Fake You Novels & Stories

and phantom clients expressing gratitude for her professionalism. To complete the illusion, two paid actors were prepped with backstories. One, a fake hedge fund manager based in London, spoke glowingly about Ava’s finesse in closing a Soho penthouse deal. The other, a woman posing as a Nigerian-American tech entrepreneur, posted occasionally on I*******m about building her international property portfolio—with just enough vague references to “Ava” and “her incredible team” to make the story feel organic. Fedora’s alias even had a social media trail. An I*******m account—@AvaDoesRealEstate—was set up with filtered snapshots of high-rise lobbies, skyline views, and champagne glasses at what l

she asked, her eyes darting wildly between us. I tutted, shaking my head at her. “Sure, you could accuse me of registering a fake account.” I said with a mocking undertone. “But how could I have faked Julie’s video? Impersonation? Plastic surgery?” Damien fixed her with a questioning glare. “Well? Explain yourself.” “You…” she started hesitantly, then pointed an accusatory finger in my face. “You used AI to make that video or a-a filter… or maybe you photoshopped it somehow! It’s a fake, just like you!”

"Yes! You missed our fake wedding, but now you'll be able to take part in our real one. I'm so happy to have you back." "Me too." I was finally where I belonged.

Emma whispered, turning her chair to face Florence as soon as their coworker left the room. “Hmm?” Florence replied, not giving her much attention since she was certain Emma was going to share another cheap gossip about Scott. “Well, you’ll probably want to give me more attention for this one,” Emma teased, crossing her arms in front of her chest and staring at Florence until she dropped whatever she was doing and gave Emma her full attention. Florence took a deep breath and put on her best fake smile.

“The terms. The arrangement. The… fake love story we now have to parade to the entire world because I couldn’t handle being humiliated.” Dante leaned back against the sofa, watching me like he was waiting for a performance. “Go on.” Fine. He wanted rules? He’d get them. “Rule One,” I said, pacing the length of the suite. “We sell it. All of it. The public wants a fairy tale, so that’s what we’ll give them. Photos, kisses, handholding, the whole charade. If we’re in a room together, we look like a couple that can’t keep their hands off each other. No exceptions.”

I immediately grabbed the officiant's microphone and shouted, "This video's fake! Everyone, don't believe it! This is an AI-generated deepfake video! I trust Isaac, and he would never do anything to betray me! This is fake!" Then, I said to Isaac, "Call the police right now! Whoever did this needs to be arrested immediately!"

"It will work." Haley tapped the screen. A split image appeared. The fake video on one side, her live face on the other. "My mole is mirrored. My ring light reflection is wrong. My voice has no caffeine rasp. Also, fake me says, 'look at Jack Miller,' like a tragic podcast girlfriend. I would say, 'check the boring rich guy with villain cheekbones.'" Ben's voice crackled in Jack's earpiece. "Online sentiment turning. Wait. Bot surge incoming." The comments changed.

And that’s when a new layer was added, on top of the foundation Granddad created with his shit. And I’ve been building layer after layer since then, so much so that no one truly knows the real me anymore. As things stand now, I’m not even sure I, myself, know the original Enrique Blackburn (if there ever was one). I’ve been acting fake for so long, I can’t do real anymore. So, a fake relationship should be no problem, should it? Little beads of sweat trickle down my face, and I wipe them away with my hand. Then clench my fists.

I felt like I was in some sort of movie. I made up a fake phone call to a friend I didn’t have , having a one way fake conversation that I was having a spring clean and it was long over due. I laughed at a fake joke and to make it believable I went on , in a one way fake conversation for half an hour. I was hoping that if he was watching the fact I was packing no furniture made it believable , he wouldn’t know it came furnished surely. He had only been stalking me a few months , I had been here a few years.

"Once it's done, the remaining nine hundred thousand will be in your account." The voice on the other end came through a voice changer, cold. The dirt Felix was offering was manufactured. All of it. Using the fragments of memory from his other life, he'd cobbled together fake financial statements from Fairfax Group's early years. And paid someone in the backpacker circuit to doctor photos of me with various business executives into fake "pay-for-play" tabloid material. The man on the phone didn't hesitate.