By the time the flashbulbs started popping on the Los Angeles red carpet, my childhood humiliation had already been loaded, filtered, and posted to millions of strangers.
I could feel it buzzing in the air—like static before a storm.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered.
“You don’t have a choice,” my stepsister said, nudging me toward the velvet ropes and the wall of cameras. “Besides, you’re not doing anything. Stepmom’s done all the work. Just go.”
Chelsea, my stepmother, turned from the publicist and gave me that bright, blinding pageant smile she’d been polishing since we left the Valley. “Chin up, Kaylin. This is your night. Beauty Influencer of the Year, remember? Shoulders back. Smile like you’re thrilled, not terrified.”
The host announced my handle in that upbeat TV voice that always sounds a little fake. “And now, Makeup by Kayn!”
The crowd cheered. The music hit. I stepped onto the carpet, every inch of me airbrushed and lined and glossed, and all I could think was: somewhere out there is a photo of twelve-year-old me with braces, acne, and a crooked haircut, about to trend.
“Kaylin! Kaylin!” Reporters shouted from behind the metal barricades. “Do you have any idea who did this? What’s your response to the leaked photo?”
The words slammed into me.
So it’s live already.
Chelsea’s voice echoed in my memory, a few nights earlier, in our kitchen in the San Fernando Valley.
“Right before you step out on the carpet,” she’d said, fingers flying over her phone, “I’ll send out these anonymous posts. Old photos of you from middle school. It will get so much attention. People love a glow-up. They’ll bully you, you’ll cry, you’ll respond, and boom—engagement through the roof.”
“That’s… gross,” I’d murmured, staring at the screen. My frizzy hair. My broken-out cheeks. The birthmark on my left jaw my classmates had called “smudge girl” for years.
“Ew,” Chelsea had agreed, too quickly. “Exactly. It’s perfect. We’ll spin it as an anti-bullying moment. All press is good press, Kayn. Trust your manager.”
Now, under the hot Hollywood lights, microphones pushed toward my face, I could practically hear Chelsea whispering from the sidelines, Just say the line.
I swallowed, feeling the weight of a million eyes.
“I… haven’t seen it yet,” I said into the nearest mic. “But there is one thing I’d like to say.”
The carpet went oddly quiet.
“To all the little girls out there,” I said, voice steadying. “It doesn’t matter what’s on the outside. All that matters is what’s on the inside.”
It was cheesy. It was simple. It was exactly what Chelsea had written in her notes app. But when the crowd burst into applause, part of me wanted to believe it anyway.
Inside the theater, my phone vibrated nonstop. Notifications flooded the screen.
This photo was leaked of beauty influencer MakeupByKayn…
Her response will seriously melt your heart…
Clips of my shaky, rehearsed words were already on TikTok, captioned with cry-face emojis and inspirational music. Comments poured in.
“Queen of handling hate.”
“Middle school Kayn was adorable, what are people even talking about?”
“I love her even more now.”
My engagement was going insane.
Chelsea’s eyes glittered as she slid into the seat next to me. “What did I tell you?” she whispered, turning her phone so I could see the analytics. “The plan’s working like a charm. Turn that frown upside down, baby. Tonight is the beginning of six-figure brand deals.”
“You leaked that photo,” my older brother Ryan hissed from my other side. “Your own stepdaughter’s embarrassing middle-school pics. What kind of mom does that?”
“An unconventional one,” Chelsea said lightly, not bothering to deny it. “The correct answer is: a smart manager. This industry doesn’t reward quiet girls who play nice. If Kaylin wants to sit at the top of the U.S. beauty scene, she needs buzz.”
“I want a normal life,” I muttered. “And money for college. Dad said he put it aside for me.”
Chelsea’s smile froze for a fraction of a second. “We are not talking about your father’s will here,” she said, the sweetness gone from her voice. “He left it up to my discretion, and I am doing everything I can to secure your future. Which right now means content, brand deals, and getting you in with the right people.”
“The ‘right people’ bullied her on livestream last month,” Ryan shot back. “Remember that, or did you mute it to stare at the views?”
Chelsea turned away, ending the conversation with a flick of her hair.
On the giant theater screen, the hosts moved on. “The question on everyone’s mind,” one of them laughed, “is MakeupByKayn the newest member of the Hot Pocket Squad?”
A clip flashed of me squeezed between three of the biggest beauty creators in the country—Hot Pocket, the pastel-aesthetic squad with perfect teeth and perfect sponsorships and an apartment in downtown LA with a view of the Hollywood sign.
Hours before the show, I’d stood in a Beverly Hills hotel suite with them, my heart hammering as they scrolled through my feed.
“Kaylin, sorry about what happened with the leak,” Bren had said, her Texas accent soft and real. Bren—@BrenBlend—was the face of the squad and about ten times more famous than me. “People can be such trolls.”
“Thanks,” I’d said, surprised by how much I meant it. “Coming from you, that actually means a lot. I… love your content. Your cut-crease tutorial literally saved my life.”
“You’ve got serious talent too,” she’d grinned. “We were stalking your socials. You have to teach me how you nail that cat eye.”
“Only if you teach me your skincare routine.”
“It’s a date.” Bren had pulled me into a selfie, snapping shot after shot. “Girl, get in here too!” she’d called to another squad member. The screen filled with glossy hair, glitter, and smiles.
For the first time since Dad’s accident, my future had felt like more than a question mark.
Now, the hosts were replaying those backstage selfies and asking viewers to vote in a poll. Was Kayin joining the squad? Did we ship it?
A tiny piece of me glowed.
I should have been paying attention to the way Chelsea’s jaw clenched.
I should have noticed her thumb flying over her phone, switching from our shared brand email account to a private handle with no profile photo and no followers.
Instead, I soaked up the warmth that wasn’t actually meant for me.
The week after the awards, my life spun faster than my ring light.
Brands slid into our email faster than Chelsea could color-code them. A U.S. streaming platform wanted me on their beauty docuseries. A cosmetics company in New York invited me to tour their lab. The Hot Pocket girls tagged me in videos, and my follower count jumped by the tens of thousands, most of them from all over America—Houston, Miami, Chicago, little towns I’d never heard of.
I should have been happy.
But at home, the Valley house felt colder.
The note on the windshield was the first crack.
“What’s that?” Ryan asked, leaning over the hood of Chelsea’s silver SUV in our driveway.
“Probably just a neighbor mad we parked too close to their spot,” Chelsea said quickly, snatching the paper before we could read it. She crumpled it and shoved it in her purse. “We’re late. Let’s go.”
I caught a glimpse of blocky, angry letters. PAY UP OR YOU’RE NEXT.
That afternoon, another anonymous hate comment appeared under my latest TikTok.
You’re so fake.
You don’t deserve your platform.
Wait until everyone sees who you really are.
At first I shrugged it off. There’s always hate online. Comes with the follower count.
But then there were more.
They came from the same anonymous account—a blank profile that seemed to post only about me. Old photos. Weird edits. Comments under every video.
OBSSESSED.
This girl does NOT deserve Hot Pocket.
Brin is the real star. Kayn is just a copy.
Weirdly, half the comments were trying to pit me against Bren.
“That’s what you get for trying to be friends with people like that,” Ryan muttered, scrolling. “They use you for clout, then throw you under the bus.”
“They haven’t done anything,” I said. “They’ve been really sweet.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow. “Then why is your so-called manager feeding this drama?”
“What are you talking about?”
He turned the laptop so I could see. Chelsea was in the dining room, laptop open, our brand accounts displayed. On another tab, the anonymous account was logged in, the little green dot glowing.
He clicked refresh. Another hateful comment appeared instantly on my newest post.
“Ryan,” I whispered. “Stop. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
But my stomach twisted.
Chelsea breezed back into the room with a smoothie, acting like she hadn’t just been stirring a pot that was boiling with my face in it.
“Comments are crazy, huh?” she said cheerfully. “But look at those numbers. Every time that troll account posts, your engagement spikes. You’re trending in multiple states. This is good for you.”
“I don’t want ‘good for me’ to be people hating me,” I said quietly.
She smiled like I was being naive. “Sweetheart, the internet doesn’t reward boring. You want to pay for college? You want to be headlining BeautyCon LA, not just attending? You have to play the game.”
Speaking of college.
“Did you ever talk to Dad’s lawyer?” I asked. “He told me Dad put money in a trust for me before he died. For school.”
Chelsea’s smile thinned. “We’ve been over this,” she said. “Your father amended his will before the accident. He left everything to me to manage. I’m using that money to grow your brand. That’s a better investment than some dorm room in Arizona.”
“I want to study,” I said. “I want options. Why is it such a big secret?”
“Some secrets you don’t want to be part of,” she said sharply. “Drop it, Kaylin.”
Maybe I didn’t drop it enough.
Ryan didn’t.
A few days later, he came home from downtown LA, smelling like coffee and photocopied paper.
“I went to Dad’s lawyer,” he said, closing the bedroom door behind him. “And, you were right. Something’s wrong.”
He spread documents on my bed. “Dad’s original will left half his savings to you and me. Then, a week before he died, a new will was filed. Everything—to Chelsea.”
“That… doesn’t sound like Dad,” I said, staring at the signature.
“It’s not,” Ryan said. He slid a printout of Dad’s old signature from a business document next to the new one. The difference was obvious, even to my untrained eye. The new signature was shakier, with loops Dad never used.
“That’s forged,” Ryan said. “I’m going to the police.”
“On what?” I whispered. “On a feeling?”
He hesitated. “On more than that.”
He pulled up a screenshot on his phone. “I hacked our home Wi-Fi,” he admitted. “Checked the banking app. Chelsea’s been wiring money every month to some guy named Tobias G. Multiple payments, all just under the threshold where banks flag them.”
“Tobias… who?”
“I ran his name, cross-checked it with some public databases,” Ryan said. “He’s a ghost. No social, no business. But then I searched law enforcement forums. Internal bulletin boards. I found this.”
He turned the phone again.
It was a grainy photo of the man from the note. Hard eyes. Scar on his knuckle. Attached was a short description: SUSPECTED IN MULTIPLE CONTRACT CRIMES. APPROACH WITH CAUTION.
Ryan looked at me. “Chelsea didn’t just take Dad’s money,” he said quietly. “I think she paid someone to make his ‘robbery gone wrong’ happen.”
The room tilted.
“That’s… that’s impossible,” I said. “It was an accident. A mugging on Melrose. The police said—”
“The police said what they saw,” Ryan said. “Not what someone paid to arrange. And now that same man is pressuring her for more money. If she doesn’t have it, she’s desperate. Desperate enough to try something else.”
“She wouldn’t hurt us,” I whispered, hating how unsure I sounded.
Ryan’s jaw clenched. “You saw her search history,” he said. “I saw it too. Pages open about ‘dead influencers’ and ‘memorial funds that skyrocketed overnight’ and ‘how much do estates earn after celebrity tragedies.’”
“Stop,” I said, throat tight.
“You’re her product,” he said. “You’ve never been her daughter.”
I tried to push his words aside.
It helped that Bren invited me to a sleepover.
Her high-rise apartment in downtown LA was like something out of a teen drama—twinkling city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows, neon signs on the wall, a fridge full of sparkling water in flavors I’d never heard of.
“This was such a good idea,” she sighed, smoothing a face mask over her skin as we sat cross-legged on shaggy rugs. “My skin needed this so bad.”
“Can I help?” I asked, reaching for the jar.
She smiled. “You don’t have to feel self-conscious around me, you know.”
I froze.
“I…” I swallowed. “I have a birthmark,” I said. “On my jaw. I got bullied for it a lot growing up. I’m low-key… not excited about taking my makeup off on camera.”
Bren laughed softly. “Girl, I had a unibrow that could stop traffic,” she said. “I got roasted so hard in middle school. It took me two years to grow my confidence back after I started threading. I get it.”
She picked up a wipe and slowly removed her concealer, revealing faint lines where her brows used to meet. “See? Nothing to be scared of. You’re gorgeous with or without full coverage. For real.”
Warmth settled in my chest, heavier than any follower count.
Maybe Ryan was wrong. Maybe there was room in this industry for real friends.
I should have remembered that someone else was always watching.
Later that night, after Bren fell asleep, I padded down the hallway to the guest room Chelsea used whenever we stayed over for a sponsorship shoot. The door was cracked. Her laptop screen glowed, open on the desk.
I stepped closer, intending to close it.
Then I saw the tab.
SEARCH: “influencer shot on livestream donation spike”
SEARCH: “tragic accident at award show”
SEARCH: “how long before life insurance pays”
The anonymous hate account dashboard was open in another tab. Drafted, ready to post, was a hateful caption under a photo of my face, zoomed in on.
My skin went cold.
“Are you lost?” Chelsea’s voice cut through the darkness.
I jumped, nearly dropping the laptop.
“I was just looking for some old photos,” I lied. “For a throwback post.”
Her eyes narrowed. She walked past me, fingers snapping the laptop closed.
“Go to bed, Kaylin,” she said. “Long day tomorrow. We need you rested for the livestream. The fans eat up early-morning content from the East Coast before school.”
“Why are you doing this?” I blurted. “All these hate comments—I know they’re you.”
She didn’t even pretend not to understand.
“You didn’t want time in the spotlight?” she asked, lips curling. “You can’t let Bren get all the attention. That’s not how you grow a following. I’m positioning you to win Beauty Influencer of the Year. That award is yours if everything goes according to plan.”
“Bren is my friend,” I said. “I don’t want to tear her down.”
“You don’t need friends,” Chelsea snapped. “You need brand deals. You don’t need Bren. You need me. I’m going to make you a star.”
She brushed past me. For the first time, I smelled something on her I’d never noticed before—not perfume, not setting spray.
Desperation.
Two days later, the internet exploded again.
This time, the anonymous hate account posted a close-up screenshot from one of my videos. In the corner of the frame, circled in red, was a delicate charm bracelet—tiny gold stars and a single enamel heart.
Everyone knew that bracelet. It was Bren’s signature piece, gifted by a jewelry sponsor. She wore it in every video. It was in her profile photo. Fans had full Pinterest boards dedicated to it.
Within minutes, the sleuths went wild.
“Wait… the person behind the anonymous hate account has the same bracelet as Bren. What does this mean???”
“Tell me our queen Bren isn’t secretly a bully.”
Screenshots spread like wildfire. The story hit a big gossip page based in New York—and then a digital entertainment show in Atlanta picked it up.
We’re here with Kaylin Claus, they said, newest member of America’s favorite beauty squad. Now, Kayn, why do you think this anonymous account has been so particularly awful to you? And did you know people are saying the charm bracelet proves your squadmate is behind it?
My palms sweated. Chelsea stood off-camera, eyes laser-locked on me.
“I… honestly don’t know why anyone would want to hurt me,” I said carefully. “I can’t imagine it. I just focus on spreading kindness. That’s all.”
The host smiled, then pressed a finger to her earpiece. “This just in,” she said dramatically. “Our team has gathered more fan evidence. It seems more and more likely that your fellow squad member is involved. Did you know anything about this, Kayn?”
Every instinct screamed at me to say no. To defend Bren. To trust the girl who’d shown me her bare face without flinching.
But the comments had already turned.
#BrenExposed trended nationwide.
People called her fake, a climber, a mean girl.
Chelsea mouthed, Milk it.
I swallowed hard.
“I…” I said. “I’m as shocked as anyone. I thought we were friends.”
The segment went viral.
By the time I got home, Bren was on my doorstep, eyes red.
“Security!” Chelsea snapped before I could speak. “Please escort her off the property. Kayn is done with you. Do us all a favor and never show your face here—or online—again. Or I’ll call the police.”
“Kaylin, please,” Bren begged. “I didn’t do it. I lost my bracelet a week ago, I swear. I have no idea how it ended up in those photos. You have to believe me.”
“That’s a pretty lame excuse,” Chelsea said coolly. “Everyone knows you’d never lose that bracelet. Good-bye, Bren.”
The door slammed.
My chest ached like something inside had cracked.
“Can you help me figure out who this man is?” Ryan asked that night, sliding into my room. “It’s urgent.”
“What man?” I asked dully.
“This one.” He showed me a zoomed-in frame from Chelsea’s security camera at the house. A man in a dark jacket on the porch, leaning in, talking low. The same hard eyes from the law enforcement bulletin. “Chelsea’s been wiring him money. I found this open on her laptop.”
“Why are you hacking everything?” I whispered.
“Because nobody else is going to protect us,” he said. “If you won’t help me for you, do it for Dad.”
I nodded, slowly.
“Okay,” I said. “What do we do?”
The Beauty Influencer of the Year gala was held in a hotel ballroom in downtown Los Angeles, glittering and cold.
“This is your chance,” Chelsea murmured as she adjusted my necklace in the mirror. “All the top creators in the country are here. New York, Atlanta, Miami, all watching. You ready to really shine?”
Her phone buzzed. A text popped up on the screen.
From: Tobias.
DEADLINE IS IMPOSSIBLE. YOU’RE BLEEDING ME DRY.
She typed back quickly, angling the screen away from me. I caught a glimpse of one word: tonight.
My stomach knotted.
“You look beautiful,” she said, turning back to me with that same practiced smile. “You’re going to kill it out there.”
Her choice of words made my skin crawl.
On the other side of town, Ryan was in the passenger seat of an ancient sedan, clutching a file folder as we sped past palm trees and freeway signs.
“Isn’t it weird that her whole search history is about dead influencers?” I’d told him hours earlier, hands shaking.
“Especially considering this,” he’d said, holding up another document. “I sent Tobias’s name to a friend in law enforcement. He’s wanted in connection with multiple ‘accidents’ in Nevada and Texas. If Chelsea is involved with him and she’s desperate for more money, then staging a ‘tragedy’ at a public event where every camera in the U.S. is pointed at you…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
“We have to get to Kayn,” he’d said instead.
So we drove.
Back at the hotel, the host took the stage. “We have so many talented and creative people in this community,” she said. “And I cannot wait to announce this year’s winner of the Beauty Influencer of the Year Award.”
The nominees flashed on the big screen. Names from all over America. Accounts I’d followed since sophomore year.
“And tonight’s winner is… MakeupByKayn, Kaylin Claus!”
I stood, legs trembling. The squad clapped around me. Chelsea practically shoved me toward the stage.
“Go,” she whispered. “This is it.”
I walked up the steps, blinded by lights, deafened by applause. The trophy was heavier than it looked. The microphone loomed.
“Thank you,” I began, voice shaking. “Thank you for this award. I’ve dreamt about this my entire life, and now it just… doesn’t feel real.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“While I’m up here, there’s something I’d like to say,” I continued.
In the back of the room, I saw him.
Tobias. Moving along the side wall, eyes locked on me, one hand in his jacket.
“Kaylin!” Ryan’s voice cut through the noise from the far side of the ballroom. “Run!”
For a split second, everything slowed.
Tobias reached inside his jacket.
Security guards, tipped off by Ryan’s friend at the FBI, moved in at the same time. One tackled him to the ground. Something metallic skidded across the floor, away from the stage. Screams erupted. The music screeched to a halt.
“What is happening?” someone cried. “Is this a bit?”
Hotel security swarmed. Uniformed officers pushed through the crowd. Chelsea, standing near the wings, went white.
She turned to bolt.
A hand closed on her arm.
“Chelsea Marks?” the detective asked. “You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” she shrieked, voice suddenly raw. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Conspiracy to commit a crime,” he said. “Suspicion of arranging a previous one. We have bank records. Messages. Witness testimony. And a very talkative partner over there.”
Tobias spat on the carpet. “She planned your husband,” he snarled, eyes wild. “She planned this too. I was just the guy she hired. Tell them that.”
Phones were already out, capturing every second for feeds across the United States.
Ryan reached the stage, breathless.
“Are you okay?” he panted, grabbing my hand. “He didn’t touch you, right?”
“I’m… I’m okay,” I said, dazed. “What is going on?”
He pulled me into a hug right there under the stage lights.
“Chelsea hired that guy as a hitman to take out Dad,” he said quietly. “She took all his money. And they were coming after you next. She wanted to cash in on a tragedy. Donations. renewed sponsorships. Sympathy.”
My knees nearly buckled.
“I should have listened to you,” I whispered. “And to Bren. I’m so, so sorry.”
Bren was suddenly there too, pushing through the crowd, eyes glossy.
“Are you okay?” she gasped. “I was watching the whole thing backstage. I thought—”
“I’m okay,” I said, voice breaking. “But I owe you the biggest apology on planet Earth. I should have believed you about the bracelet. I should have known you’d never do that to me.”
She wiped at her eyes. “I’m just glad you’re safe,” she said. “I really missed you.”
“Besties?” I asked, half laughing, half crying.
“Besties,” she said, pulling me into a hug.
Cameras caught that too—the two girls, smeared makeup, clinging to each other under the ballroom chandelier while officers led a glamorous woman in handcuffs through the side exit.
By the time the night was over, #JusticeForKayn and #WeLoveBren were trending in every major U.S. city.
Days later, the truth came out in pieces.
Chelsea cut a plea deal, her attorney spin failing to move anyone. The forged will was invalidated. Dad’s original wishes were reinstated. The trust he’d set aside for my college fund—and Ryan’s future—was finally ours.
Tobias flipped, confessing to the “robbery gone wrong” on Melrose that had killed my father. He confirmed everything Ryan had feared.
The anonymous hate account vanished overnight. So did the noise it had stirred.
I took a break from filming.
When I finally came back, it wasn’t with a cut-crease tutorial or a sponsorship announcement. It was just me, sitting on my bedroom floor in our Valley house, the noise of the freeway humming through the single-pane windows, bare-faced except for a swipe of balm.
“Hey,” I said softly to the camera. “It’s Kaylin. I know there’s been a lot of drama lately. A lot of you have been asking what happened. I can’t say everything yet, because lawyers are weird, but I can say this.”
I tilted my chin, letting the birthmark show in the afternoon light.
“There will always be people who try to turn your life into a storyline they can control,” I said. “People who think your pain is content. Who think followers matter more than you do. Sometimes those people are strangers on the internet. Sometimes they’re closer than you want to admit.”
The comments started flooding in as I spoke. Little hearts from Ohio, Texas, New York. From girls who’d stayed up late watching LA lights through their phones.
“But here’s the thing,” I continued. “You are not your engagement. You are not your worst photo. You are not someone else’s business plan. You’re a whole person. And you’re allowed to walk away from anyone who forgets that—even if they live in your house. Especially then.”
I smiled, a small, real smile this time.
“I’m still going to do makeup,” I said. “Because I love it. Because blending eyeshadow calms my anxiety more than anything else. But from now on, I’m running my own accounts. I’m reading my own contracts. I’m funding my own college, because my dad made sure I could.”
In the corner of the screen, a new username popped up: @BrenBlend.
She commented one word.
“Slay.”
I laughed.
“And if you’ve ever had someone make you doubt your worth,” I said, looking straight into the camera the way the hosts on those big American talk shows do, “I hope my story reminds you: your strength doesn’t need a hype video. It’s already there. With or without the filters.”
I hit upload.
Outside, a siren wailed down the freeway and a plane traced a line across the San Fernando Valley sky, toward someplace new.
