Why we love the stories of women who swindle

As hard as it is to admit it, we know that when Anna Delvey first appeared on our Netflix screens on Inventing Anna in those oversized Celine glasses, we weren’t really thinking about the people she conned—the wire transfers that never came through, or the friends that were left with massive credit card debt. Instead, we were mesmerised by her icy composure, the way she moved through New York’s elite with nothing but a fake German accent and that unshakable confidence.

We found ourselves rooting for her, a scammer. And judging by the viral memes, fan accounts specifically made to decode her outfits during hearings, or the fact that people had eventually started picking up on her courtroom one-liners like they were punchy sitcom dialogues, it was clear—Anna Delvey wasn’t just a criminal, she was, in fact, a cultural moment. And she’s hardly the only one.

From Samantha Azzopardi, who conducted a string of elaborate identity frauds across countries, where she even once claimed to be Dakota Johnson and was charged with intent to defraud, to Nagpur’s most famous, Looteri Dulhan, who married eight men, extorted lakhs from them, and was finally caught while attempting to marry for the ninth time, the pattern is eerily familiar. No matter how absurd or devastating their crimes might be, we eventually end up retelling these stories less like cold accounts of fraud and more like entertainment. 

Maybe it has something to do with the way we’re wired to perceive women in general. Research shows that people often associate femininity with vulnerability, charm, and even innocence, all qualities that make it that much harder to reconcile their identities with cold-blooded deception. So when a woman pulls off a scam, our instinct is intrigue, instead of outrage. We want to understand why, rationalise her motives, and maybe even admire her audacity. That tiny psychological loophole is what makes con women slip so easily into the role of cultural fascination digitally.

According to forensic expert Avani Datta, the way society views female scammers isn’t accidental; it’s heavily rooted in psychology and gendered bias. “When women commit acts of deception, they violate entrenched gender-role expectations. That clash creates cognitive dissonance, which makes people add layers of nuance to their stories rather than dismiss them outright,” she explains. Male scammers, on the other hand, fit neatly into stereotypes of greed or predation, which is why, as Datta puts it, “they attract less narrative elaboration—people see them as sleazy or pathetic rather than fascinating.”

A part of this comes down to ingrained bias. Courts, juries, and even the public at large have a long history of excusing women by seeing them as fragile, redeemable, or victims of circumstance. “We tend to rationalise women’s crimes differently—blaming desperation or coercion—while men’s are attributed to bad character,” Datta says. This is where concepts like the “chivalry bias” and the “fundamental attribution error” come in, shaping sympathy and judgment in ways that work against equal accountability. 

However, when it comes to media, this only amplifies this divide. Documentaries, biopics, and even memes all over social media end up handpicking the glamorous details, which usually include their designer wardrobes, their charm and how they carry themselves, helping their images take hold as anti-heroines or misunderstood geniuses. “Media framing is powerful. By sexualising or romanticising women’s transgressions, the narrative shifts from fraud to fascination,” Datta notes. And once the internet gets involved, the glamorisation goes into overdrive. “Platforms reward content that is aspirational or entertaining. A stylish con artist makes for better viral edits than a dry courtroom transcript,” she adds.

Traits that these women lean on, which usually just revolve around charisma, warmth, and even the ability to build a quick rapport, only add to the mythology. “When women use impression management or exploit traditional roles like caregiver or romantic partner, their success feels both shocking and remarkable,” Datta explains. It’s partly why the public finds them so intriguing: the clash between stereotypical femininity and traits like narcissism or manipulation creates a kind of narrative whiplash that makes people want to mythologise them rather than condemn them.

Even the victims, Datta points out, don’t always respond the way you’d expect. “Victims often feel embarrassed and express less outward anger when deceived by a woman. They may even blame themselves,” she says. Being duped by someone perceived as non-threatening leaves many feeling psychologically bruised, sometimes leading to a misplaced willingness to forgive. That, in turn, contributes to fewer reports, weaker prosecutions, and a cycle where female con artists keep slipping through the cracks.

The ripple effect of all this fascination isn’t just cultural, it’s judicial. “Jurors bring the same stereotypes into the jury box,” says Datta. “If a woman has already been glamorised in the media, she’s more likely to evoke sympathy, which can influence sentencing.” Studies have shown that women often receive lighter punishments, slower investigations, or more lenient plea deals simply because they are not seen as dangerous. Which means that while the internet might treat female scammers as entertainment, the justice system, consciously or not, sometimes treats them as exceptions.

It’s a feedback loop: the Reddit and Instagram memes feed the myth, the myth softens accountability, and these con women end up looking less like villains and more like cultural icons. The question is: at what cost?

 

Lead Image: Netflix

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