Nigel Whitmore had always fancied himself destined for grandeur. Raised in a poky flat in Grimsby, he spent his childhood dreaming of stately homes and shiny Bentleys, convinced life owed him more than baked beans on toast and second-hand jumpers. By twenty-five, hed mastered the art of charming wealthy womenlistening intently, laughing at their jokes, making them feel like the most fascinating person in the room. His plan? Marry into money. Not for love, obviously. For the lifestyle.
Then he met her at a garden party in Surrey. Eleanor Chatsworthsixty-five, widowed, and sitting on a fortune from her late husbands biscuit empire. Dressed in lavender silk with silver hair swept into an elegant chignon, she radiated quiet grace. Nigel watched as younger men avoided hertoo much of an age gap, they muttered. But he saw opportunity.
“Nigel Whitmore,” he said, flashing his most disarming smile. “Youre absolutely radiant today, Eleanor.”
She smiledwarm but wary.
And so, the courtship began. Fancy dinners at The Savoy, long walks in Hyde Park, flattery about her philanthropic work. Eleanor, alone for years, hadnt felt this adored in decades. Six months later, under a rose-covered pergola, Nigel proposed with a diamond ring (financed by a dodgy payday loan). He spoke of love transcending age. She hesitatedbut his words were smooth as clotted cream.
Gossip spread like wildfire through Londons high society. “Gold-digger!” they hissed. Nigel pretended not to care. Secretly, he revelled in it.
The wedding was a spectacle: a marquee in the Cotswolds, champagne towers, a string quartet. Eleanor glided down the aisle in a pearl-encrusted gown. Nigel stood at the altar, the picture of devotionthough his mind was already on the prenup hed sneakily dodged.
Then, mid-vows, his gaze snagged on her left shoulder.
A birthmark. A perfect crescent moon.
His stomach lurched. Hed heard that description beforeyears ago, when his foster parents drunkenly mentioned his biological mother. “Only thing we remember,” theyd slurred. “Strange little mark, like a moon.”
Eleanor frowned. “Nigel, darling, youve gone white as a sheet.”
The ceremony limped on. At the reception, Nigel excused himself, grabbing Eleanors wrist. “We need to talk. That birthmark have you always had it?”
“Since birth,” she said, baffled.
He swallowed hard. “I was adopted. My real mother had the exact same mark.”
Eleanors champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering on the parquet. “I was sixteen,” she whispered. “My parents they took my baby. I never saw him again.”
Nigels legs gave way. Hed come for her money. Instead, hed found his mother.
The guests gasped as he stood, voice cracking. “The weddings off.”
Eleanor fled, pearls clattering. The scandal made the front page of *The Daily Mail*: *”Biscuit Heiress Jilted at Altar!”*
A week later, Nigel vanishedlast seen boarding a train to god-knows-where. Eleanor, after frantic digging through records, confirmed the truth. She rewrote her will that very day.
Months later, a postcard arrived with no return address:
*”Sorry.”*
Eleanor threw herself into charity work, but every year on what shouldve been their anniversary, she visited the old biscuit factory where shed given birth decades before.
And somewhere in England, Nigel Whitmore learned the hard way: be careful what you scheme foryou might just find family instead of fortune.
