"Valerie Miller, 231 pounds. Severely obese." The red digital numbers on the scale burned my eyes. I looked down at my collarbones, so hollowed out they looked like caves. And my legs. They were like thin twigs. Today was the final round of the International Supermodel Search. My entire career was on the line. "There's a mistake. I only weigh 92 pounds." The head judge, Robert Croft, sneered and shut my file. "The machine doesn't lie, Valerie. You're disqualified." Beside him, Chloe Sinclair—the nepotism baby of the industry—covered her mouth and giggled. She was clearly two sizes larger than me, yet her recorded weight on the screen was perfect. "And don't think you can just walk away," Robert added, his voice cold. "Your breach of contract fine is five million dollars. Payable immediately." Every camera on the stage, from telephoto lenses to livestream rigs, slammed into my face. I shoved the security guard aside and lunged straight toward the main live camera. "Five million dollars, right? Open your damn eyes and look at this!" In front of millions of live viewers worldwide, I ripped down the zipper of my skin-tight evening gown, exposing my skeletal torso and every single rib beneath my skin. "Does this look like two hundred and thirty pounds to you?!" 0
"Get her off the stage!" Robert roared. Two security guards grabbed me by my upper arms. "Don't touch me!" I screamed. "The entire country is watching. Touch me, and see what happens to this network!" I gripped the metal frame of the tripod with all my strength. Robert flicked a quick look at the control booth. *Click.* The live feed went completely black. "Signal terminated," a technician's voice announced over the intercom, flat and indifferent, as if reporting the weather. Robert slowly adjusted his cuffs and walked over to me. His voice was dropped so low only those within a few feet could hear. "Valerie, your little stunt just disrupted a major international broadcast. Our digital scales are calibrated by global authorities. There is no technical error." "Global authorities?" I stared down at my wrists. The bone was so prominent you could count every tendon. "Then explain to me how someone whose wrist is thinner than a plastic water bottle weighs over two hundred pounds?" He didn't answer. He turned to the guards. "Take her out the back. Don't let the paparazzi get a single shot." Chloe stepped up from the wings. Her makeup was flawless, though her custom gown was visibly strained at the seams of her waist. She walked over holding a glass of water, her face filled with mock sympathy. "Valerie, honey, take a sip. What you just did... honestly, it broke my heart to watch." I stared at the glass in her hand. "Chloe, what was your official weight today?" "One hundred and seventeen pounds," she blinked innocishly. "You saw the board." One hundred and seventeen. In a dress that was practically screaming at the seams. And me, showing a cage of ribs in a saggy dress, at two hundred and thirty-one. "If you're one-seventeen and I'm two-thirty, then I must have swallowed an entire extra copy of you. Where is she, Chloe? Point her out." Her smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. "You're just hysterical, Valerie. I get the pressure is high, but this isn't healthy..." She turned to Robert, her voice trembling with fake concern. "Mr. Croft, does Valerie need medical attention? I'm really worried she might... hurt herself." Robert nodded gravely. "I've already called the specialists. The committee will handle her mental and physical well-being, but her run in this competition ends today." "There is nothing wrong with my mind! The only thing broken is your damn scale!" The guards began dragging me down the backstage corridor. Robert didn't look at me again. He whispered something to his assistant, who nodded and rushed toward the equipment area on the side of the stage. The digital scale was still there. The screen had already been cleared from 231.00 to 0.00. They were erasing the data. "Are you wiping the logs?!" I yelled. No one answered. The guards threw me into a dressing room and locked the door from the outside. My phone was gone—it had dropped during the struggle on stage. A single fluorescent lightbulb overhead flickered, buzzing like an angry hornet. Ten minutes later, the lock clicked. A woman in a white lab coat walked in. She looked to be in her late forties, her ID badge reading: *Dr. Abigail Vance, Licensed Clinical Psychologist.* Behind her was a man carrying a video camera, the red recording light already blinking. "What is the camera for?" I demanded. "Valerie, I'm the mental health consultant hired by the committee." Dr. Vance pulled up a chair and sat opposite me, her smile calculated and cold. "Given your violent outbursts on stage, we need to conduct a brief psychiatric evaluation." "Exposing my ribs to prove I don't weigh two hundred pounds is a 'violent outburst'?" She opened her notepad, her eyes scanning my hollow collarbones with absolute detachment. "You stripped off your clothing without authorization, which constitutes public indecency and disturbing the peace. Furthermore, looking at your extreme physical state, you show classic signs of severe anorexia nervosa and body dysmorphic disorder. Simply put, your perception of your own weight is completely detached from reality." I got it. They wanted to paint me as a lunatic. A crazy girl who thought she was thin but was actually obese. "So you're telling me that I think I'm ninety pounds, but I'm actually two-thirty?" "I'm not diagnosing you yet," her pen scribbled quickly on the pad. "But your violent denial of objective data, combined with public exposure, aligns with several clinical criteria." I stared at the blinking red light on the camera. I didn't need to guess how they would edit this footage. "If this 'evaluation' is over, I want my phone. I need to make a call." "Your device is being held by the committee for safekeeping," Dr. Vance said, closing her notepad as she stood up. "For your own safety, of course." The door clicked shut and locked again. In the four mirrors of the dressing room, my reflection stared back—sunken cheeks, arms like sticks. Two hundred and thirty-one pounds. My ass. Muffled footsteps stopped outside the door. It was Chloe. She was on the phone. Her voice was low, but the cheap dressing room door did nothing to block the sound. "Dad, it's done. The live stream was cut in time. Barely anyone saw... Yes, I'm keeping an eye on Robert." She paused. "Did your people pull the chip from the scale yet? ...Good. Swap it with the backup. Don't worry, Dad. Who's going to audit a scale for some third-tier nobody?" She chuckled softly, and her footsteps faded away. The chip. There was a chip inside that scale. I leaned my back against the locked door and closed my eyes. "Your father sure runs a tight ship, Chloe." 0
"Valerie, have you seen the internet today?" My agent, Gillian Hayes, spoke through the keyhole of the locked dressing room. It was the next morning. The committee wouldn't let me leave, claiming they had to wait for the official psychiatric evaluation report. I had spent the entire night curled up on the small sofa. "What video? They took my phone." The lock turned, and Gillian walked in. Her face was pale. She handed me her phone. On the screen was a short video uploaded by an account called *Concerned for Models' Health*. It already had over 200,000 views. It was the footage of Dr. Vance evaluating me—heavily edited. The clip of me saying, "I only weigh 92 pounds" played on a loop, followed by a voiceover: *Prominent psychologist warns that the contestant suffers from severe body dysmorphia, leading to a dangerous delusion regarding her body weight.* The top pinned comment read: *Poor Valerie. I hope she gets the professional help she needs.* 120,000 likes. "Who posted this?" "We don't know," Gillian sighed, avoiding my gaze. "But the account is registered under Sinclair Media Group." Chloe's father's company. "Gillian, look at this. They cut out everything I said to defend myself. They only kept my denial of the scale's weight, framed by a doctor's diagnosis—" "I know," Gillian interrupted. "But the agency has already made a decision." She looked at me, her eyes filled with pity and fear. "Valerie, the agency is suspending your contract." "Suspending it?" "Robert Croft sent a formal letter to our board this morning. He cited your 'extreme behavioral instability' and suggested we review your professionalism. The legal department went into panic mode." I gripped her phone so hard my knuckles turned white. "Gillian, I tore my dress because the scale was rigged. I heard Chloe on the phone last night—" "Do you have proof?" My mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn't. No phone, no recording. I was the only one who heard that call. "Valerie, I want to believe you. But belief doesn't win lawsuits. The agency needs hard evidence." Gillian sighed, pulling a document from her bag and placing it on the table. "This is a notice of intent to sue for breach of contract. If you can't provide solid proof of the committee's wrongdoing within seven days, the agency will terminate your contract and sue you for your development debt." "How much?" "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars." My hands began to shake. After Gillian left, the door was locked again. About an hour later, a random staff member opened the door and tossed my phone onto the table without a word. "The committee says you're free to go. Use the back exit." I grabbed the phone and lit up the screen. Forty-seven missed calls. Thirty of them were from my mother. I dialed her back immediately. She picked up on the first ring. "Valerie? Are you okay? I saw the videos on Instagram—" "Mom, I'm fine. The videos are fake, they're edited." "But the news says you're sick... Tell me the truth, honey. Are you not eating again? Are you okay?" "Mom, I am not sick. The competition is rigged. They messed with the scale—" "Valerie," my mother's voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. "Someone called the house earlier." My body went rigid. "Who?" "She didn't give a name. She said she was your colleague. She said you were having a mental breakdown and that I needed to commit you to a hospital. She also said..." My mother choked up. "What else, Mom?" "She said if you keep making a scene, the committee will sue. She said you'll go to prison, and they'll seize the money you used to pay for my medical treatments." The blood rushed to my ears. "Mom, she's lying. What hospital are you in right now?" "The... Serenity Care Facility. The place Sinclair Group owns. The one you transferred me to last month because of their great physical therapy program." Sinclair Group. Chloe's father's facility. My mother was in a building owned by the man trying to destroy me. "Valerie? Are you there?" "Mom, listen to me. Don't worry. I'm going to fix this." "What is happening, Valerie? I can't walk well, but I can—" "Mom, listen." I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound steady. "If anyone comes to ask you about me over the next few days, do not say a word. Do not sign anything. Do you understand me?" "But the nurse just came in with a form—" "What form?!" "She said it was a family consent form for your psychiatric evaluation... I haven't signed it yet. Something felt off." My hand was trembling so hard I could barely hold the phone. "Do not sign it. It's not a consent form, Mom. It's the paperwork they need to legally lock me up in a mental institution." Silence stretched over the line. "Valerie... what are these people trying to do to you?" I looked at my reflection in the dressing room mirrors—skeletal, pale, makeup smeared. "They want to convince the world I'm crazy, Mom." Right after I hung up, an Instagram notification popped up. Chloe had just posted a new video. She was sitting under soft, flattering lighting, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet sorrow. "Valerie and I may be competitors, but I've always respected her. Seeing her break down like this breaks my heart. Please, everyone, stop attacking her. She's just sick. I've already reached out to the best psychiatric team in the country, and I'll personally cover all her medical expenses. Valerie, no matter how you feel about me, I just want you to get better." In the bottom right corner, the like count was climbing by thousands every second. The top comment: *Chloe is a literal angel. I'm crying.* I slammed the phone onto the sofa. "Chloe, you are a walking, talking vending machine of fake tears." 0
"Valerie, your lease is now being managed by Sinclair Realty." My landlord, Mrs. Higgins, sounded a hundred times more polite than usual. A fake, terrifying kind of polite. "What do you mean managed by them? I pay my rent directly to you every month. Since when does Sinclair Realty have anything to do with my apartment?" "Well... they acquired our building's management team recently. They claim you have three months of unpaid building maintenance fees." "Three months? I've lived here for a year and a half. I have never missed a single payment!" "Valerie, I'm sorry... they sent a legal notice, and my hands are tied. Maybe you should take it up with their management?" "Take what up? Just tell me the truth. Did someone pay you to kick me out?" The line went dead. I stood outside my apartment building, with nothing but my phone and the jacket I wore yesterday. My evening gown was still backstage, likely confiscated as "evidence." My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Valerie, your breach of contract fine has been adjusted to $8 million due to the severe reputational damage you have caused to the organizers. The committee reserves the right to pursue further legal action.* Eight million. From five million to eight million. I swiped the message away and searched my name on Instagram. Trending topic: *Valerie Miller Weight Fraud.* I clicked it. The top post was a new video. It showed a girl in loose sportswear, viewed from behind, looking quite chubby, stuffing her face at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The camera panned quickly to her profile—the face looked eighty percent like mine. But it wasn't me. I never went to buffets. My stomach had shrunk so much from stress that I could barely finish half a bowl of soup. But the internet didn't care about facts. *“So she really is over two hundred pounds? She must be a secret binge-eater.”* *“She looked thin when she ripped her dress, but body dysmorphia makes people do crazy things.”* *“I feel so bad for Chloe. She’s being targeted by a crazy person.”* Deepfake. They actually deepfaked a video of me eating. I tried to log into my own Instagram account to post a statement, but the screen flashed: *Incorrect Password.* I tried three times. All incorrect. They had hacked my account. I went to a local internet cafe to submit an account recovery request. The system required me to upload a photo of my ID and a selfie holding it. I did it. Five minutes later, a red warning popped up: *This account has been permanently suspended for spreading misinformation.* The reporting party: *The Digital Integrity Alliance.* I looked up the registry of that organization. The registered owner's name: *Richard Sinclair.* Chloe's father. I walked to three different news outlets. At the first one, the receptionist waved me off the moment she heard my name. "We don't do personal disputes. Get a lawyer." At the second, a junior editor actually listened to me for ten minutes, but then asked one question. "Do you have proof?" "I heard Chloe on the phone saying they removed the chip from the scale—" "Heard conversations aren't legally admissible evidence. Do you have a recording?" "No. They took my phone." The editor closed his notebook. "Did you secure the scale?" "They swapped it out." "Valerie, I believe you, but everything you have is just hearsay. If we publish this, they'll sue us for defamation, and we will lose." The third outlet didn't even let me past the lobby. The security guard stood in my way. "Mr. Sinclair called ahead. We know who you are. Leave." Mr. Sinclair. Even the security guards at random news stations called him "Mr. Sinclair." I sat on the curb, clutching my locked-out phone. An incoming call popped up. Caller ID: *Los Angeles.* I answered. "Valerie Miller? This is Arthur Pendelton from the legal department at Sinclair Media Group." "Speak." "Regarding your recent slanderous claims online—" "My account is suspended! What claims could I possibly be making?" "We have logs of private messages you sent to various influencers before your suspension, containing defamatory statements about Chloe Sinclair and Robert Croft." "You hacked my private messages too?" "That data was legally provided by the platform under terms of service violations. Valerie, I am here to inform you of two things: First, if you continue to spread these lies, we will file a formal defamation lawsuit. Second—" He paused. "Given your current mental state, Chloe Sinclair has filed an emergency petition for an involuntary psychiatric evaluation. If approved, you will be escorted to a designated medical facility for a thirty-day mandatory observation period." My scalp went numb. "You're trying to throw me in an asylum?" "It's a luxury care facility, Valerie. It's for your own good." I slammed the phone down. The sun was setting, casting my shadow on the pavement—thin as a wire. A wire they claimed weighed 231 pounds. The phone rang again. My mother. "Valerie! Two men just came into my room. They said they're transferring me to a 'high-security ward.' They told me you signed the papers—" "Mom, I didn't sign anything! Don't let them take you. I'm coming!" "Valerie, I'm scared—" I stood up, my knees buckling. I had to grab the lamppost to keep from falling. An eight-million-dollar lawsuit, a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar agency debt, my social media blocked, my apartment seized, the media bribed, and my mother threatened. And I had absolutely nothing. My screen lit up with a text from an unknown number. It was only one line: *“Valerie, I recorded the entire live stream before they cut the feed. Do you want it?”* 0
"Who is this?" I stared at the text and called the number back immediately. It rang three times before a voice answered. "It doesn't matter who I am. I saw you rip your dress open on the live stream. I started screen-recording before they could cut the feed. The whole thing, from the moment you stepped on the scale to the blackout. Four minutes and seventeen seconds." The voice was male, young, and fast-talking. "Why did you record it?" "Because I saw the exact same thing happen two years ago." My heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" "The 2022 East Coast Supermodel Search. A girl named Becca Rivers. Her weight data was altered too. She wasn't as fierce as you; she didn't dare rip her dress open on live TV. She tried to go through official channels. The result—" He stopped. "What happened to her?" "Her complaint was rejected. The committee produced certified calibration reports, and Becca's accusation was turned into a defamation lawsuit. She was blacklisted from the entire industry. Three months later, she jumped from the fourteenth floor of her apartment building." My grip on the phone tightened. "Was Becca in the same competition as Chloe?" "Yes. Chloe won that year. Becca was the only one who publicly questioned the data, and she was completely destroyed for it." The cold night air hit my face, sending a shiver down my spine. "What can your video prove?" "It proves that your body shape before you stepped on that scale had absolutely nothing to do with two hundred and thirty pounds. In that four-minute-and-seventeen-second video, your bones, your ribs, your collarbones are all on display. No sane person would believe that number." "That's not enough." "I know. But you just need to get the video seen. Public outrage will do the rest." "They've flooded the internet with deepfakes and fake medical evaluations. My accounts are blocked. I don't even have a platform to post a tweet—" "I have a platform." His voice suddenly dropped. "But before that, Valerie—you need to survive tonight." "What do you mean?" "The court just signed the 72-hour psychiatric hold order. The officers are on their way to serve it to you tonight. Where are you?" I gave him the street name. "You're three blocks away from Serenity Care. Your mom is there, right?" He went quiet for two seconds. "They won't come for you first. They're going to use your mother." It felt like someone had pushed me off a cliff. I lunged into the street, waving down a cab. "I can't explain everything now. Get your mom out of there. I'll meet you at the south gate of the hospital. I'm driving a gray van." Who was this guy? Was he trustworthy? I didn't have time to think. The only thing that mattered was that Richard Sinclair's people were about to move my mother to a locked ward. Once she was in there, I would lose all legal rights to see her. Fifteen minutes later, I burst into the lobby of Serenity Care. The elevators were too slow, so I ran up the stairs—seven flights. My knees were shaking by the time I reached the top. Room 708 was wide open. The bed was empty. The sheets were tossed aside, and my mother's slippers were still under the bed. "Mom!" I ran into the hallway, looking left and right. The nurse's station was abandoned. At the far end of the hall was a heavy glass door with a digital keypad. A sign on it read: *Intensive Care & Psychiatric Hold Unit—Restricted Access.* Through the glass, I saw my mother. She was in her wheelchair, her back to me. A male orderly in green scrubs was pushing her deeper into the ward. "Mom!" I pounded on the glass door. The sound echoed down the corridor. My mother turned her head and saw me. Her lips moved, but I couldn't hear her through the thick glass. I slammed my finger onto the intercom button. "Hello? This is restricted access. State your name." "That is my mother! Who authorized you to move her in there?!" "We have a signed consent form from her legal guardian, Valerie Miller." "I never signed anything!" "Our system shows an electronic signature submitted today at 3:00 PM. If you have questions, please contact our legal team." I pulled out my phone—at 3:00 PM, I was on the curb talking to that stranger. I hadn't signed a single thing. They had forged my digital signature. Through the glass, my mother was being pushed further and further away. "Mom! Mom!" I slammed my fist against the glass. Once, twice—on the third strike, a crack spiderwebbed across the pane, and blood began to seep from my knuckles. The click of high heels echoed from behind me. "Valerie, sweetheart, are you here to see your mom?" Chloe stood at the other end of the hall, holding a bouquet of lilies, her smile sweet and toxic. Behind her stood two men in dark suits. They didn't look like hospital staff. "Her old room was so basic, so I asked the director to move her to the VIP psychiatric wing. It has 24-hour private care. She’ll be much more comfortable there." "You forged my signature to lock my mother in a secure ward, and you call that comfortable?" "Oh, Valerie, look at you getting hysterical again." Chloe sighed, turning to the men behind her. "Mr. Pendelton, please show Valerie the court order." One of the men stepped forward, handing me a document stamped with a red court seal. "Ms. Miller, this is a court-ordered involuntary psychiatric evaluation. Under state law, your immediate family has requested this assessment." "My family? My mother is locked behind that door! When did she request this?" "Signed and dated at 3:15 PM today." "She didn't even know what she was signing!" Chloe tilted her head slightly, positioning herself perfectly so the security camera above would capture her most innocent profile. "Calm down, Valerie. Your mom signed it willingly. We have video proof. Your behavior right now... honestly, it's making me really worry about you." She glanced at the men. "If Valerie refuses to cooperate with the court order, do we need to call the police to assist?" I took a step back, my spine pressing against the cold, cracked glass door. At the end of the hall, two security guards were walking toward me, their walkie-talkies buzzing. To my left was a locked ward; to my right was a wall of security guards. I was trapped. Chloe's eyes welled with beautiful, perfectly timed tears. "Don't be scared, Valerie. It's just an evaluation. If you're not sick, you'll be out in thirty days." Thirty days. In thirty days, they could announce to the world that I was mentally incompetent. They would strip me of every ounce of credibility. Behind my back, my fingers brushed against the crack in the glass. The sharp edge sliced my finger, a sudden, stinging pain. My phone was still in my pocket. Before running up here, I had done one thing—something the stranger on the phone had instructed me to do. *“Keep your voice memo recording active,”* he had said. *“Let it run in your pocket. It automatically uploads to my cloud.”* "There's no need to call the police," I said. I pulled my hand from the glass, wiped the blood on my coat, and looked Chloe dead in the eye. "Chloe, when you were on the phone outside my dressing room, you told your dad to swap the chip in the scale with the backup. Did you think I forgot?" Chloe's pupils contracted. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Yes, you do." I took a step forward. "You also said—'Who's going to audit a scale for some third-tier nobody?'" The hallway went dead silent for three seconds. Chloe's smile didn't waver, but her left hand began to tremble. "See? This is exactly why you need that evaluation, Valerie. You're hallucinating." She turned to the lawyer, her voice firm. "Let's go. Call security to escort her." "Understood." The two guards grabbed my arms. The phone in my pocket remained silent, recording every second. I knew there was no point in arguing here. I couldn't win this fight in this hallway. But a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips—the first real smile I’ve had in days. "Chloe, do you know what cloud storage is?" Her footsteps faltered. "It means—even if you smash my phone right now, everything we've said is already saved online."
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