.

Are you hungry? I asked gently.

She simply nodded, the motion embodying all the pain of her solitary existence.

Come with me. First eat, then tell me everything from the beginning, I said.

The maître d, a polished gentleman in a flawless suit, greeted us with a bright smile, but his face fell when he saw my tiny companion.

Mrs. Whitmore, youre with a child? he asked, his tone mixing curiosity and thin disapproval.

Yes. Please set us a table in the quiet corner, and bring the menu, I snapped, leaving no room for debate.

I ordered the full dessert spread for Poppy, along with a hot mushroom soup and a delicate filletmignon with vegetables. She ate greedily yet with a strange, innate propriety, as if taught by a mother to behave properly. Every bite she chewed slowly, reverently, and I felt ashamed of my earlier harshness.

Where do you live now, Poppy? I asked when she paused.

In a temporary foster home called Sunbeam. Until a permanent family is found.

A foster home. God, she was ten, alone in this cruel world, without mother, without home, carrying a burden of loss too great for any adult.

Tell me about your mother. About this Maxim. I urged.

Poppy set her spoon down, folded her hands, and began her story in a calm, reportlike tone, as if reading a testimony. There were no tears, just a chilling steadiness that was scarier than any sobbing.

Her mother, Irene, had been a successful florist with a nationwide delivery service, catering to big corporations. She was beautiful, strong, and raised her daughter alone, yearning for a mans shoulder. Then came Maximcharismatic, attentive, promising to open a chain of elite restaurants but lacking startup capital. He promised returns, a shared future, marriage.

The tale mirrored my own, except I owned five salons, not just one shop, and my assets were larger.

Did your mother ever go to the police after he disappeared? I asked.

She did. They said it wasnt fraud, just a bad investment. No crime, no evidence. She kept messaging him, pleading for even a fraction back, just to survive. He read the messagesblue ticksnever replied. She went mad.

He was a monster, a calculating predator. I clenched a napkin until my fingers whitened.

Did you see him spending money with another woman? I asked.

Yes. Yesterday, at the Gallery shopping centre, he bought a mink coat for her, laughed, kissed her. He paid with a gold card. I pretended to look at bags and heard a clerk say, Thank you, Mrs. Whitmore, enjoy your purchase.

My card. He had used the extra credit card Id given him for small expenses a month earlier, trusting him blindly.

Could you show me that woman if you saw her again? I whispered.

She nodded confidently.

Shes tall, like you, with long blonde hair, wearing the same perfume you wearsweet.

After lunch I returned Poppy to the Sunbeam home, a drab brick building on the outskirts, then drove to my flata townhouse 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 smiled at me with that Hollywood grin as I entered.

Hello, sunshine. Did you get the menu approved? Everything went well? he stood, wrapped me in an embrace, his breath scented with mint and coffee.

I stood frozen for a beat, then mechanically returned the hug, pressing my face to his chest, inhaling his familiar, onceenchanting scent now turned nauseating.

Yes, everythings fine, I forced out. The menus approved. In a monthour wedding.

I cant wait, he whispered into my hair, his voice dripping with sweet, false notes.

I played along, acting the blushing bride. Later that night, when his breathing evened and he fell asleep, I, like a thief, snatched his laptop. I knew the password777777the one he boasted we should share, no secrets between us. How bitter, how cynical.

I opened his email and found hell. Neatly sorted folders of correspondences with five women. To each he sent the same endearmentsmy only one, sunshine, dreaming of our future. He begged for money: investment in a startup, temporary business trouble, partners betrayed, need urgent help.

Photos showed him with different women in different cities, hugging, kissing, gazing into the camera with lovers eyes. All identicala charming Arthur.

Then a spreadsheet titled Accounts. Columns of names, amounts, status. Sophie£40,000. Sarah£20,000. Emily£15,000. Irene£30,000. Olivia£8,000. Total£113,000.

A detailed business plan, a scheme built on trusting womens hearts.

I shut the laptop, 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 perfectlykiss goodbye, tender smile in response to his I love you. When the door closed behind him, I set my plan in motion with cold, calculated fury.

First, a private investigatoran old gumshoe with a weathered face. I handed him all the evidence. He traced the women, met them under a friendly pretext. They, shocked and humiliated, told the same story: flowers, dinners, promises of paradise, pleas for help, then a deafening disappearance.

The case is classic, the detective said. A highend gigolocon artist. He targets lonely, successful, emotionally starved women, wins them over with a rehearsed script, extracts large sums, and vanishes.

But he didnt vanish from me, I noted. Hes about to marry me.

Because youre his prime prize, he replied. Five salons, prime propertythats the tastiest morsel. Hell likely push you to sell assets or take a massive loan against them after the wedding, then disappear with your millions.

What do you recommend? I asked, icecold resolve rising.

Police, immediately. Gather all victims, file a comprehensive joint complaint. The evidence is massive.

I did exactly that. I found three other women willing to fight, invited them to a confidential meeting in a private room of my salon. Four strangers, bound by one man, sat togetherawkward, bitter, shameful.

I thought he was a gift from fate, Sarah, a polished fortyyearold, confessed. After my divorce I trusted no one, but he melted the ice. He just took everything.

Hes a professional, Emily, a young agency owner, added. He knows psychology, knows what to say, how to look. I work with people, but his act was flawless.

We drafted statements, attached screenshots, bank statements, witness testimonies, and handed everything to a senior detective on the major crimes unit.

The case is strong, but for a guaranteed conviction we need to catch him in the actreceiving money or negotiating a new deal with a fresh victim.

Ill give you that moment, I promised, voice hard as steel. Ill be the one.

The plan was simple. I pretended nothing had changed, continued living with Arthur, laughing at his jokes, discussing wedding plans, acting the enamoured fool.

Two weeks later, over dinner, I suggested, Arthur, dear, lets host a tiny celebrationour anniversary, at the very restaurant where we first met. The White Hart, remember?

His eyes glittered with greedy anticipation.

Brilliant, love! Well book the best table, champagne, oysterseverything topnotch! he replied.

The best table, indeed, with police officers at the adjacent table, microphones hidden.

That evening I wore my most expensive black gown, heirloom jewellery, ready to watch his castle of lies collapse.

At the restaurant we were greeted with royal treatment. The table perched by a panoramic window, candles flickering, a live violin. Arthur was charming, showering me with compliments, holding my hand tenderly, his gaze full of loveif I believed the truth.

You know, I think Im the happiest man alive, he whispered, running his fingers over my knuckles. Finding a woman like you is a jackpot.

Really? I smiled, raising my glass. What about Sarah, Emily, Irene, or perhaps you prefer to be called Max?

He froze. The smile slipped like a mask falling. His eyes, moments ago warm, turned cold, sharp as shards of ice.

What what are you saying, Sophie? he stammered, feigning confusion, panic flickering at the corners of his mouth.

Im saying the game is over, Arthur. Or whatever name you hide behind, with all your passports and lives.

He tried to stand, but two stern men in crisp suits glided silently to our table.

Arthur Medvedev? Youre under arrest for largescale fraud, one announced. The cuffs clicked on his wrists, the scar on his right hand now visible under the steel cuff. He gave me a single lookpure, wordless rage.

You you he hissed, the sound tiny against the roar of my own relief.

No, I said, sipping my champagne, feeling a strange, bitter liberation. Im just a woman saved by a barefoot girl with wilted roses. The girl whose mother you drove to the grave.

When they escorted him away, I stayed, finished my steak, drained the last of the champagne. It was my personal celebration of salvation.

A pallid waiter approached, trembling.

Mrs. Whitmore, anything else you need? Water?

No, thank you. Bring the dessertNapoleon cakeand another glass of champagne. Its my day.

The trial stretched for half a year. Arthur tried to paint everything as business misfortune, mutual grievances. But the evidence was overwhelmingtexts, testimonies, photos, financial records. He was sentenced to sevenYears later, Sophie watches Poppy blossom into a confident young woman, the scent of fresh roses forever reminding her that the smallest warnings can rewrite a lifetime.