By the time Shay realized the champagne cost more than her car, she was already halfway in love with the man across the white tablecloth.

Golden light spilled across the rooftop restaurant, three stories above a busy street in Rome that sounded like any downtown street in Los Angeles—horns, laughter, faint music from somewhere. Except this wasn’t LA. This was Italy. Her first stamp in that passport she’d texted to a stranger from her tiny studio apartment in California.

A stranger named Omer.

He looked like he belonged in a magazine. Dark hair swept back, expensive watch flashing every time he lifted his glass. The waiter hovered like Omer owned the place, which, from the way everyone greeted him by name, he just might.

“To us,” he said, voice low and smooth, his accent a soft blur of somewhere-between-Europe-and-New-York money. “To the start of something beautiful.”

Shay’s fingers trembled as she lifted her glass. Don Perignon. She knew because the waiter had said it in that reverent tone, as if he were pouring liquid gold.

“To something beautiful,” she echoed.

She took a sip. It tasted like every romcom she’d ever watched in that cramped apartment, wondering if this kind of life, this kind of man, would ever be for someone like her.

Apparently, the answer was: yes. If you matched with him on Tinder at just the right time on a Tuesday night in California.

“Have I told you,” Omer said, gray eyes fixed on her like she was the only person in the city, “you look stunning, Shailene?”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “You’ve told me four times, actually.”

“Only four?” He smiled, dimples flashing. “I must be losing my touch. You’ve taken my breath away at least ten.”

Her cheeks warmed. She glanced down at the dress she’d almost cried over at the register back in LA—a dress that cost more than a month of her car insurance. Emerald silk, tiny straps, the kind of thing influencers wore in Beverly Hills. The salesgirl had raised her brows at Shay’s debit card like, you sure?

Omer hadn’t blinked when she’d walked into the Rome restaurant wearing it. He’d just stood straight up from his corner table and said, “My God,” with such genuine awe she’d nearly forgotten how to walk in heels.

He only wears designer, she remembered telling her best friend, Emma, in their favorite coffee shop in Glendale, California, a week before this.

“I can’t show up in something from the sale rack at the mall,” Shay had argued, scrolling through the boutique’s website. “He’ll think I’m a child.”

“He’ll think you’re a person,” Emma had said dryly, pushing up her glasses. “Who maybe doesn’t need to hand a random man her passport photo.”

“Emma, he’s not random. We’ve been talking for three weeks. Every night. He travels a lot for work and—”

“And he wants your first date to be across the Atlantic Ocean?” Emma had interrupted. “That’s not a date, that’s a Netflix documentary waiting to happen.”

Shay had waved her off. “He’s the son of a billionaire. He runs his dad’s diamond business. He sent me flight confirmation, hotel reservation, everything. I checked the airline app. It’s all legit. Plus, he has a bodyguard.”

“A what.”

“A bodyguard. Pierce. He sent me a video of him, like Secret Service, earpiece and everything.”

Emma had stared at her for a long time. “I’m just saying,” she’d murmured finally. “You cannot always trust people you meet online. This is America, not a Hallmark movie.”

Shay had leaned across the table. “And I’m saying you have to stop worrying so much. I trust him. He could have literally anyone. If he wanted to hurt somebody, why pick a retail girl from a strip mall off the 5?”

Now, sitting in one of Rome’s most expensive restaurants, champagne bubbles tingling her tongue, she’d felt almost smug. Emma had been wrong.

Everything about Omer screamed trust me. The way the chef came out in person to offer “special dishes not on the menu yet.” The way the waiter said, “Nice to see you again, Mr. Leviya,” in perfect English with an Italian lilt. The way Omer nodded and said, “The usual, Tomás,” like this was just another Thursday.

There was Pierce, too—broad shouldered, quiet, standing a respectful distance away. When Omer introduced him, Pierce had dipped his head and said, “Pleasure’s all mine,” with that ex-military calm.

“I can’t believe you have a bodyguard,” Shay had whispered.

“When you become successful,” Omer had said, shrugging one elegant shoulder, “safety has to be a high priority. Sadly.”

Shay looked around at the crystal, the polished wood, the city lights. “This is… not my normal.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as refreshingly honest as you,” Omer said. “You don’t pretend you grew up in Beverly Hills.”

“Glendale,” she said. “One bedroom over a nail salon. Not much pretending I can do with that.”

“Glendale,” he repeated, tasting the word. “I love California. I do a lot of business there.”

“Diamond business, right? You mentioned that.” She sipped again, trying to act like this conversation was casual, like men who bought entire restaurants existed in her regular orbit.

“Yes.” Omer glanced out at the skyline, then back at her. “I took over my father’s company when he retired. It’s a good business. It might even help me put one of our diamonds on your finger someday,” he added lightly, “if I’m lucky enough.”

Shay almost choked. “We just met,” she laughed.

“We met weeks ago,” he corrected. “We’re just meeting in person now. Trust me, my dear, there is a difference.”

She’d gone to bed that night in a five-star hotel suite with Egyptian cotton sheets and a view of the Tiber River, fully clothed, her heart tripping like she’d just walked off a movie set.

He hadn’t tried anything. He’d simply kissed her forehead, told her he was a gentleman, and texted her goodnight from the next room.

When her plane touched back down at LAX three days later, Emma was waiting at arrivals, cardboard Starbucks in one hand, eyebrows already raised.

“You’re alive,” she said. “Shocking.”

Shay smiled so hard her face hurt. “You are not going to believe this trip.”

“I’m just happy you came back in one piece,” Emma said, days later, as they sat on the floor of Shay’s apartment, eating takeout and scrolling. “Rome, Shay. People from here go to Vegas for their first date. Or Taco Bell.”

“The trip was amazing,” Shay sighed, flopping back against the couch, phone clutched to her chest. “We went to all these restaurants, stayed at this insane hotel. I swear, Em, I felt like the lead in a romance novel, not the girl folding jeans in a strip mall.”

Emma poked at her lo mein. “And he was a perfect gentleman? No weird comments about you ‘owing’ him for the flight?”

“Zero. He wouldn’t even let me pay for gelato.” Shay’s phone buzzed again. She grabbed it. Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh.”

“What?” Emma asked, instantly suspicious. “Is he proposing already? Do I need to start pricing bridesmaid dresses at Ross?”

Shay shoved the screen in her face. “He just asked me to be his girlfriend.”

The message glowed, hearts and all.

will you be my girlfriend my love?
i’ve never felt this way about anyone

“I cannot believe this,” Shay whispered. “Omer Levi is going to be my boyfriend.”

“Congrats,” Emma said, then frowned a little. “How’s that gonna work, with him traveling all the time?”

Shay waved a hand. “We’ll figure it out. When you know, you know, right?”

A second ping. Shay’s jaw dropped.

“What now?” Emma asked. “Is he discussing baby names?”

“Very funny,” Shay said. She swallowed. “He… asked if I want to move in together.”

Emma sat up straight. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He wants to get us a house,” Shay said, voice climbing into that breathy place it went when she got excited. “Not a condo. Not an apartment. A house. With a yard.”

“Shay.” Emma chose her words carefully, like she was disarming a bomb. “You’ve known him one month.”

“Thirty-three days,” Shay corrected.

“Exactly.” Emma rubbed her forehead. “That is not a lot of time to be planning a mortgage and joint utilities. It’s a big step. A huge, leap-off-a-cliff step.”

“Please don’t ruin this moment for me,” Shay said quietly. “Em, you didn’t see him there. Everywhere we went, people knew who he was. Here in the States too—he’s always sending me videos from first class, from fancy lounges. He has security. I feel like he’s the one who should be worried about women using him, not the other way around.”

“Money doesn’t mean he’s safe,” Emma said. “Or not a liar. Or not—”

“I know who I am,” Shay cut in. “Just because I don’t have his money doesn’t mean I don’t know my worth. I’m not trying to be some gold digger from a reality show. I just… I think this is real.”

Emma watched her friend’s face—lit with hope, softened with that hungry kind of love that made people ignore warning signs.

“Just…” she sighed. “Tread lightly. Please.”

Shay nodded, but her eyes were already drifting back to the screen, to the house links Omer was sending. Beverly Hills. Newport Beach. Hidden Hills.

She picked one in a quieter part of Orange County, a perfect white house with a front porch and bougainvillea climbing the fence. She imagined herself there, coffee in hand, Omer in some expensive robe, Pierce by the gate.

She didn’t imagine the sound of shattering glass.

“The master bedroom is on this side,” the realtor chirped as they walked through the empty house a few weeks later. “Huge closet, plenty of light. With your budget, we can easily add built-ins. Maybe custom shelves?”

“We might need a second closet just for her clothes,” Omer said, elbow bumping Shay’s. “The woman can shop.”

Shay laughed. “Says the man who thinks Tom Ford is ‘casual.’”

Pierce trailed behind, scanning sightlines, assessing windows, occasionally talking quietly into his earpiece. California sunlight spilled across polished floors; from the upstairs balcony, Shay could see palm trees and the faint glitter of a swimming pool two houses over.

It looked like every dream every girl in the Valley grew up scrolling past on Instagram.

“What do you think?” Omer asked, taking her hand. “Can you see us here? Our future kids running down the stairs, Pierce yelling at them to stop.”

Shay swallowed hard. “I love it,” she whispered. “I love all of it.”

“Then we put in an offer today,” Omer said. “This house is perfect. For you and me and everything that comes next.”

They were in the kitchen when it happened.

A sharp crack, like something heavy hitting a window. Pierce’s head snapped up. Omer’s phone buzzed on the island, screen lighting with some foreign number.

He glanced at it—and the color drained from his face.

“What was that?” Shay asked, heart stuttering. “Was that glass?”

Omer looked toward the front of the house, listening. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed. Another crack, closer this time. Shay flinched.

“Omer,” Pierce said quietly. “We have a situation.”

Shay’s stomach flipped. “What’s going on?”

Omer’s hands were suddenly on her shoulders, steering her toward the back door. “We have to go,” he said. “Right now.”

“What? Why? Omer, you’re scaring me.” Her voice climbed.

“I’m sorry, habibti. There’s no time.” His eyes were wild in a way she’d never seen. “I’ll explain later. Just trust me.”

He pulled her out the back, toward the driveway. A black SUV waited, engine running. Pierce jogged ahead, scanning, hand tucked near his waistband like he was used to reaching for a weapon.

Shay slid into the back seat, heartbeat in her throat. Omer jumped in next to her.

As the SUV peeled away from the curb, she looked back at the perfect white house, shrinking in the side mirror. For just a second, she thought she saw a dark shape on the roof.

Hours later, back in her Glendale apartment, Shay’s phone buzzed.

“Hey babe,” she answered immediately. “Are you okay? I’ve been freaking out.”

On the screen, Omer looked tired. His usually perfect hair was mussed; behind him, a bland hotel room wall.

“I’m okay now,” he said. “But Pierce… he got hurt. My enemies, they—they came after us. After me.”

Shay’s stomach clenched. “Enemies? What are you even talking about? Why would anyone be after you?”

He sighed, as if the weight of his life was finally too much. “When you’re the son of a billionaire,” he said quietly, “when you deal in diamonds and money and power… it attracts bad people. They want what you have. They think kidnapping one of my employees, or hurting my security, will scare me.”

“Oh my God,” Shay whispered. “Did you call the police?”

“There’s nothing they can do,” Omer said quickly. “These are not… normal criminals. I have to disappear for a while. Go dark. If they find me, they’ll follow the money. My accounts. My credit cards. I can’t use any of it.”

She blinked. “So… what are you going to do?”

“I was hoping you could help me,” he said, voice soft again, eyes big and pleading. “Just this once. Until this blows over. I hate asking. You know I would never do this if it wasn’t an emergency.”

“How much?” slipped out before she could stop it.

“Twenty-five thousand.” He winced. “I know it’s a lot. I know. But with that, I can get out of the country. Lay low. Keep us safe.”

Shay’s heart hammered. Twenty-five thousand. The number echoed around her cramped living room like a bad joke.

“Em?” she called weakly.

Emma paused her Netflix show and stepped into the doorway, sensing trouble. Shay put Omer on mute.

“He wants money,” Shay whispered. “Twenty-five thousand. Says he can’t use his accounts because his ‘enemies’ will track them.”

Emma stared. “Shay. No. Absolutely not.”

“He’ll pay me back,” Shay said, words tumbling out. “Twenty-five is nothing to him. He spends that on watches. Plus, we’re moving in together. It’s not even like it’s… separate.”

“Where are you supposed to get twenty-five grand?” Emma asked. “Your job at the mall barely covers rent.”

“I’ll take a loan,” Shay said, like the idea had been sitting there for days, waiting for an excuse.

Emma’s eyes widened. “A loan? You can’t even qualify for that much unless—”

“Omer already thought of that,” Shay said. “He put me on payroll at his diamond company. On paper. He sent me a letter with a title and salary and everything. Once the bank sees that, they’ll approve it.”

“Shay.” Emma stepped closer, voice low. “That is fraud. That is literally a crime. Saying you work somewhere you don’t, just to get them to give you money? That’s how you end up in federal court, not in a cute house in Orange County.”

Shay’s stomach twisted. “I already told him I’d help,” she whispered. “He’s counting on me. He’s in danger, Em. What am I supposed to do? Tell him, ‘Sorry, babe, I’m too scared of paperwork, good luck not getting kidnapped’?”

“Tell him you’re not comfortable,” Emma said. “If he loves you, he’ll understand. If he doesn’t, that tells you everything you need to know.”

Shay stared down at her phone, at Omer’s frozen face.

She unmuted. “Hey. I… I don’t feel great about this,” she said slowly. “About lying to a bank. Taking on that much debt.”

His expression softened instantly. “I know this is scary, my love,” he said. “I know. But you have to trust me. I would never hurt you. I believe what goes around comes around. I take care of the people I love.”

“You do?” she asked, needing to hear it.

“I love you,” he said, steady and smooth. “I want forever with you. House, marriage, kids. I need to know you’re my teammate when life gets hard. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life or death.”

The words hit all the places in her that still felt like the girl in the one-bedroom over the nail salon, who never quite felt like enough.

“He said he loves me,” Shay whispered to Emma, hand over the microphone.

“Shay, please don’t be that naive,” Emma begged. “He’s saying what you want to hear. That’s what con men do.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Shay said, voice trembling, but this time from something like defiance. “I trust him. We’re a team. I’m not abandoning him.”

She hung up, grabbed her keys, and drove to the bank.

Weeks blurred together in a wash of signatures and sleepless nights.

The loan came through, thanks to the fake employment letter. Then a second one. Then a credit card. Every time Shay’s stomach screamed no, Omer’s messages whispered I love you and just one more, my love, I promise, and she ignored the screaming.

He sent screenshots of wire transfers supposedly sending her money back—amounts doubled, “for your trouble.” When she asked her bank, the teller shook her head. “Nothing’s posted yet. Sometimes it takes a few days for international wires.”

Emma had snorted. “It doesn’t,” she’d muttered. “Wires are instant. My mom works at a bank, remember? He’s lying.”

Shay refused to believe it. Couldn’t. Not when the alternative was staring at the stack of overdue notices on her tiny kitchen table and acknowledging she’d ruined herself for a man she’d known barely two months.

Her phone lit up again one afternoon while she was at work, refolding crop tops under bright fluorescent lights.

“Hey babe,” she answered, voice tight.

“My enemies found me again,” Omer breathed dramatically. “I had to move. I’m in a hostel now. Twenty-five dollars a night. I’ve lost everything. I need you.”

Shay pressed her lips together. “None of your wires have come through,” she said. “Not one.”

“I promise you, they will,” he said quickly. “But I need more now. Just one last time. I swear. I swear on my father’s grave.”

“I can’t get another loan,” she said. “My credit cards are maxed. The bank’s already suspicious.”

“Then I’ll adjust your income,” he said. “Make another letter. Higher salary. They’ll approve it.”

She stared at the wall of the stockroom, her heart pounding in her ears.

“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered. “I’m starting to feel… stuck.”

“I need you more than ever,” he said, ramping up the charm. “You’re my everything. Don’t let me down.”

After she hung up, she sat on a milk crate by the boxes and cried silently until Emma showed up unannounced, cheeks flushed from the drive.

“How much have you given him?” Emma demanded.

“I don’t know,” Shay admitted, wiping her nose. “Maybe a hundred grand. Plus a couple credit cards he has the numbers for.”

Emma sucked in a sharp breath. “We need to go to the police.”

“With what?” Shay asked bitterly. “Screenshots of my own stupidity?”

Emma didn’t answer. Instead, she unlocked her phone and opened an article she’d bookmarked.

“He’s not the only one,” she said. “Look.”

The headline punched across the screen: “The Tinder Swindler: American Women Scammed by Fake Billionaire.”

Underneath, a photo.

Omer. In a suit. Standing in front of a jet. Same watch. Same smile.

Shay’s vision tunneled. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not—”

“It’s him,” Emma said. “His name’s not even just Omer Levi. That’s one of his aliases. There are dozens of women. He tells them all the same stories. Son of a billionaire. Diamond business. Enemies. Bodyguard. Emergency. Loans. He disappears. They declare bankruptcy.”

“It’s fake news,” Shay said weakly.

“I thought you’d say that.” Emma’s eyes softened. “That’s why I brought someone.”

She stepped aside.

A woman about Shay’s age walked in. Dark hair. Tired eyes. She clutched a folder like a lifeline.

“Shay,” Emma said quietly. “This is Talia.”

“He did the same thing to me,” Talia said, voice cracking but steady. “Same lines. Same photos. Even the same security guard picture, with him ‘injured’ in a hospital bed. I wired him seventy-five thousand dollars. I never saw a cent back.”

Shay stared at her, then at the article, then back at her own reflection in the store’s security mirror. Same hopeful eyes. Same gullible expression.

“Did you… ever get your money back?” she whispered.

Talia shook her head. “None of us did.”

“He’s still messaging me,” Shay said numbly. “Telling me I’m his everything. That we’re going to have kids.”

“He told me that too,” Talia said. “He told all of us that.”

Shay’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen.

my love i’m broke, i’m sleeping in a hostel for $25 a night. i need you.

She almost laughed. A harsh, humorless sound.

“So he’s broke,” Emma muttered. “Maybe now he’ll finally stop doing this.”

“Broke?” Shay repeated, staring at the photo of his wrist in the article. At the watch gleaming there. At the stacks of designer suitcases she’d seen in that hostel video he’d sent. “No. He has assets.”

“What?” Emma asked.

“That’s it,” Shay said slowly. “He has things.”

“What are you thinking?” Talia asked cautiously.

Shay stood up so fast the milk crate scraped the floor. For the first time in weeks, something other than dread stirred in her chest.

“I’m thinking,” she said, “it’s time the Tinder Swindler got swindled.”

The hostel smelled like stale beer and cheap cleaning solution. For a guy who claimed he’d grown up in penthouses from Manhattan to Dubai, Omer looked unsettlingly comfortable leaning against the bunk bed.

“Oh my love,” he said, opening his arms as soon as Shay walked in. “Thank you. I knew you wouldn’t abandon me.”

She let him hug her. Let him press his cheek to her hair and murmur out rehearsed lines.

“You’re my angel,” he said. “My miracle. I’m so embarrassed you have to see me like this. I lost everything. All I could bring was these clothes, my jewelry…”

Behind him, two giant designer suitcases sat by the wall. A row of expensive shoes lined the floor. Watches and chains glittered on the nightstand.

In LA, she’d spent ten minutes trying on a pair of sunglasses that cost half her rent and put them back with shaking hands. He owned half the Sunglass Hut inventory.

“I’m sorry this place is such a dump,” he said. “I went from ten-bedroom penthouse to this. It’s humiliating.”

“It’s okay,” Shay said softly. “We’ll get you back there.”

His eyes lit up. “You managed to get more money?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “The banks won’t approve me for another loan. I tried. They’re suspicious.”

Omer’s jaw tightened. “You need to try harder.”

Something in his tone—sharp, entitled, like she was an employee who’d missed a quota—made the last, fragile pieces of Shay’s denial crumble.

“I was thinking,” she said calmly, “there’s another way.”

“What way?” His hands flexed.

“You still have all this stuff,” she said, gesturing to the watches, the suitcases, the designer sneakers. “I work in retail. I used to run an online store. I know exactly what this is worth. If you want, I can sell it. Quietly. Get you cash.”

Omer hesitated. “You can get good prices?”

“Top dollar,” she said. “I know consignment shops in LA, online collectors, everything. And right now, you said you need money more than you need a wardrobe.”

He licked his lips. “How fast?”

“Pretty quickly,” she said. “You have amazing pieces. They’ll move fast. As soon as I sell, I’ll wire you every cent. You know I’m good with money. I got all those loans, didn’t I?”

He smiled again. “You are incredible,” he said. “You’d sell everything? For me?”

“For us,” she said. “So we can be safe. So you can get away from your ‘enemies.’”

He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Take it all. Just… be careful. Some of these pieces are very expensive.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “The watch alone is worth at least twenty thousand. The Tom Ford suits? Forget it. You’re sitting on a small fortune.”

His eyes gleamed with vanity at the validation. He started unzipping suitcases, pulling out stacks of clothes. “Take the shoes, too. The sunglasses. Pierce’s old watch, even. He won’t need it in the hospital.”

Shay forced herself not to react. “I’ll take everything that sells,” she said. “I’ll be back soon. Stay safe.”

“You’re my hero,” he said, kissing her hand. “I love you.”

She smiled sweetly. “What goes around comes around,” she murmured. “Remember?”

He frowned, confused. But she was already wheeling his life out the door.

Back in Glendale, Shay’s living room turned into a warehouse.

She, Emma, and Talia photographed every item in natural light. Watches. Belts. Shoes. Suits. Sunglasses. Each piece more obnoxiously expensive than the last, proof that he had never needed her loan money—he just wanted more.

They listed everything online. Luxury resale sites. Auction houses. Private collectors Emma found through deep dives on Reddit.

Sales started trickling in.

Then pouring.

Every day, they packed boxes, printed labels, dropped packages at the post office. As the payments cleared, they sent the money—not to Omer, who called and texted nonstop—but to the women whose stories they found in forums and comment sections and private chat groups.

There wasn’t enough to make everyone whole. But Shay watched balances drop from impossible to manageable, saw default notices disappear for women in Nevada, in Texas, in New York. She wired Talia enough to catch up on her mortgage. Another woman was able to cancel her second job and sleep more than four hours a night for the first time in months.

“You’re like some kind of Robin Hood,” Emma muttered one night, sealing a box. “Except instead of a bow, you have a Depop account.”

“It’s not charity,” Shay said. “It’s restitution.”

Her phone vibrated on the table. Omer. Again.

She let it go to voicemail. Again.

“He’s still in the same hostel,” Talia said, popping up a location tag on her laptop. “The newspaper’s been tracking him. They’ve got reporters in LA, New York, Miami. Turns out you weren’t the only American he targeted.”

“Of course not,” Shay said. “Why scam one girl in California when you can hit all fifty states and Europe too?”

“They’re about to publish,” Talia said, excitement lighting her features. “A huge story—names, faces, screenshots. They just need one last piece.”

“What?” Shay asked.

“Proof he’s been caught,” Talia said. “They’re coordinating with law enforcement. Once he’s in handcuffs, we go live.”

As if on cue, Shay’s phone started buzzing again.

“Speak of the devil,” Emma muttered. “Literally.”

“Answer it,” Talia said. “Trust me. Timing is everything.”

Shay took a breath and tapped “accept.”

“Hey babe,” she said lightly.

“Why haven’t you been answering?” Omer demanded. His voice was harsher now, stripped of charm. “Is this how you treat the man you love?”

“I’ve been busy,” Shay said. “Selling your stuff. You did want money, didn’t you?”

“I need it now,” he snapped. “Did you sell everything? The watch? The suits? I’m running out of time. My enemies—”

“Your enemies aren’t the only ones after you,” Shay said, glancing at Talia, who was typing furiously, forwarding the call info to the reporter. “Law enforcement’s pretty interested too.”

He went very still. “What did you say?”

“You know what they say,” Shay murmured. “What goes around comes around.”

“Shailene,” he began, voice dropping. “What have you done?”

From somewhere in the background, over the thin phone line, she heard a sharp knock. Voices. The scrape of a chair.

Then a different voice, firm and unmistakable: “Omer Levi? Or whatever your name is? Don’t move. Hands where we can see them.”

There was a scuffle. A curse in a language Shay didn’t recognize. The line crackled. Then went dead.

Shay stared at her screen.

“Did that just happen?” Emma whispered.

Talia checked her laptop. A message popped up from the journalist: Got him. Italian police. Article goes live in ten.

“Yes,” Talia said, grin spreading. “That just happened. The Tinder Swindler is trending in Europe and the U.S. in about… three, two…”

Shay’s phone lit with notifications. News alerts. Group chats. A DM from one of the women in the support forum: WE DID IT!!!

Shay sank onto the couch, laughing and crying at the same time.

Emma plopped down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You okay?” she asked softly.

Shay wiped her eyes. “I believed everything he said,” she admitted. “The love, the future, the house. I handed him my passport, my trust, my entire credit score on a silver platter.”

“You also took his stuff,” Emma pointed out. “And his illusion of invincibility. And gave dozens of women their lives back.”

“Still,” Shay whispered. “How did I let it get that far?”

Talia sat on the coffee table, eyes kind. “Because you wanted to be loved,” she said. “He knew that. He counted on it. That’s what all scammers do. But you did something they never expect.”

“What’s that?” Shay asked.

“You learned,” Talia said. “And you hit back.”

Shay let that sink in. In a country where people got famous for the worst things, Omer would trend in the U.S. as a cautionary tale. And maybe, just maybe, girls scrolling Tinder in tiny apartments from New York to California would read the name, see his face, and swipe left a little faster.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a notification from her bank.

Deposit received: $1,250.00

Another item sold. Another small piece of damage undone.

She smiled.

“Drinks tonight?” Emma asked. “Non-celebratory celebratory?”

“In Glendale?” Shay wrinkled her nose. “Too soon to go back to Rome?”

Emma snorted. “We can hit that rooftop bar in downtown LA. You know, the one you keep saying you’ll go to when you ‘meet someone rich.’”

Shay laughed. “Turns out I don’t need a billionaire for that,” she said. “I just need my best friend, a decent credit score somewhere down the line, and maybe a guy who doesn’t own a single designer watch.”

“A California guy in Vans and a Target hoodie,” Emma said. “Groundbreaking.”

“Hey,” Shay said. “After all this? Perfect sounds boring. I’ll take honest.”

She grabbed her keys, her phone, and her dignity, all in the same motion.

Outside, the Southern California sun was starting to set, painting the sky over the strip malls pink and orange. It wasn’t Rome. It wasn’t a penthouse. It wasn’t a ten-bedroom house behind a gate.

But it was real.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.