In Search of Rich Celebrity Husbands

Chapter 3: Operation Glow-Up

The sun rose with a new purpose as the trio officially launched Operation Glow-Up. Zara, Lulu, and Candice had turned their heartbreak into a high strategy. Each morning was no longer for moping or post-breakup memes—it was a war room of filters, fashion, and finesse.

They gathered at Zara’s flat, which now resembled a chaotic fashion studio: wigs on mannequin heads, garment bags strung across chairs, makeup palettes scattered like confetti. The scent of MAC foundation and ambition hung thick in the air. Empty wine bottles lined the windowsill—remnants of last night’s brainstorm, which had morphed from heartbreak therapy to a blueprint for stardom.

“Okay,” Lulu announced, holding up a vision board they’d spent the whole night crafting. It was a collage of yachts, A-list men, designer logos, red carpets, and headlines like New IT-Girls Take the Scene by Storm. “We’re transforming into celebrity bait. That means makeovers, aesthetics, and algorithms.”

Candice, who was lounging in silk shorts and a charcoal face mask, added, “And followers. Lots of followers.”

They each created new i********: handles with chic bios like "Digital Muse | Lifestyle | Unavailable Energy." Zara’s new account was @ZaraNoir, Lulu went with @LuluxLuxe, and Candice chose @CandiInControl. The plan was more than cosmetic—it was psychological warfare.

First stop: a dodgy but effective social media service that allowed them to purchase followers, views, and engagement. They sat in Zara’s kitchen with their laptops open and mugs of oat milk lattes, hearts racing.

“Five thousand followers each to start,” Zara said, typing in her card details. “Let’s not go too crazy. Yet.”

Lulu smirked. “Get the package with comments, too. We need people writing stuff like ‘🔥🔥 goddess’ and ‘wife material’ on our selfies.”

Candice chuckled. “We’re becoming our PR team. Image consultants, marketing strategists, stylists, and spin doctors. For ourselves.”

By noon, their follower counts had skyrocketed. The algorithm seemed to pick up on the sudden growth, boosting their fake engagement just enough to attract real interest. Their DMs trickled with invitations: club openings, influencer brunches, and brand ambassador deals for vegan teeth whiteners and collagen water. Even a few low-level rappers had slid in.

“Fake it till we own it,” Lulu declared, raising a toast with green juice.

The makeovers came next. They hit up a high-end salon in Rosebank, where stylists sculpted their hair like Michelangelo with a blow-dryer. Zara went from soft girl-next-door to sleek, middle-parted femme fatale with cinnamon gloss. Lulu rocked a sharp, fire-red bob with blunt bangs. Candice opted for long, honey-blonde curls and a contour sharp enough to cut diamonds.

Their wardrobes transformed overnight.

Outfits? Rented.

Shoes? Borrowed.

Bags? Knock-offs are so clean that even a stylist would need a magnifying glass.

They visited Sandton’s underground rental spots where stylists lent out “investment pieces” for a small fortune and zero judgment. Week after week, they rotated Chanel, Versace, and Balenciaga. Sometimes, Zara returned an item a day late and had to pay penalties, but she insisted it was worth it.

They each developed signature aesthetics. Zara embodied quiet luxury: silk dresses, neutral tones, and understated elegance. Lulu embraced bold fashion: cut-outs, high slits, statement jewellery. Candice went full Y2K glam: mini skirts, tinted sunglasses, and butterfly clips. Their social media grids were colour-coordinated masterpieces.

But glamour wasn’t enough. Lulu took them through what she dubbed the celebrity code, a crash course in high-status behaviour she compiled after months of binge-watching interviews, docuseries, and watching the inner circles of the rich.

“No selfies with celebs,” she instructed. "Let them post you. You act like you belong, not like you’re lucky to be there.”

“Never look too available. If a guy replies quickly, we should take an hour to respond. If he has read our message blue ticked, we will take two hours to respond. Play hard to get, and act innocent and naïve.”

“Never ask ‘what do you do?’ Assume greatness. Keep the smile and be friendly, stupidly friendly. Guys like stupidly beautiful women.”

They practised fake laughs, learned to tilt their heads just so in photos, and posed like they’d just been caught mid-laugh in Monaco.

They rehearsed backstories, each with enough vagueness to seem mysterious: “I model part-time and curate digital spaces for luxury wellness brands.”

“I do consulting in sustainable fashion and travel media.”

“I’m launching a fragrance line inspired by trauma healing.” The truth? Two of them were part-time employed as freelancers, and Candice worked in customer support remotely. What mattered now was perception. Candice took an online etiquette course meant for aspiring diplomats and heiresses. She taught Lulu and Zara to subtly mirror body language, to gracefully decline champagne without offending a host, and to smile with their eyes without showing teeth.

They began attending gallery openings, networking mixers, and charity events that they barely understood. “Be always near the bar,” Zara whispered at one silent auction, “people talk more when they’re refilling.”

The trio treated each outing like a covert mission. They studied guest lists in advance, memorised Wikipedia pages of targeted celebrities, and followed their stylists on i********:. Once, Candice faked a phone call beside a famous soccer player just to be seen.

“I’m telling you,” she whispered, and he glanced.

Their social media grew steadily. One post of Zara leaning against a rented Mercedes got over 2,000 likes. Lulu’s story from a rooftop pool party was reposted by a DJ with 300K followers. Candice went viral on t****k for a fake skincare routine involving moon water and rose quartz.

But they needed more credibility.

On Saturday, they booked a session at a photo studio in Johannesburg, infamous for curating fake influencer content. The space had mock private jets, a miniature Mediterranean rooftop setup, a beach backdrop completed with fake sand and palm trees, and even a cafe corner that mimicked Parisian charm.

They dressed the part. The three friends went to rent designer clothes, jewellery, and shoes that they could barely walk in. With professional lighting and filters, their images screamed wealth and wanderlust.

Zara posted a photo with the caption, “Jetlagged but worth it. #MilanNights.”

Candice shared one reclining with sunglasses and espresso: “Nothing like a quiet morning in Paris to reset the soul.”

Lulu leaned against the faux yacht railing in a metallic swimsuit: “No signal, no stress. #MediterraneanMood.”

To sell it, they studied the cities they pretended to visit. Zara watched travel vlogs about Milan and read blogs about hidden Paris cafés for hours. They memorised subway routes, local dishes, and even current weather patterns. They crafted fake travel stories down to the smallest detail—missing luggage in Istanbul, sunrise yoga in Bali, and museum tours in Amsterdam.

Candice even journaled her fake “experiences” to stay consistent. “If anyone asks,” she’d say, “I need to sound like I lived it.”

They downloaded location-tagging apps to spoof their GPS and used them in i********: stories.

“It’s like we’re in witness protection from our old selves,” Lulu laughed one evening.

“No,” Zara corrected her with a smirk. “We’re on the run from mediocrity.”

And just like that, the final piece of Operation Glow-Up clicked into place.