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She appeared like a shadow in silk,
On 57th Street,
Where men lose themselves
Trying to impress ghosts.

Victoria — that was her name.
She smiled not with warmth,
But with calculation.
And I, foolish in my hunger for love,
Mistook her gaze for fate.

She asked if the Rolls-Royce was mine.
I told her it belonged to my boss.
She changed.
The voice that once danced now became dust.
“I’ll call you later,” she said.
But the silence that followed was louder than any goodbye.

She vanished into velvet clubs and champagne whispers,
Fell for a man named Cat —
A rising sun of flashing gold and fleeting power.
He wore his wealth on his skin
Like armor.
She followed.
She worshipped.

But when the roses wilted
And betrayal knocked,
He shot her —
Five times in her legs.
The very legs she used to chase fortune.

Her name filled the papers,
Not with love stories,
But with warnings.
Victoria the Gold Digger,
They called her.

She died on 15 October 2024,
Alone, unnamed by those who once bought her smiles.
She died not because she loved riches,
But because she forgot love.
Real love.

And I?
I was not just a driver.
I was the man who could’ve given her the world.
But she only saw the key,
Not the kingdom.

Now her story is a requiem,
A silent scream echoing in the hearts of broken men.
Not all that glitters is love.
Some glitter is grief waiting to happen.

To the men—
Measure love not by the sparkle in her eyes,
But by the silence when you have nothing.

To the women—
Gold can buy a dress,
But never a legacy.

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