‘I was suffering from loneliness, he made me see life through rose-colored glasses’ – Technologist

Her wedding was due to take place in July, in the Oise region, north of Paris. Monique (victims’ names have been changed), a 53-year-old care assistant in Clisson, Loire-Atlantique, had planned everything from the dress to the menu, the flowers and even the celebrity guests, her future husband’s friends: French singers Patricia Kaas, Florent Pagny and Mireille Mathieu. It was set to be an “exceptional celebration” that she was looking forward to all the more, as she still hadn’t actually met her fiancé. However, after three years of daily exchanges on the Messenger app – morning, noon and night, not to mention sleepless nights – she felt she knew him intimately. After all, she had been following him since adolescence through the media because he was a bona fide star: none other than David Hallyday.

Curiously, Monique had to cover the wedding costs of around €12,000. “David” wasn’t short of money, of course, but let’s just say he’d had a few “glitches” of late: His bank account had been frozen and the inheritance from his father – Johnny – was constantly being delayed. Monique had therefore taken to “helping him out.” Their relationship had been forged on Facebook in 2020, during the first Covid-19 lockdown. It was “David” who had started writing to her on Messenger. He didn’t use his official account on the pretext that his manager, like his fans, shouldn’t know anything about his money problems. Monique initially agreed to send him transfers of €250 via PCS coupons (prepaid card service, a payment card with low traceability).

“At the time, I was already separated from the father of my children,” she told Le Monde. “When we sold our house, the transfers I made to David became more substantial and regular. Why worry? He was sending me money too, sums that I had to transfer to other bank accounts. And he promised to return the funds I lent him a hundredfold once his father’s inheritance was released.” In total, she paid him almost €40,000.

During this virtual relationship, Monique had noticed some “inconsistencies.” “David” claimed to be living incognito – which was why they could never see each other – but the sums she was sending him were funding accounts in West Africa. Another troubling detail lay in the fact that although she had agreed to lend him her Netflix access codes, the American platform regularly informed her that her account was being used in Abidjan and Côte d’Ivoire. As for the pictures that “David” sent her, she was astonished to find the same ones on social media. This was normal, he said; hackers had breached his “photo library.” “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” apologized Monique, flatly. She had her doubts but didn’t want to shatter the illusion, as she was so happy to be marrying this man. “Today, there is no room for any doubt: I did indeed fall for a scammer. He insulted me because I refused to give him more money. And yet, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I do miss him a little.”

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