Romance scamming has become one of the most lucrative and psychologically sophisticated corners of the global scam economy, blending emotional intimacy, digital performance and financial extraction into a single, devastating experience. Search terms like romance scam, online love fraud and pig-butchering scam spike every year as more people discover—often too late—that what felt like a genuine relationship was in fact a carefully scripted operation designed to separate them from their savings, their trust, and sometimes their sense of self.
At its core, romance scamming works not because victims are naïve, but because the technique mirrors how real relationships form online. Contact usually begins on dating apps, Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp or Telegram, sometimes via an apparently accidental message—“Sorry, wrong number”—that turns into friendly conversation. The scammer quickly establishes warmth, attentiveness and emotional availability. Psychologists note that consistency is key: daily messages, good-morning texts, voice notes, and small disclosures that create a rhythm of intimacy. The target begins to feel chosen, seen, and emotionally prioritized, especially powerful for people who are lonely, grieving, divorced, recently relocated, or simply busy professionals with limited offline social lives.
Once emotional trust is established, the scammer introduces a narrative of future togetherness paired with a temporary obstacle. This may be a sick parent, a frozen bank account, an overseas contract, or—more commonly in recent years—an invitation to “invest together” to secure a shared future. This latter variant, often called “pig butchering,” does not replace romance; it monetizes it. Victims are shown screenshots of fake trading apps, staged profits, and persuasive explanations framed as care: “I want us to be financially free,” “I don’t want you to struggle anymore.” Losses can escalate from a few hundred dollars to hundreds of thousands as victims are encouraged to reinvest, borrow, or cash out pensions.
Well-documented victims across the US, Europe and Asia include middle-aged women who had lost partners to illness, men coming out of long marriages, and professionals who considered themselves financially literate. One Australian teacher interviewed by local media described ignoring friends’ warnings because the relationship felt emotionally real long before money entered the picture. A South Korean office worker lost her savings after months of online courtship that transitioned seamlessly into crypto trading advice. In many cases, shame and self-blame delay reporting, allowing the scam to continue longer.
Behind these apparently personal relationships often sit highly organized scam centres. In Southeast Asia, investigations have repeatedly identified compounds in Cambodia where romance scamming operates at industrial scale. These criminal hubs, based mostly in Phnom Penh and the border cities of Poipet and Sihanoukville, function like call centers with scripts, performance targets and tiered management. Workers—many themselves trafficked or coerced—are trained in emotional manipulation, cultural cues and gendered communication styles to better appeal to Western, East Asian or Southeast Asian targets. Romance specialists focus on tone, empathy and long-term engagement, distinct from faster “investment-only” fraud teams. The intimacy is manufactured, but the structure behind it is ruthlessly systematic.
Psychologically, romance scams exploit several well-known mechanisms. The principle of reciprocity makes victims feel obliged after receiving sustained emotional support. Cognitive dissonance keeps them invested when doubts arise—admitting the truth would mean admitting painful loss. Intermittent reinforcement, similar to gambling dynamics, appears when small “returns” or affectionate gestures are delivered unpredictably, strengthening attachment. Importantly, scammers rarely threaten or rush at first; pressure intensifies only after emotional dependency has formed.
Technology has sharpened these techniques. AI-generated profile photos, language-polishing tools and scripted voice calls reduce inconsistencies and scale operations. Yet the emotional core remains deeply human: hope, loneliness, desire for connection, and the universal belief that this time, it’s real. Romance scams succeed not because victims lack intelligence, but because the scam mimics love closely enough to bypass rational defenses.
As long as online intimacy remains central to modern life, romance scamming will continue to evolve. Understanding its psychological mechanics—rather than mocking its victims—is essential to prevention. The true crime is not that people trusted, but that trust itself has been turned into a weapon.
I’ve been to Cambodia. Not the postcard Cambodia, not Angkor-at-sunrise Cambodia, not the NGO-workshop-with-aircon Cambodia. I mean the other one. The one you see from the roadside if you look carefully. The one with the buildings that have no signboards, no windows you can see into, no reason to exist except that they do. Multi-story, anonymous blocks, ringed with barbed wire, CCTV cameras blinking like bored insects, armed guards leaning on batons or rifles, pretending not to see you pretending not to look.
You don’t need to be a genius to understand what happens inside. Love doesn’t live there. Neither does tech innovation or “online marketing solutions.” What lives there is labour—cheap, trapped, coerced, sometimes willing at first, rarely free in the end. What lives there is typing. Endless typing. “Good morning, my dear.” “Did you eat already?” “I worry about you.” Click. Paste. Adjust tone. Extract money.
In Poipet, the border town everyone pretends is just about casinos and duty-free shops, I noticed something else: Indonesian restaurants. Lots of them. Cute little warungs pumping out nasi goreng, tempeh, fried chicken by the hundreds. You don’t open dozens of Indonesian eateries in a Cambodian border town unless you have a captive Indonesian workforce nearby. Food follows labour. Always has.
In Sihanoukville, I talked—quietly, carefully—with a few of the foreign workers. Illegal immigrants, most of them. Some said they came “voluntarily.” That word does a lot of work here. Voluntary like accepting a job offer without being told you can’t leave. Voluntary like discovering your passport is “kept for safekeeping.” Voluntary like being fined if you don’t meet your daily scam quota. Voluntary until you try to walk out.
And the authorities? Oh, the authorities know nothing. Of course they don’t. Nothing at all. They don’t notice the fortified buildings. They don’t notice the armed guards. They don’t notice the trafficked workers, the suicides, the jumps from windows, the raids announced in advance, the buses that quietly move people from one compound to another before inspections. Everyone is very surprised. Again. And again. And again.
What makes me angry isn’t just the scam. It’s the performance of ignorance. The theater of denial. Romance scams destroy lives on both ends: the lonely woman in Europe who thinks she’s loved, and the trapped worker in Cambodia forced to fake that love for survival. This is not a glitch in the system. This is the system.
So no, Auntie isn’t shocked. I’ve seen the buildings. I’ve smelled the food. I’ve heard the stories whispered, not shouted. And as long as pretending not to know is cheaper than doing something, those fortresses of fake love will keep humming.