Miss Invisible: The billionaire’s lying influencer

Chapter 1 I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing beneath my pillow, one sharp vibration, then silence. My heart gives a small hopeful kick. Maybe a few comments, a couple of DMs, maybe one of my reels finally picked up. I reach for the phone, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Instagram: Your account has been disabled for violating community guidelines. For a second, I honestly think I’m still dreaming. My fingertip freezes above the screen. I blink. Refresh. Blink again. Same message. My stomach drops in one heavy, sickening lurch, like the floor has been yanked out from under me. A strange ringing rushes into my ears. “No… no, no, no” I sit up so fast my blanket tangles around my legs. My throat tightens as I try to log in again. User not found. @amyclifestyle_ does not exist a tiny, pathetic laugh slips out of me. This has to be a glitch. A mistake. A nightmare. I try again and again and again. Still the same, my entire chest collapses inward. A heavy breath escapes me, shaky and thin. It feels like watching a life I built crumble in slow motion. Three years of curated posts. Five thousand curated photos. Hundreds of staged coffee shots. Borrowed outfits. Perfect angles. Perfect lighting. Perfect… fake… everything. I swallow hard, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin. Even the lies I told myself are gone now. Gone. Just like that without warning. My carefully crafted online life. My only escape from reality is gone. I drop the phone onto my lap, hands shaking. Without that page, who even am I? A nobody. The overweight receptionist no one remembers. The girl people talk over like she isn't standing right there. The girl who blends into hallways, into chairs, into entire rooms. My throat stings. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to cry, but the tears slip out anyway. This cannot be happening. I grab the phone and dial i********: support, even though I know it’ll be useless. The automated voice barely gets two sentences in before I hang up. “Think, Amy. Think.” I try logging in again, still disabled.I even attempt to make a backup account, but i********: blocks it instantly, like it already knows I’m desperate. Someone didn’t just report me. They targeted me. My breathing turns uneven. "Why would someone?" My voice cracks. Jealousy? Maybe I know I annoy people sometimes… But who would go this far? My mind scrambles for explanations, reaching for the easiest suspects. A flash of Sophie’s smirk crosses my mind. Chloe’s raised brows. “Amy, you’re getting obsessed with this influencer thing.” “People like… bigger girls lie online all the time.” They laughed but lightly, playfully like friends. Weren’t they my friends? Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were tired of seeing me pretend to be someone better than the invisible girl they preferred. But I shake the thought away. I have no proof. And right now? My life is already falling apart. I bury my face in my hands. It’s stupid, it’s just an app and people lose accounts all the time. But this thiss… mine wasn’t just an account. It was the only version of me that ever felt… enough. No one online knew the real me Amy Collins, the girl who grew up in foster homes, passed around like old furniture. The girl who was always the heaviest in the room. Without that page… I’m back to nothing. My chest squeezes painfully. "I can’t do this. Not today. Not now.” I drop the phone and close my eyes. The room feels too small. Too quiet. Too dark for someone who just lost the only version of herself she could stand. I need noise, light, distraction, alcohol, whatever to keep me away from myself and my thoughts. I need to move before it eats me alive. I throw on a coat and shove my feet into the first shoes I find and walk out of the flat with no makeup, no plan, no money except the last £11 loaded on my card. I should be at work in an hour, sitting behind the receptionist desk pretending I don’t hear people whisper about my weight or my cheap clothes. But today? No. Instead, I stumble into Soho clutching a cheap bottle of vodka I definitely can’t afford. £11 left on my card, and I spent it all on a drink that burns like humiliation. I’m aware of how pathetic this is, but the truth is I’d do anything not to feel like myself right now. I shouldn’t be doing this, I know that. But when your life collapses before breakfast, you earn the right to one stupid, destructive choice. I take another gulp, too big, too fast. It scorches all the way down, lighting my chest on fire. For a moment, it numbs the ache sitting behind my ribs. Just a moment. The neon lights blur into long, messy streaks. My eyes sting and my breath hitches. Then the London night turns cold, almost like it wants to remind me just how unlucky I am. The universe must really enjoy watching me fall apart. And then because life apparently isn’t done with me yet it starts to rain. The first drops are gentle, almost shy, before the sky opens and dumps everything it has on me. Soaking my hair, my coat. My bones. It starts in a whisper, then crashes down in sheets. Soaking my hair, my coat, my bones and whatever dignity I have left. My legs feel foreign, like they belong to someone else and I’m just borrowing them badly. I was so drunk, not cute or tipsy—no, the kind of drunk where the world tilts and my emotions cling to the ceiling. I slump against the brick wall outside a Soho pub, cold rain hitting my face. I walk anyway, if you can call this stumbling, wobbling mess walking. Every step feels heavier and the streetlamps start doubling into two. People pass me, glancing once before looking away. Like I’m some drunk shadow they don’t want to step on. Good. Let them look away, it’s what everyone does best. By the time I reach the end of the street, I'm so drunk that all the hurt bubbles up in my throat. Drunk enough to believe the night won’t destroy me any more than I already am. My hair sticks to my cheeks. My mascara is smudged. I probably look unhinged. No I feel unhinged. I spent every last pound on cheap vodka shots, one after another, hoping the burn would erase the pain in my chest. It didn’t. “Stupid… stupid app,” I mumble, stumbling down the street. "Stupid life. Stupid… everything." A passing couple looks at me, then away. Something inside me snaps, a tiny thread finally giving way. “I’m invisible,” I announce to the rain. “Officially—hic—invizz… invizzi… gone!” My voice echoes off the wet pavement. I keep walking, or more accurately, swaying. My vision blurs, lights streaking like watercolors. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Crying makes you weak. Foster homes taught me that. I blink up at the sky, blurting out to no one, “Why’d you take my account? It was all I had left.” Sophie and Chloe’s voices echo again in my head. "Amy, maybe stop editing so much." "It’s not healthy to pretend you're someone else." Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. The word haunts me. My head throbs, my vision sways, and for a second I forget where the pavement ends. I step off the curb, the world tilts. A sharp honk tears through the air, snapping me back to reality. Headlights flash. My stomach lurches, and I stumble back, froz en in place. A car jerks to a stop inches from me. “Bloody hell!” a voice snaps, followed by fast footsteps pounding through puddles. “Amy?”