Sleep didn't come that night.
Zara lay in bed, phone face-down on her nightstand, but she could still feel it. The phantom weight of notifications. The invisible tether connecting her to two million strangers who thought they knew her. The countdown ticking away in her mind like a bomb she couldn't defuse.
Seventy-two hours.
Now it was sixty-eight.
She'd tried everything—meditation apps, breathing exercises, even the expensive CBD oil a wellness brand had sent her months ago that she'd never actually opened. Nothing worked. Her brain was a hamster wheel spinning through every possible scenario, every potential suspect, every way her carefully constructed life could come crashing down.
By 5 AM, she gave up pretending.
She reached for her phone and did what she always did when she couldn't sleep: she scrolled. Through Instagram, through Twitter, through the endless stream of content that had become her oxygen. Other people's curated lives. Other people's curated pain. The algorithm feeding her exactly what it knew she couldn't resist.
A competitor's skincare routine that was clearly outperforming hers.
A thread about "influencer culture being toxic" that had gone viral overnight.
A quote post about authenticity that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
And then—buried in her explore page like a landmine waiting to detonate—she saw it.
A screenshot. Posted by an anonymous meme account with 50K followers. The image showed an Instagram story from someone she didn't recognize, but the text overlay was clear:
"Anyone else following @ShadowsExposed? They're saying they have dirt on some MAJOR influencers. This is about to get messy 👀🍿"
Zara's blood ran cold.
She clicked through to the account that had posted the story, but it had already expired. Twenty-four hours, gone. But the meme account's screenshot had been posted two hours ago, which meant people were already talking. Already speculating. Already hungry for the blood in the water.
The comments under the meme post were a horror show:
"OMG who do we think is getting exposed??"
"Please let it be [redacted] I've always known she was fake"
"The influencer industry is so corrupt honestly they all deserve it"
"I literally cannot WAIT for this tea ☕️"
And then, buried near the bottom, a comment that made her heart stop:
"I heard it's someone with over 2 million followers. Someone who got famous from a breakup post. 👀"
Twelve likes on that comment. Twelve people who had seen it. Twelve people who might put the pieces together.
Zara screenshot it with shaking hands, added it to her growing folder of evidence, and felt the walls of her apartment closing in around her.
They're already talking. It's already starting.
She showered for the first time in two days.
Not because she cared about hygiene right now—survival mode had kicked in, and basic self-care felt like a luxury she couldn't afford—but because she needed to think. The hot water had always helped her think.
As steam filled her bathroom, she let her mind work through the problem like a content strategy.
Who has the motive?
The obvious answer was a competitor. Someone who wanted her spot, her brand deals, her followers. But that felt too simple. Too impersonal. The messages from ShadowsExposed had felt targeted. Intimate. Like they knew her—really knew her, not just her public persona.
Who has the means?
Someone with enough information about Goa to use it against her. That narrowed the list considerably. Arjun knew some of it. Meera knew a sanitized version. And then there was the third person—the one she'd been trying not to think about since this started.
Kabir.
The name surfaced like a body from deep water, and Zara felt her stomach lurch.
Kabir Malhotra. The ex-boyfriend she'd told the world about in her viral video. The "toxic narcissist" who had "destroyed her self-worth." The villain of her origin story.
Except Kabir wasn't actually a villain.
And what had happened between them was far more complicated than the neat narrative she'd packaged for public consumption.
She hadn't thought about him in months.
Not really. Not beyond the occasional moment when his name would pop up in a comment or DM, some follower thanking her for helping them leave their own "Kabir." She'd trained herself to skim past those messages without engaging, to let the fictional version of their relationship exist in the public consciousness without confronting the reality underneath.
But now, standing in her bathroom with water dripping down her face, she forced herself to remember.
They'd met at a wedding three years ago. Before she was anyone. Before the followers, before the fame, before she'd learned to see every moment as potential content.
He'd been sitting alone at a table near the bar, sketching something in a notebook, completely uninterested in the social performance happening around him. Zara had been tipsy on champagne and bold in the way she only got when she was anonymous—when no one was watching, when she could be anyone she wanted to be.
"What are you drawing?" she'd asked, sliding into the seat next to him.
He'd looked up at her with dark eyes that seemed to see straight through her bullshit.
"You," he'd said simply.
And she'd laughed, because who said things like that? Who was that direct, that unfiltered, that completely unaware of how social interactions were supposed to work?
But when he'd turned the notebook toward her, she'd stopped laughing.
It was her. Captured in rough charcoal strokes. Not the version of her she'd been projecting all night—the confident, sexy, social butterfly—but something quieter. Sadder. More real.
"How did you—" she'd started.
"I draw what I see," he'd said. "Not what people want me to see."
And that was it. She'd fallen hard and fast, the way she always did. The way she always would.
Kabir had been different from anyone she'd ever dated.
He wasn't impressed by her follower count—back then, it was only around 50K, but still enough to matter in her world. He didn't care about the content she made or the brands she worked with. He actively seemed uncomfortable when she pulled out her phone to document anything.
"Why do you need to post it?" he'd ask when she tried to capture their dates. "Can't you just... experience it?"
At first, she'd found it charming. Refreshing. A welcome break from the guys who only wanted to date her for the clout, who'd ask her to tag them in her posts, who'd get annoyed when she didn't feature them enough on her stories.
But eventually, it had started to feel like criticism.
Every time he questioned her need to document their life, she heard judgment. Every time he suggested they put their phones away, she felt controlled. And every time he looked at her with those knowing eyes—the same eyes that had captured her sadness in that first sketch—she felt exposed in a way that terrified her.
He sees too much. He knows too much. If I stay with him, he'll find out I'm not who I pretend to be.
So she'd started to pull away. Picked fights about nothing. Created distance where there didn't need to be any. And when things had finally ended—not with a bang but with the quiet whimper of two people who'd stopped trying—she'd felt more relieved than heartbroken.
Until Goa.
Until everything changed.
The memory hit her like a wave, and she had to grab the bathroom counter to steady herself.
Goa. Two years ago. A group trip organized by a brand that was launching a new resort. Ten influencers, all expenses paid, content expectations attached.
Zara had been excited to go. Things with Kabir had ended two months earlier, and she'd been looking for a distraction—a reset, a way to throw herself back into work and forget the uncomfortable feelings their relationship had stirred up.
She hadn't known he'd be there.
One of the other influencers—a guy named Dev who she'd only known through mutual follows—had mentioned at the last minute that he was bringing a friend. An artist who needed a break. Someone who wasn't "in the industry" and could provide a fresh perspective for their content.
Kabir had walked into the resort lobby, and Zara had felt the floor drop out from under her.
He'd looked different. Thinner. Darker circles under his eyes. Like the months since their breakup had been just as unkind to him as they'd been to her—but he'd never learned to hide it the way she had.
"I didn't know you'd be here," he'd said quietly when they'd found themselves alone by the pool that first night.
"Neither did I." She'd kept her voice cold. Distant. Armored.
"Zara—"
"Don't." She'd cut him off before he could say whatever he was about to say. "We're both professionals. We can coexist for a weekend without making it weird."
But it had been weird. Of course it had been weird. Every group dinner. Every beach shoot. Every sunset content session where they'd had to pretend they were strangers when their history hung between them like smoke.
And on the third night, after too much wine and not enough walls, something had happened.
Something she'd never told anyone.
Something that had shattered her completely.
Zara forced herself out of the memory and back into the present.
She was standing in her bathroom, towel wrapped around her body, staring at her reflection like she'd never seen it before. The water had gone cold at some point. She didn't know how long she'd been standing there.
Focus. You need to focus.
She dried off, threw on sweats—no content today, she couldn't even pretend—and grabbed her phone.
Fifty-four hours.
The countdown was burning a hole in her brain. She needed to figure out who was behind this before they made good on their threat.
Start with what you know.
She opened Instagram and navigated to Kabir's profile for the first time in over a year.
@kabir.creates
Artist. Dreamer. Human.
47.2K followers
His grid was exactly what she remembered—sketches, paintings, the occasional brooding black-and-white photo of empty streets and coffee cups. No brand deals. No sponsored content. No ring lights or aesthetic backdrops.
Just art. Honest and raw and completely authentic in a way that made her chest hurt.
She scrolled through his recent posts, looking for clues, looking for anything that might suggest he was behind ShadowsExposed. But nothing stood out. His captions were thoughtful but not bitter. His content showed no signs of obsession with her or the influencer world she inhabited.
The last time he'd mentioned her was... never. As far as his public presence was concerned, she didn't exist.
That doesn't mean anything. He could be hiding it. He could be planning this behind the scenes while presenting a peaceful front.
But even as she thought it, something didn't feel right. Kabir had never been vindictive. Never been manipulative. The entire reason their relationship had failed was because he was too honest—too unwilling to play the games she needed people to play.
Would someone like that orchestrate an anonymous blackmail campaign?
People change. Pain changes people.
She screenshot his profile anyway and added it to her folder.
Then she moved on to suspect number two.
Arjun's Instagram was the opposite of Kabir's.
Polished. Curated. Every post optimized for maximum engagement.
@arjun.ventures
Founder & CEO @NexaHealth | Forbes 30 Under 30 | Building the future 🚀
847K followers
His recent content was all startup hustle porn. Photos of him in meetings, captions about "grinding while they're sleeping," motivational quotes about success being a choice. The kind of content that made Zara roll her eyes even though she posted similar things herself.
She scrolled back to three days ago, looking for the rooftop story with the mystery girl.
It was gone, of course. Stories disappeared after 24 hours—that was the beauty of them, the plausible deniability they provided. But she still had her screenshot.
She opened her camera roll and stared at the image.
Arjun's hand on the girl's lower back. The champagne glasses. The way she was leaning into him like she belonged there.
Who is she?
Zara zoomed in on the girl's face. Pretty. Young. Maybe 21 or 22. She had the look of someone new to this world—excited to be at fancy parties, thrilled to be photographed, not yet jaded by the industry's endless appetite for content.
New supply, a bitter voice whispered in Zara's head. That's all you ever were. Just supply.
She pushed the thought away and focused on the task at hand.
Did Arjun have a motive? Did he have anything to gain from exposing her?
On the surface, no. They weren't enemies. Their "relationship"—if you could call it that—was still technically active, in the sense that he still texted her when he wanted something and she still responded like a pathetic, desperate fool.
But Arjun was a businessman. And businessmen always had angles.
What if he wanted you out of the way for some reason? What if you know something about him that he can't afford to have exposed?
The thought sent a chill down her spine. Because she did know things about Arjun. Things he'd told her in the dark, in the vulnerable aftermath of sex, when his walls were down and his secrets spilled out like water.
She knew about the funding he'd almost lost last year because of an investor's sexual harassment allegations—allegations Arjun had known about and ignored until they became public.
She knew about the user metrics he'd fudged in his early pitch decks, the "fake it till you make it" numbers that could constitute fraud if anyone looked too closely.
She knew about his first business partner, the one who'd mysteriously been pushed out right before NexaHealth went viral, the lawsuit that had been settled with an NDA neither party could discuss.
If he thinks you might talk...
But she'd never threatened to talk. She'd never even hinted at it. Arjun's secrets were locked in the same vault as her own—mutually assured destruction, the glue that held situationships like theirs together.
Still. She couldn't rule him out.
She added his profile to the folder and moved on.
Meera was the hardest to investigate.
Not because Zara lacked access—they were best friends, after all, their phones full of screenshots and voice notes and shared moments from three years of building their careers together. But because looking at Meera's profile meant confronting the suspicions she'd been burying for months.
@meera.mode
Fashion | Lifestyle | Living my truth ✨
1.1M followers
Meera's grid was gorgeous. Carefully curated, aesthetically consistent, the kind of feed that made brands open their checkbooks without hesitation. She'd been growing steadily over the past two years, crossing 500K, then 750K, then finally hitting the coveted million last month.
But her growth had always been slower than Zara's.
That was the thing they never talked about. The elephant in every room they shared. Zara had more followers, more brand deals, more viral moments. And while Meera always said she was happy for her—always congratulated her, always hyped her up in public—there was something underneath. Something that flickered in her eyes when Zara announced a new partnership. Something that tightened in her voice when she asked, too casually, how much a certain brand was paying.
Jealousy.
Zara had named it months ago, then immediately tried to un-name it. Meera was her best friend. Best friends didn't sabotage each other. Best friends celebrated each other's success.
But best friends also don't screenshot your posts to analyze why they're performing better. Best friends don't copy your content ideas two weeks after you share them. Best friends don't ask probing questions about your weakest moments and then file the information away like ammunition.
The voice in Zara's head was getting louder. Harder to ignore.
She thought about all the things she'd told Meera over the years. The insecurities. The struggles. The partial truth about Goa—a version that painted Kabir as the villain and her as the victim, that left out the complicated middle where she was both.
Did she tell someone? Did she use what I told her to figure out the rest of the story?
It was possible. Meera was smart. Resourceful. And she had more motive than anyone else on Zara's list.
Because if Zara fell... Meera would rise.
By noon, Zara had compiled a mental dossier on all three suspects.
Kabir: Knows the truth about Goa. Motive: unclear. Possibly bitter about the viral video that painted him as a toxic ex. But his public persona doesn't suggest someone capable of anonymous blackmail.
Arjun: Knows parts of the truth. Motive: possible. He has secrets he'd want to protect. If he thinks Zara is a liability, he might be trying to discredit her before she can discredit him. But he's also lazy and self-absorbed—does he have the attention span for something this coordinated?
Meera: Knows a partial truth. Motive: strong. She's been competing with Zara for years and losing. Bringing Zara down would create space for her to rise. She's smart enough to pull this off. But would she really destroy a friendship for followers?
The algorithm knows, Zara thought bitterly. It knows who's watching, who's engaging, who wants you gone. If only I could read it the way it reads me.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Meera:
"Hey babe, you seemed off yesterday. Everything okay? I'm here if you need to talk 💕"
Zara stared at the message for a long moment.
Was this genuine concern? Or reconnaissance?
You're being paranoid. She's your best friend. Just talk to her.
But something stopped her. The same instinct that had kept her alive in this industry for five years. The sense that everyone wanted something from her—and the moment she stopped being useful, they'd disappear.
"All good! Just tired. Let's catch up soon 💗"
She sent the response and immediately felt sick.
What kind of friendship requires this much analysis? What kind of life requires this much performance?
But she knew the answer. This kind of friendship. This kind of life. The one she'd built, the one she'd chosen, the one she'd sold her soul for.
And now someone was coming to collect.
At 2:47 PM, the first revelation dropped early.
Zara was in her kitchen, hate-eating leftover Thai food from three days ago, when her phone started blowing up.
Notifications flooded her screen faster than she could process.
What? What happened? What—
She opened Instagram, and her heart stopped.
@ShadowsExposed had a new account—@ShadowsExposed_Official—and this one had posted. An actual post. A carousel with a bright red background and white text that read:
"REVELATION #1: THE FOLLOWER FRAUD"
Zara clicked through with trembling hands.
The first slide was an introduction:
"Welcome to Shadows Exposed, where we reveal the truth behind your favorite influencers. This account exists because the industry built on 'authenticity' is the most fake industry in existence. Someone has to tell the truth. Starting now. Starting with this."
The second slide was a screenshot.
Of a DM.
Between two accounts she didn't recognize.
"How much for 10K followers?"
"Rs. 5000. Good quality, won't get flagged. Payment through Paytm."
"Done. I need it tonight."
The third slide was another screenshot. Same conversation, but scrolled up. Showing the profile of the person who had sent the initial message.
@meera.mode
Zara felt the floor tilt beneath her feet.
Meera. They exposed Meera.
The fourth slide was a receipts dump. Transaction records. Follower count jumps that aligned with the dates of the alleged purchases. A graph showing Meera's "suspicious growth patterns" compared to organic benchmarks.
The fifth slide was a message:
"This is just the beginning. More revelations coming soon. No one is safe. Everyone has secrets. And we know them all. 🖤"
Zara's phone rang.
Meera.
She stared at the caller ID for four rings before answering.
"Did you see it?" Meera's voice was barely recognizable. Panicked. Hysterical. "Zara, did you see what they posted?"
"I saw."
"It's not—I mean, it was one time, and it was years ago, and I just—I was desperate, okay? I was stuck at 50K and everyone else was growing and I just wanted—" Meera was crying now. "Is it true? Did you do this? Are you behind this?"
"What?" Zara felt like she'd been slapped. "You think I did this?"
"I don't know! I don't know who's doing this! But you're the only one who—" Meera stopped herself. "Never mind. I just—I'm getting destroyed in the comments. Brands are already emailing me. I might lose everything, Zara. Everything."
There was a part of Zara—a small, ugly part she didn't like to acknowledge—that felt something close to satisfaction. See? I'm not the only one. I'm not the only fraud.
But the larger part, the part that had genuinely loved Meera for three years, felt the weight of her friend's devastation.
"I didn't do this," Zara said quietly. "I swear to you, Meera. I didn't."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know. But—" Zara hesitated. Should she tell Meera about the messages? About the countdown? About her own looming exposure?
Not yet. Not until you know more.
"I'll help you figure it out," she said instead. "We'll find out who's doing this."
Meera was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "I thought I was going to be first."
"What?"
"The first revelation. I thought—I had this feeling it was going to be me. And it was." Another sob. "But Zara, if they knew about me... what else do they know? About you? About everyone?"
More than you can imagine.
"We'll figure it out," Zara repeated, even though she wasn't sure she believed it. "Just—don't respond to any comments. Don't make any statements. Go dark for a few hours and let me think."
"Okay." Meera's voice was small. Broken. "Okay. I'll try."
She hung up.
Zara stood in her kitchen, cold Thai food forgotten, and felt the walls closing in tighter.
Meera wasn't behind ShadowsExposed. She was a victim, just like Zara was about to be.
Which meant someone else was pulling the strings.
Someone who knew everyone's secrets.
Someone who was watching them all.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
Zara watched the internet tear Meera apart in real-time. The comments. The quote tweets. The think pieces that popped up within hours—"Is the Influencer Industry Built on Lies?" and "Follower Fraud: How Common Is It Really?"
Meera's follower count dropped by 30,000 before sunset.
Three brands issued statements "pausing" their partnerships.
An entertainment news site picked up the story, complete with unflattering photos and sensationalized headlines.
And through it all, the original ShadowsExposed post kept climbing. 50K likes. 100K. 200K. The algorithm was feeding on the chaos, pushing the content to more and more people who wanted to watch someone burn.
This is what's coming for you, Zara thought. This is what's waiting.
She checked the countdown in her head.
Forty-one hours.
Less than two days before ShadowsExposed turned their attention to her. Less than two days before the truth about Goa—whatever version of it they had—was broadcast to millions of people who would judge her without knowing the full story.
Tell your own truth before we tell it for you.
The message echoed in her mind. It was an option. A terrible, terrifying option—but an option nonetheless.
She could get ahead of it. Post her own video. Control the narrative before someone else did.
But what would she even say?
Hi everyone. So, that viral breakup video I posted two years ago? The one that made me famous? Yeah, it wasn't exactly the truth. The guy I talked about—Kabir—wasn't actually a toxic narcissist. He was actually a decent person who I pushed away because I was scared. And what happened in Goa... well...
She couldn't even finish the thought.
Because the truth about Goa wasn't just complicated. It was devastating. And once she said it out loud, there was no taking it back.
At 11 PM, her phone buzzed with a text.
From Arjun.
"Saw what happened to your friend. Brutal. You okay?"
Zara stared at the message, trying to decode what he actually meant.
Was this concern? Reconnaissance? A test?
"I'm fine. Do you know anything about ShadowsExposed?"
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
"Should I?"
She felt a chill run down her spine.
"Just asking. They seem to know things about a lot of people."
"Not worried about me, are you?" A winking emoji. "I've got nothing to hide."
Bullshit, Zara thought. Everyone has something to hide.
But she didn't push. If Arjun was behind this—or connected to it somehow—she didn't want to tip him off.
"Just checking in. Crazy day."
"Get some sleep, Zara. You sound stressed."
How the fuck would you know how I sound? It's a text.
But she didn't say that either. Just sent a thumbs up emoji and dropped her phone on the bed like it was contaminated.
The walls were closing in. The clock was ticking. And everyone in her life suddenly felt like a suspect.
This is what you built, a voice whispered. A life made of lies. A world where no one can be trusted. A house of cards waiting for the wind.
Zara lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
Thirty-nine hours.
The algorithm knew her secrets.
And soon, everyone else would too.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
Continue to Chapter Three: "The Night in Goa"