The notification came at 3:47 AM.
Zara's phone screen lit up her dark bedroom like a cold blue ghost, and even though she'd promised herself she would stop checking—stop obsessing, stop letting the numbers run her life—her hand was already reaching for it. Muscle memory. Addiction dressed up as ambition.
@ShadowsExposed started following you.
She blinked at the screen, her eyes adjusting to the brightness. The profile picture was just a black circle. No posts. No followers. Following only one account.
Hers.
A chill ran down her spine that she immediately dismissed as stupid. It's just a bot. A spam account. Happens literally every day.
But something about the username made her pause. ShadowsExposed.
She clicked on the profile anyway, because that's what she always did. Check. Analyze. Understand who was watching her, who was paying attention, who might become a threat or an opportunity. That was the game. That was survival in this world.
The bio was empty. The account was created today. And there was one highlight saved to their story, a single black circle with white text that read:
"COMING SOON: THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE INFLUENCERS."
Zara felt her stomach tighten.
She screenshot it—another reflex—then blocked the account and dropped her phone onto her mattress like it had burned her. Stupid. It's nothing. Go back to sleep.
But sleep had become a stranger to her lately. Three hours here, two hours there, always interrupted by the phantom buzz of notifications that weren't really happening, by the anxiety of what she might wake up to, by the endless mental math of engagement rates and brand deal negotiations and content calendars.
She stared at her ceiling, where the faint glow of her ring light's power indicator blinked in the corner like a heartbeat. The ring light was always ready. Always waiting for her to perform.
Just like everyone else.
Her alarm went off at 6:30 AM, playing the soft lo-fi beat she'd set as her "gentle morning routine" sound—the same one she'd recommended to her followers in a sponsored post for a meditation app she'd never actually used.
Zara silenced it and lay there for a moment, already dreading the day.
Thursday. Content day. The day she had to film at least three Instagram Reels, one TikTok that would probably also go on Reels, a story series for her "day in my life" content, and somehow find time to actually live the life she was supposedly documenting.
The irony was never lost on her.
She reached for her phone—first thing, always first thing, even though every therapist she'd never actually visited would tell her not to—and opened Instagram.
23,847 new followers overnight.
That should have made her happy. That should have sent a dopamine rush through her veins like it used to back when she was grinding to hit her first 10K, when every new follower felt like a tiny vote of confidence from the universe.
Now it just felt like pressure.
23,847 more people watching. Waiting. Expecting.
She scrolled through her notifications, heart sinking when she saw that Arjun still hadn't liked her last post. Hadn't commented. Hadn't even viewed her story, even though she'd posted it specifically at the time she knew he'd be checking his phone—right after his morning workout, when he always scrolled while drinking his protein shake.
Stop. Stop tracking him. Stop making yourself pathetic.
But she couldn't stop. That was the thing about loving someone who kept her at arm's length. Every interaction became data. Every like became hope. Every silence became torture.
She clicked on his profile—@arjun.ventures, 847K followers, "Building the future one startup at a time 🚀"—and felt the familiar twist in her chest when she saw he'd posted a story three hours ago.
From a rooftop. With a girl she didn't recognize. Champagne glasses clinking.
Zara told herself it was probably nothing. A work thing. A networking event. He knows everyone. He's always at parties.
But the girl was laughing in a way that looked too comfortable. Leaning in a way that looked too familiar. And Arjun's hand was resting on her lower back, casual and possessive, the way he used to touch Zara before things got... complicated.
We're not even official, she reminded herself. He never said we were exclusive. You can't be mad about something you never asked for.
But she was mad. She was mad and she was hurt and she was exhausted from pretending she wasn't both of those things every single day.
She screenshot the story—not to post, never to post, just to torture herself with later—and forced herself to get out of bed.
The show must go on.
Her apartment was a testament to the life she performed.
A two-bedroom in Bandra that cost more than her father had earned in a year when he was alive. White walls covered in carefully arranged gallery frames—motivational quotes, minimalist art prints, photos of her at brand events where she smiled so hard her cheeks ached for days. A marble kitchen island she never cooked on because content creators ordered in. A massive monstera plant in the corner that was actually fake because she'd killed every real one.
Everything designed to look good on camera. Everything optimized for the perfect shot.
She walked past the "Instagram corner"—a section of her living room with perfect natural lighting, a velvet couch in millennial pink, and a wall of neon signs that said things like "GOOD VIBES ONLY" and "SHE BELIEVED SHE COULD SO SHE DID"—and headed to the bathroom.
This was the part of her day no one ever saw. The part that wasn't content.
Under the harsh bathroom light, without filters, without the ring light's forgiving glow, Zara barely recognized herself.
Dark circles under her eyes that no concealer could fully hide. Skin that was dull from stress and bad sleep and too much coffee. Hair that needed washing but would have to wait because she didn't have time today, so dry shampoo it was.
She stared at her reflection and thought about the girl she used to be. Before the followers. Before the fame. Before she'd learned to see her own face as a product to be optimized.
Who are you when no one's watching?
The question floated up from somewhere deep, and she pushed it back down with practiced efficiency. She didn't have time for existential crises. She had a content calendar to execute.
She grabbed her skincare products—all PR packages, all sponsored, all sitting pretty in an acrylic organizer she'd bought specifically because it photographed well—and began her routine.
Cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. Sunscreen.
Each step a ritual. Each product a potential post.
By the time she was done with her makeup—"natural glam," she called it, which actually took 47 minutes and 23 different products—she looked like Zara Khan again. The Zara Khan her followers knew. The Zara Khan who had her life figured out.
Fake it till you make it. Fake it till you become it. Fake it till you forget there was ever anything real underneath.
Her phone rang while she was setting up her ring light for the first Reel of the day—a "Get Ready With Me" that would seamlessly feature three different brand sponsors if she could just get the angles right.
The caller ID made her stomach drop.
Mom.
She considered not answering. She always considered not answering. But the guilt was always stronger than the dread.
"Hello?"
"Zara." Her mother's voice was sharp, clipped, carrying that particular tone of disappointment that Zara had been hearing since she was fifteen years old. "I'm calling because your masi told me she saw you on some video. Dancing. In very little clothes."
Zara closed her eyes. Here we go.
"Mama, it was a Reel. I was promoting a fitness brand. I was wearing workout clothes."
"Same thing. You think I don't know what you do? Showing your body to strangers for money?"
"I don't—" Zara bit back the sharp response that wanted to escape. "I'm a content creator, Mama. It's a real job. I pay taxes. I have contracts with major brands. I—"
"Your father would be so ashamed."
The words hit her like a punch to the chest.
For a moment, Zara couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Could only stand there in her perfect apartment with her perfect ring light and feel the weight of her mother's disappointment crushing her from 800 kilometers away.
"He's been dead for six years, Mama." Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. "You don't get to speak for him."
"I was married to him for twenty-three years. I knew him better than anyone."
Did you? Zara wanted to ask. Did you know about the debts? Did you know about the affair? Did you know all the things I found out at his funeral, the things that shattered the version of him I thought was real?
But she said none of that. She never said any of that.
"I have to go, Mama. I have work."
"Work." Her mother laughed bitterly. "Playing on your phone is not work. When will you get a real job? When will you get married? You're 23, Zara. Your cousin Priya is already having her second baby, and you're—"
"I really have to go."
Zara hung up before her mother could say anything else. Then she stood there, phone in hand, and felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to ruin her 47-minute makeup job.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Content creators don't cry. They post motivational quotes about rising above negativity and building empires and being unbothered queens.
She blinked rapidly, tilted her head back, and willed the tears to retreat.
When she was sure she had herself under control, she picked up her phone and opened Instagram.
Time to be someone else.
The Reel came together faster than expected.
Three takes of her pretending to wake up fresh-faced (in full makeup). Four takes of her "discovering" the skincare products she'd strategically placed on her counter. Two takes of her doing a little spin in her "favorite everyday outfit" that was actually a sponsored look she'd never wear in real life because the jeans were so uncomfortable she could barely sit down.
But the result was perfect. Polished. Shareable.
"my 6am routine that changed my life 🌅✨ (use code ZARA20 for 20% off @glowskin!)"
She uploaded it, set the hashtags, tagged the brands, and watched the likes start rolling in almost immediately.
Within ten minutes: 3,000 likes. 47 comments.
"You're so gorgeous omg"
"I literally ordered everything"
"Goals 😍😍😍"
"How are you so perfect"
Zara screenshot the numbers for her monthly brand report and tried to feel something. Pride. Satisfaction. Validation.
But the only thing she felt was the gnawing emptiness that had become her constant companion. The sense that she was running on a treadmill that kept speeding up, that no matter how many followers she gained or how much money she made, she was somehow still losing.
Her phone buzzed. A DM.
She tapped it expecting a brand inquiry or a fan message, but instead found herself staring at a black circle avatar and a username that made her blood run cold.
@ShadowsExposed.
Wait. I blocked that account.
She checked. The block was still there. But this was a new account. @ShadowsExposed2.
And the message was short. Direct. Terrifying.
"Nice Reel, Zara. But your followers don't know what happened in Goa, do they? They don't know about the night that made you famous. The REAL story behind your 'breakup post.' Don't worry. They will soon. 🖤"
Zara dropped her phone.
It clattered against her marble floor, screen down, and she just stood there—frozen, heart pounding, mind racing through every possibility of who could know, who could have found out, who could be doing this.
Goa.
The trip she'd taken two years ago. The viral post that had launched her career. The "vulnerable" story she'd shared about her "toxic ex" and her "journey of healing" that had resonated with millions of women.
Except that story was a lie.
Not entirely. Not completely. But twisted enough, edited enough, that if the real version ever came out...
Zara picked up her phone with shaking hands and read the message again.
They will soon.
For two years, she'd built her empire on a foundation of carefully crafted half-truths. For two years, she'd convinced herself that the lie was justified—that she'd suffered enough to deserve the success that came from it, that the real story was too complicated to explain, that no one would understand.
But someone knew.
And someone was coming for her.
She tried calling Arjun.
Not because she thought he was behind it—he wasn't smart enough for that, wasn't vindictive enough, was too self-absorbed to ever orchestrate something this targeted. But because he was the only person who knew pieces of what had really happened that night. Because she needed to hear his voice. Because in moments of crisis, she always ran to him, even though he never ran back.
The phone rang five times, then went to voicemail.
"You've reached Arjun Mehta. I'm probably building something incredible right now, but leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can."
She hung up without leaving a message. Of course he didn't answer. It was 10 AM on a Thursday, which meant he was either in meetings or in bed with whoever that girl from the rooftop story was, and neither option included making time for Zara.
This is what you signed up for, she reminded herself bitterly. A situationship. All the intimacy of a relationship with none of the commitment. All the jealousy with none of the right to complain about it.
She'd met him eight months ago at a brand event. A launch party for some wellness app she couldn't even remember the name of now. He'd been wearing a blazer with no shirt underneath—the kind of confident, slightly douchey look that would have made her roll her eyes under normal circumstances—but something about the way he'd looked at her across the room had made her feel seen in a way she hadn't felt in years.
"You're Zara Khan," he'd said, approaching her with a champagne flute. "The girl who makes crying look aesthetic."
It should have offended her. The comment was a reference to her viral breakup post—the one where she'd filmed herself with tears streaming down her face, talking about heartbreak and self-worth, the one that had gotten 4.7 million views and turned her from a mid-tier influencer into a household name.
But something about the way he'd said it—knowing, almost impressed—had made her laugh.
"And you're Arjun Mehta," she'd replied. "The guy who turned 'I failed three startups before this one' into a personal brand."
He'd grinned at that. Perfect teeth. Expensive haircut. Eyes that suggested he'd never heard the word "no" in his life.
"Takes a hustler to recognize a hustler."
And just like that, she was hooked.
Looking back, Zara could see all the red flags she'd ignored.
The way he'd only text her after midnight. The way he'd introduce her at parties as "my friend Zara" with just enough emphasis on the word "friend" to make it sting. The way he'd disappear for weeks, then show up at her door with Thai food and an apology that always somehow became her fault.
"I've been so busy with the new funding round, you know how it is."
"I thought you'd understand. You're not like other girls who need constant attention."
"I'm just not in a place for labels right now. But what we have is special, right?"
And Zara—stupid, desperate, lonely Zara—had believed him every time. Had convinced herself that his crumbs were a feast. Had posted cryptic stories about "patience" and "divine timing" and "the right person will never make you question your worth" while privately questioning her worth every single day.
She was, she realized now, addicted to him the same way she was addicted to her phone. Always checking. Always hoping. Always disappointed.
But she couldn't stop.
Her best friend called at noon.
"Babe!" Meera's voice was bright, energetic, laced with an excitement that felt performative even over the phone. "Did you see? Your Reel is already at 50K views. The comments are insane."
Zara was sitting on her bedroom floor, back against her bed, staring at the ShadowsExposed message on her screen. She'd been staring at it for almost two hours.
"Yeah," she said flatly. "I saw."
"What's wrong? You sound weird."
Tell her. Tell her about the message. Tell her about Goa. Tell her everything.
But something stopped her. The same thing that always stopped her with Meera—a nagging sense that their friendship wasn't quite what it appeared to be on the surface. That Meera's enthusiasm sometimes felt like surveillance. That her questions sometimes felt like data collection.
Paranoid. You're being paranoid. She's your best friend.
"I'm just tired," Zara said. "Long night."
"Oooh." Meera's voice dropped conspiratorially. "Arjun?"
"No. Just... insomnia."
"You should try that sleep supplement I posted about last week. The brand sent me extras. I can drop some off later?"
"Sure. Yeah. Thanks."
There was a pause on the line. Zara could practically hear Meera recalibrating, trying to figure out what was really going on, filing away information for later use.
Stop it. She's your friend. She's not your enemy.
"Actually," Meera said slowly, "I wanted to talk to you about something. Are you free for coffee later? Like 4ish? There's this new café in Khar that just opened, totally Insta-worthy, we could get some content while we—"
"I don't think I can today. Sorry. Lot going on."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Okay." Meera's voice had cooled by a few degrees. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. I feel like we haven't really talked in a while. Like, really talked, you know?"
Because I don't trust you, Zara thought. Because I've seen the way you look at my follower count. Because I know you screenshot my posts and analyze why they perform better than yours.
"Soon," she said instead. "I promise. I just need to get through this week."
"Sure, babe. Love you."
"Love you too."
She hung up and felt guilty for the relief that washed over her. Meera was her best friend. Had been since they'd met at a content creator meetup three years ago, back when they'd both been grinding for their first 10K followers, back when the industry felt like a community instead of a competition.
But somewhere along the way, things had shifted. Meera's congratulations started coming with subtle barbs. Her advice started feeling like sabotage. And Zara had started noticing that every time she shared something vulnerable with Meera, a version of it would appear on Meera's account a week later—repackaged, reworded, but recognizable.
Maybe that's just how this industry works. Maybe everyone's using everyone.
Maybe you're using everyone too.
By 3 PM, Zara had blocked seventeen more ShadowsExposed accounts.
They kept popping up like hydra heads—@ShadowsExposed3, @ShadowsExposed4, @Shadows_Exposed_Official—each one following only her, each one with the same black circle avatar and the same ominous highlight:
"COMING SOON."
But no more messages. No more threats. Just the silent promise of exposure hanging over her head like a guillotine.
She'd screenshot everything and sent it to herself in an email, because she didn't know what else to do. She'd thought about reporting the accounts to Instagram, but that felt pointless—they weren't technically violating any guidelines yet. They were just... watching. Waiting.
Who the fuck is doing this?
The list of people who knew about Goa was short. Arjun knew parts of it—the parts that had happened in front of him. Meera knew the version Zara had told her, which was somewhere between the lie she'd posted and the truth she'd buried. And then there was...
No. He wouldn't.
But even as she thought it, she knew she couldn't be sure. Couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Couldn't trust anyone—not her situationship, not her best friend, not even her own memory of what had really happened that night.
What she did know was this:
Two years ago, in a hotel room in Goa, something had happened that had shattered her life. And in the aftermath, desperate and broken, she'd done the only thing she knew how to do.
She'd turned it into content.
She'd filmed herself crying. Had talked about heartbreak and betrayal and the moment she'd realized her worth. Had crafted a narrative of victimhood and survival that had resonated with millions of women who saw themselves in her pain.
And the internet had eaten it up.
That one post had gotten her first viral moment. Had attracted brands and followers and opportunities that had transformed her from a nobody into a somebody. Had built the foundation of everything she now had.
But the story she'd told wasn't exactly true.
And the truth—the real, complicated, ugly truth—could destroy everything.
She was still sitting on her bedroom floor when the sun began to set.
Orange light poured through her window, casting long shadows across the white walls of her apartment. Somewhere in the building, she could hear someone laughing. A couple, maybe. Living their life without the constant pressure of documenting it.
What would that even be like?
Zara pulled up Instagram and scrolled through her own feed. Months and months of carefully curated content stared back at her. Zara in Bali. Zara at fashion week. Zara promoting skincare, Zara promoting fitness, Zara promoting a lifestyle that didn't actually exist.
Every photo a performance. Every caption a half-truth. Every story a carefully edited version of reality.
Who are you when no one's watching?
The question came back, louder this time, and she still didn't have an answer.
Her phone buzzed.
A new DM from @ShadowsExposed8:
"Tick tock, Zara. The first revelation drops in 72 hours. Unless you want to get ahead of it? Tell your own truth before we tell it for you. The choice is yours. 🖤"
Seventy-two hours.
Three days.
Zara stared at the message, and for the first time since this nightmare started, she felt something beyond fear. Something harder. Angrier.
You want to expose me? Fine. But you're going to have to work for it.
She opened a new note on her phone and started typing:
**"People who might know about Goa:
Arjun
Meera (sort of)
The hotel staff?
His friends who were there
???"**
She was going to figure out who was behind this. She was going to find them before they found her. And she was going to protect the life she'd built, even if it meant—
Even if it meant what?
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
Zara looked at her reflection in the darkened window. A girl made of filters and lies, staring back at a stranger.
Who are you when no one's watching?
She didn't know. But she had 72 hours to figure it out.
And somewhere out there, hiding behind a black circle avatar, someone was counting down.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
Continue to Chapter Two: "The Algorithm Knows"