My Scam Victim/Survivor Story #68

Romance Scam

Survivor’s Country: USA

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 Victim Story

I’m a 57-year-old widow living in St. Charles, Illinois, and I never imagined I’d lose $1,500,000 to a scam that started with a hopeful profile on a dating site. I’ve always been careful, managing my finances as a retired healthcare executive and building a secure life after my husband’s death. But in 2018, I fell for a romance scam that drained my entire savings and left me questioning my trust in others and myself. The scammer was a master of deception, posing as a loving partner who seemed so real, only to vanish when I was most vulnerable. Writing this feels like reliving a nightmare, but I’m sharing my story to warn others across the U.S., hoping you can avoid the devastation I faced. The loss has broken my world, but by understanding how I was deceived, I’m trying to rebuild, determined to help you stay safe.

It began when I moved to St. Charles, a quiet town outside Chicago, to start anew after losing my husband. I filled my days with golf, volunteer work at a local boutique, and walks with my poodle, but I felt a void—companionship was missing. I joined an online dating site, thinking it was safer than meeting someone at a bar. A profile caught my eye: Thomas Lindstrom, a 59-year-old Swedish businessman based in Chicago. His photo showed a distinguished man with a kind smile, and his bio spoke of travel and family. I messaged him, and he replied warmly. Your energy is infectious, I’d love to connect, he wrote, his words polished and inviting. I felt a thrill, a chance at love I hadn’t expected.

We moved our chats to email, then phone calls, where Thomas was attentive, asking about my life in St. Charles, my love for gardening, and my charity work. He shared stories of his own—how he’d lost his wife, was raising a daughter, and ran an investment firm. You have such a generous spirit, it’s rare, he said, and I felt seen, letting myself fall for him. He sent photos: him in a suit at a conference, on a yacht, even with his “daughter” at a park. Our talks grew intimate, and within weeks, I was dreaming of meeting him, imagining a future together.

About two months in, Thomas’s messages took a subtle shift. He mentioned a business deal in Asia facing delays. It’s just a funding hiccup, he said, downplaying it. I offered support, not suspecting a trap. Then, one evening, he called, his voice tense. He said a client had frozen his accounts, and he needed $10,000 to secure a contract or lose his firm. I trust you more than anyone, he pleaded. My heart ached for him, and though I hesitated, I sent the money via a wire transfer, believing I was helping someone I loved. He thanked me, promising to repay me soon.

That was the start of a relentless descent. Over the next two years, Thomas’s “crises” multiplied. He needed $25,000 for legal fees, then $50,000 for taxes on a deal. Each request came with documents—contracts, bank statements, even an investment prospectus—that looked authentic. This will save my business, and I’ll repay you double, he assured me. I dipped into my savings, then my retirement accounts, convinced I was investing in our shared future. He spoke of visiting St. Charles, exploring the Fox River together, maybe retiring here. I clung to that hope, ignoring the dwindling balance in my accounts.

The sums grew larger. He claimed a regulatory issue required $100,000 to resolve, then $75,000 for a “medical emergency” after a supposed accident. He sent a photo of himself in a hospital bed, looking frail, which shattered me. I’ll recover, but I need you now, he wrote. I sold investments, cashed out my pension, and took out loans, telling myself it was temporary. By mid-2020, I’d sent $1,200,000, exhausting my life savings and borrowing heavily. Each payment felt like a lifeline to keep Thomas afloat, to keep “us” alive.

Doubts emerged, but Thomas was a pro at quelling them. When I questioned delays in repayments, he’d call, his voice soft and earnest. You’re my savior, I’ll make this right, he’d say, promising a massive payout from his firm. He sent a prospectus for a company called Prime Ventures, showing a $5 million deal that would cover everything. But the money never came. Instead, he asked for another $300,000 to “finalize” the deal, claiming it was the last step. Desperate and broke, I searched my home for answers, finding emails detailing his investment scheme. Buried in a drawer was a note I’d written to myself: I’ve been living a double life with Thomas. I tried to stop, but I feared for my life. I demanded proof he was real, asking for a video call. His reply was cold: You’ll never find me. Then, silence. His phone went dead, his email bounced, and his profile vanished.

I sat in my St. Charles home, staring at my empty accounts, my heart pounding with disbelief. I’d sent $1,500,000 over nearly two years, money meant for my retirement, my grandkids’ future, my security. The truth was crushing: Thomas wasn’t a businessman in Chicago. He was likely a scammer, possibly overseas, who’d preyed on my longing for love. I later learned his photos were stolen, his face edited onto images from the internet. The documents, the stories, the affection—all lies. I felt like I’d been living in a dream, only to wake to a gut-wrenching reality.

The shame was paralyzing. I couldn’t face telling my daughter, who’d always seen me as strong. I’d missed red flags—the urgent requests, the secrecy, the too-perfect persona—because I wanted to believe in him. I kept it hidden for days, crying alone, replaying every email and call. The betrayal wasn’t just financial; it was deeply personal, like losing a partner who never existed. I grew wary of every message, every stranger, fearing another deception. My confidence, built over decades of hard work, shattered, and I doubted my ability to judge anyone, haunted by my own naivety.

Eventually, I confided in my daughter, who listened without judgment and urged me to forgive myself. I found an online support group, reading stories from others across the U.S. who’d been duped by romance scams. I thought I was the only one, but I wasn’t, I realized, finding solace in shared pain. The scammer’s tactics—love-bombing, fake emergencies, forged documents—were calculated, designed to exploit trust. Knowing this eased my self-blame, though the financial loss still weighs heavy. I’m rebuilding, living frugally on my pension, and relying on my daughter more than I’d planned.

Sharing this is excruciating, like admitting a failure, but it’s worth it if it saves you. These scammers are experts at blending in, crafting personas that feel authentic, like imposters wearing a trusted face. If someone online moves too fast, asks for money, or pushes secrecy, step back. Verify their story, talk to loved ones, and never send funds to someone you haven’t met in person. I learned these lessons too late, but by sharing my story, I hope you can stay vigilant and protect your heart and savings from those who hide behind a mask of love.

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