Chapter One – The Girl with the Golden Illusion
The camera flash lit up Zara Martins' face, catching the shimmer of her sequined dress as she tilted her head just right. Her lips curled into the kind of effortless smile she had perfected—flirty yet powerful, confident yet delicate. Thousands of her followers would later double-tap the picture, marveling at the life she lived.
"Perfect, babe!" her friend Tasha cheered, lowering the phone. "This shot alone screams private yacht vibes. People are gonna think you're on a trip in Monaco!"
Zara peeked at the screen, her heart swelling with both pride and a twinge of guilt. The truth was less glamorous: she wasn't in Monaco, or anywhere near the Mediterranean. She was in Lagos, standing on the balcony of a rented luxury apartment she could barely afford for the weekend, draped in a gown she had borrowed from a boutique with the promise of tagging them online.
It was all smoke and mirrors, and she was the magician.
The dress wasn't hers. The jewelry on her wrist was fake, though it sparkled convincingly under the soft night lights. The wine in her glass was cheap, but she'd poured it into an expensive-looking crystal flute. Every angle of her life was carefully staged for an audience that believed she was the queen of luxury.
"Post it now," Tasha urged, sipping her own drink. "Strike while the vibes are hot. Your followers are hungry."
Zara hesitated. Posting meant maintaining the illusion. Posting meant more lies, more pressure, more debt. But posting also meant validation—the kind that sent dopamine rushing through her veins and drowned out the fear of her bank alerts.
With a sigh masked as a laugh, she hit upload. Within seconds, the likes started pouring in.
💬 "Goals!"
💬 "My rich mama 😍🔥"
💬 "Teach me how to live this life please."
Zara's heart tightened as she read the comments. They didn't know she had spent her last savings to rent this space, or that she owed three different loan apps, or that the Uber she had taken here had bounced her card twice before finally going through.
She was broke. Broke, but branded.
As she slipped off her heels and collapsed onto the velvet sofa, her phone buzzed with a private message. The name on the screen made her blood run cold.
Daniel.
Her boyfriend. Her sweet, kind Daniel, who believed every lie she'd told him about her "business trips" and "family money." He didn't know that the designer bags she carried were knock-offs bought in the hidden corners of the market. He didn't know that when she claimed she was "busy with investors," she was really at home dodging calls from creditors.
She opened his message with shaky fingers.
> Daniel: Babe, I miss you. Dinner tomorrow? My treat. Let's go somewhere simple, just you and me.
Simple. Zara almost laughed. Daniel loved simple—he thought Zara's extravagance was just her "style." If he ever discovered it was all a performance, her whole world would collapse.
Zara typed back quickly, her heart pounding.
> Zara: Of course, love. Can't wait.
She dropped the phone on the table and buried her face in her hands. Tomorrow, she would need another outfit, another story, another perfect performance.
Because Zara Martins wasn't living a life.
She was living an expensive, fake life.
And she didn't know how much longer she could keep the curtain from falling.