The scent of expensive vanilla perfume always arrived five minutes before Chloe did, a sweet, cloying warning that my bank account was about to bleed. I sat in the corner booth of the café, my fingers tracing the rim of a lukewarm latte, watching the door with a heavy, rhythmic dread.
When she finally swept in, she looked like a masterpiece of curated chaos: silk scarves, manicured nails, and a smile that felt like a warm blanket made of spiderwebs. She slid into the seat opposite me, her eyes already scanning my face for signs of hesitation.
"Lina, darling, you look exhausted," she murmured, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand with a practiced, maternal tenderness.
I forced a smile, ignoring the cold knot tightening in my stomach.
"Just a long week," I lied.
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a confidential hush, the exact frequency she used right before the hook was set.
"You won't believe the situation I'm in... "
The air in the room seemed to thin. I knew the script. I knew the cadence of her manufactured crises—the overdue rent, the broken radiator, the 'temporary' loan that never quite found its way back to me. I looked at her, seeing the shimmering lie behind her bright eyes, and felt the familiar, hollow ache of being a person who loves too much and sees too little.
I reached for my purse, my heart sinking before she even asked for the money.
The scam was starting again, and this time, I was the only one paying the price.