**Diary Entry: A Twist of Fate**
I always dreamed of a life beyond my small town in Yorkshirea world of grand estates, fast cars, and endless comfort. Growing up in a cramped flat with thin walls and empty cupboards, I vowed Id escape. By twenty-five, Id mastered the art of charm, weaving words like silk to win trust. My plan? Find a wealthy woman and secure my future. Not for love. For security.
Then I met herEleanor Whitaker. A widow in her sixties, draped in elegance, her silver hair catching the light at a London charity gala. While others avoided her, I saw opportunity. She was the heir to a textile fortune, poised and lonely.
“Oliver Fairchild,” I introduced myself, flashing my most disarming smile. “You light up the room, Eleanor.”
Her cautious smile was all I needed.
Months of courtship followeddinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, walks through Hyde Park, whispered compliments about her philanthropy. Eleanor, long accustomed to solitude, blossomed under my attention. Six months later, I proposed beneath a rose arbour, a ring bought on credit glinting in my palm. She hesitatedour age gap was starkbut I spun tales of love transcending time. She believed me.
Society buzzed. “Gold-digger,” they murmured at parties. I ignored them. Let them talk. I was winning.
The wedding day arriveda countryside chapel, ivory linens, golden light filtering through stained glass. Eleanor glided down the aisle in a lace gown, poised and radiant. I stood at the altar, rehearsing my vows, counting the seconds until her fortune became mine.
Then I saw it.
Just below her collarbonea crescent-shaped birthmark.
My breath hitched. Memories surfaced: my adoptive parents hushed conversation years ago. My birth mother, theyd said, had a mark just like that. A young girl whod left me at an orphanage.
Eleanor frowned. “Oliver? Are you unwell?”
The room spun. I forced a smile, brushing her cheek instead of kissing her. The ceremony carried on, but inside, I was shattered.
Later, I pulled her aside. “That birthmark Have you always had it?”
“Since childhood,” she replied, bewildered.
My voice cracked. “I was adopted. My mothershe had the same mark.”
The colour drained from her face. Her hands trembled. “You cant mean”
Silence. Horror. Tears. She collapsed into a chair, whispering, “I was sixteen. My parents took my baby away. I never knew his name.”
The truth crashed over us. Id sought her wealth. Instead, Id found my mother.
Guests murmured as I announced the wedding was off. Eleanor fled, her dress fluttering like a wounded dove.
The next week, I vanished. No calls, no traces. Eleanor, after verifying the truth, struck my name from her will.
Then, a letter arrived with no return address: *”Forgive me.”*
I was gone.
Eleanor threw herself into charity work. Yet every year, on what should have been our anniversary, she visited the old mill in Manchesterwhere I was born, where our tragedy began.
London still whispers about usa love story twisted into something unthinkable. A cautionary tale of fates cruel humour. And me? Im a ghost, forever haunted by the mark that unmasked my greed.
