Nicholas Miller had always yearned for luxury. Growing up in a cramped apartment in a small town, surrounded by noise and scarcity, he dreamed of oceanfront villas, sleek cars, and effortless wealth. He believed it was all meant for him.
By 25, he’d mastered charm. He knew how to win trust, say the right things, and read people. His plan was simple:
Marry into money.
Love wasn’t part of the equation—comfort was.
Then came Victoria Hathaway—a widowed heiress in her sixties, graceful in a lavender dress at a Los Angeles gala. While others ignored her due to her age, Nicholas saw an opportunity.
“Nicholas Miller,” he said with a dazzling smile. “You look radiant tonight, Victoria.”
She smiled, reserved but warm.
What followed was textbook seduction—dinners, flattery, and admiration. He praised her philanthropy, made her feel youthful again. After years of solitude, Victoria let her guard down.
Six months later, Nicholas proposed with a diamond ring bought on credit. She hesitated—the age gap was undeniable—but his words were convincing. She wanted to believe.
The engagement was the talk of high society. Whispers followed: “Gold digger,” “Just wants her fortune.” But Nicholas ignored them. That was the point.
He orchestrated every detail of the wedding. All he cared about was the moment he’d legally become her husband—and her heir.
The ceremony was flawless. White fabrics, gold ribbons, a crowd of guests. Nicholas stood at the altar, grinning, victory in reach.
Then his eyes landed on her left shoulder.
A crescent moon-shaped birthmark.
His smile vanished. Breath caught. Heart pounded.
He’d seen—or rather, heard of—that mark before.
As a boy, he’d overheard his adoptive parents mention his biological mother: a woman who had abandoned him at an orphanage.
Her only identifying feature? A crescent moon-shaped birthmark on her shoulder.
Victoria’s shoulder.
Could it be…?
“Nicholas, dear, are you alright?” she asked, concerned.
He forced a smile, touched her cheek, and the ceremony continued—but inside, he was unraveling.
At the reception, nausea overwhelmed him. He remembered adoption documents, an old note about the woman who gave him up—marked by the crescent moon.
She was standing in front of him. In a wedding dress.
When the guests turned to the cake, he pulled Victoria aside.
“We need to talk.”
She followed him, confused.
“That birthmark… Have you always had it?”
“Yes, since birth.”
“I was adopted,” he said slowly. “They told me my biological mother had that exact mark. On her left shoulder.”
She went pale, trembling.
“I was sixteen,” she whispered. “My parents forced me to give up my baby. I never knew his name. I never saw him again…”
She looked at him—really looked—and saw the child she had lost.
“Oh my God… Is it you?”
Nicholas dropped into a chair, the luxury around him now suffocating. He had come chasing wealth—and found horror.
Guests peeked in, whispering. Nicholas stood, voice shaking:
“The wedding is canceled. We can’t be together.”
Victoria fled in tears, her dress like wings in retreat. The guests watched in stunned silence.
The scandal swept the city. No one knew the real reason. A week later, Nicholas vanished. Locked in a motel, unreachable.
Victoria later confirmed the truth through documents. Her son had returned… as her groom.
With a trembling hand, she removed his name from her will.
Two months later, a letter arrived.
“Forgive me…” it read.
And that was the last anyone heard from Nicholas.
Victoria never remarried. She devoted herself to charity. But every year, on the day that should’ve marked their union, she visited the old watch factory—the place where her son was born.
Their story became legend. A whispered tragedy in the heart of Los Angeles. A love that should never have been.