My Scam Story #63

Romance Scam Victim/Survivor’s Story

Survivor’s Country: Australia

This is the original victim’s story, enhanced by the SCARS Institute Editorial Team to improve comprehension, readability, and continuity. The names were changed to protect the survivor’s identity.

WARNING: THIS SCAM VICTIM/SURVIVOR’S STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME PEOPLE. DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

ADVERTENCIA: LA HISTORIA DE ESTA VÍCTIMA/SOBREVIVIENTE DE ESTAFA PUEDE SER INSENSIBLE PARA ALGUNAS PERSONAS. SE RECOMIENDA DISCRECIÓN.

If you need help, join our free SCARS Institute Support and Recovery Program at support.AgainstScams.org

Si necesita ayuda, únase a nuestro Programa gratuito de Apoyo y Recuperación del Instituto SCARS en support.AgainstScams.org

My Scam Story

I’m a 64-year-old widow living in Toowoomba, Australia, and I never imagined I’d lose $100,000 to a scam that started with a simple Facebook friend request. I’ve always been cautious, brushing off suspicious emails about fake lotteries or stranded relatives. But in 2015, I fell for a romance scam that drained my savings and left me questioning my judgment. The scammer was like a chameleon, blending into my life as a charming lover, only to reveal his true intent when it was too late. Writing this makes me feel vulnerable, but I’m sharing my story to warn others in Australia and beyond, hoping you can avoid the pain I endured. The betrayal still stings, but by understanding how I was deceived, I’m finding a way to move forward.

It began on a quiet evening when I was scrolling through Facebook, catching up on posts from friends and family. A friend request popped up from a man named Marco Rossi, with a profile picture of a handsome, middle-aged businessman in a sharp suit. His profile said he was an Italian entrepreneur living in Sydney, and his posts showed a life of travel and success—photos of him at coastal cafes, business meetings, and scenic lookouts. Intrigued, I accepted the request, thinking it was harmless. Soon, he messaged me, Ciao, I saw your profile and thought you seem kind-hearted. I’d love to get to know you. His words were warm, polished, and I felt a flutter I hadn’t experienced since my husband passed years ago.

We started chatting daily, first on Facebook, then moving to WhatsApp for more privacy. Marco was attentive, asking about my life in Toowoomba, my love for gardening, and my volunteer work at the local community centre. He shared stories of his own—how he’d built a logistics company, lost his wife to illness, and was raising a teenage son alone. You remind me of her, so full of life, he wrote, and I blushed at the compliment. He sent photos of himself at Sydney Harbour, in boardrooms, even with his “son” at a rugby match. Everything felt real, and I let myself believe I’d found someone special.

About a month in, Marco’s tone shifted subtly. He mentioned a business deal in Malaysia that was hitting snags. It’s just a cash flow issue, nothing major, he said, brushing it off. I offered sympathy, not suspecting anything. Then, one night, he called, his voice heavy with stress. He said a supplier had frozen his accounts, and he needed $2,000 to release a shipment or lose a major contract. I hate asking, but you’re the only one I trust, he pleaded. I hesitated, my gut whispering caution, but his vulnerability felt genuine. I sent the money via a bank transfer, thinking I was helping a man I cared about. He thanked me profusely, promising to repay me soon.

That was the beginning of a spiral I didn’t see coming. Over the next year, Marco’s “emergencies” multiplied. He needed $5,000 for legal fees to resolve a contract dispute, then $10,000 for equipment stuck in customs. Each time, he sent documents—purchase orders, invoices, even a lawyer’s letter—that looked authentic. These will secure the deal, and I’ll pay you back double, he assured me. I sent more money, dipping into my savings, convinced I was investing in our future. He talked about visiting Toowoomba, meeting my kids, maybe even retiring together. I clung to that dream, ignoring the growing hole in my bank account.

The requests escalated. He claimed a tax issue in Malaysia required $20,000 to avoid penalties, then $15,000 for a medical emergency after a “car accident.” He sent a photo of himself in a hospital bed, bandaged and frail, which broke my heart. I’ll be fine, but I need your help one last time, he wrote. I took out a personal loan, telling myself it was temporary. By mid-2016, I’d sent nearly $80,000, scraping together funds from my retirement savings and even selling some jewelry. Each payment felt like a lifeline to keep Marco afloat, to keep “us” alive.

Doubts crept in, but Marco was masterful at dispelling them. When I questioned a delay in his repayments, he’d call, his voice soft and reassuring. You’re my angel, I’d never let you down, he’d say, weaving stories of imminent business payouts. He sent a contract showing a $500,000 deal that would “clear everything,” and I held onto hope. But the promised repayments never came. Instead, he asked for another $20,000 to “finalize” a deal, claiming it was the last hurdle. Exhausted and nearly broke, I confronted him, asking for proof he was real. His response chilled me: Catch me if you can, my dear. Then, silence. His WhatsApp went offline, his Facebook profile vanished, and my calls went unanswered.

I sat in my Toowoomba living room, staring at my empty bank account, my heart pounding with disbelief. I’d sent $100,000 over 18 months, money meant for my retirement, my grandkids’ education, my future. The realization hit like a tidal wave: Marco wasn’t a businessman in Sydney. He was likely a faceless scammer, possibly overseas, who’d preyed on my loneliness. I later learned the hospital photo was a fake, his face edited onto an image stolen from the internet. The documents, the stories, the affection—all lies. I felt like I’d been living in a dream, only to wake up in a nightmare.

The shame was crushing. I couldn’t bear to tell my kids, who’d always seen me as sensible. I’d ignored red flags—the rushed requests, the secrecy, the too-perfect stories—because I wanted to believe in love. I kept it secret for weeks, replaying every message, wondering how I’d been so naive. The betrayal wasn’t just financial; it was personal, like losing a partner who never existed. I stopped trusting emails, phone calls, even friendly strangers, fearing they too might be hiding deceit. My confidence crumbled, and I questioned my own instincts, wondering if I could ever judge anyone accurately again.

Eventually, I confided in my daughter, who hugged me and urged me to move forward. I found an online support group where others shared similar stories, which eased my isolation. I thought I was the only one, but I wasn’t, I realized, reading posts from women across Australia. The scammer’s tactics—love-bombing, fake emergencies, forged documents—were textbook, designed to exploit hope and trust. Knowing this helped me forgive myself, though the financial loss still stings. I’m rebuilding, living frugally on my pension, and leaning on my family for support.

Writing this feels like peeling back a wound, but it’s worth it if it helps you avoid my mistakes. In 2017, Australians lost over $20 million to romance scams, and I was one of thousands who fell prey. Scammers are skilled at blending in, crafting personas that feel real, much like imposters who wear a familiar face to deceive. If someone online moves too fast, asks for money, or pushes secrecy, step back. Verify their story, talk to trusted friends, and never send funds to someone you haven’t met. I learned these lessons too late, but by sharing my story, I hope you can stay one step ahead of the scammers and protect your heart and wallet.

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