Over the next two months, he took me to concerts, restaurants, and auctions where people purchased decorative objects for more than my father earned in a year.
Walter never openly bragged about his wealth.
He did not need to.
His tailored coats, private driver, expensive watch, and stories about summers near Lake Como spoke for him.
When he proposed, the ring came inside a blue velvet box.
The diamond was so large that I accepted before he had finished asking.
My parents were deeply concerned.
“You’re almost eighty,” Dad told Walter.
“Seventy-eight,” Walter corrected. “I still have two excellent years before ‘almost eighty.’”
Mom turned to me.
“Do you love him?”
“He treats me well.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I looked toward Walter, who was calmly buttering a dinner roll.
“I know enough,” I said.
Walter raised one eyebrow.
For the first time, I wondered whether he understood my real motivation.
The wedding was scheduled for six months later. Walter promised that afterward we would move into his family mansion—a grand stone estate with terraces, twelve bedrooms, and a library with a rolling ladder.
I pictured myself walking down its staircase in silk robes.
Then strange things began happening.
Walter’s Bentley disappeared.
“It became unreliable,” he said.
A few weeks later, his investment accounts were supposedly frozen because of trust paperwork.
Then he asked me to pay for dinner.
The following month, he borrowed eight hundred dollars toward his wedding suit.
“You’re a millionaire,” I said. “Why can’t you afford your own pants?”
“The explanation would ruin the surprise.”
I transferred the money.
Not because I trusted him completely, but because I had already spent weeks choosing imaginary curtains for the mansion.
My parents became increasingly suspicious.
“Have you actually seen the mansion?” Mom asked.
“Only photographs.”
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