Influencer (english edition) E-Book

Elias J. Connor

• Herausgeber: FINN Books Edition FireFly
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Natalie Adams is twenty, blonde, and adept at presenting her life in the best possible light. In her glittering feeds from Cologne, every like, every follower counts—validation she's never learned how to replace. Then she meets Bilal: charming, assertive, a man who transforms intimacy into reach and promises success. Suddenly, the numbers soar, the offers pour in—and with them, the demands. Caught between the addiction to fame and the pressure that comes with it, Natalie's everyday life begins to unravel: from small compromises to control mechanisms, from public attention to private humiliations. "Influencer" is a clear, compelling social drama about power, longing, and self-preservation. It tells of the temptation to lose oneself in images, of the danger lurking behind the glamour, and of the arduous, sometimes unspectacular steps back to one's own life. A novel about the fragility of visibility—and about the strength needed to rediscover one's true self.

Leseprobe

Elias J. Connor

Influencer (english edition)

A novel about the fragility of visibility—and about the strength needed to rediscover one's true self.

Dedication

For my girlfriend.

You are the light in my life.

You bring me the happiness I've been searching for for years.

Thank you for being there.

Chapter 1 - Likes and mirrors

Natalie's mind still half-asleep when her phone vibrates. She lets her arm dangle out of bed, finds the device almost instinctively, and sees small bursts of life in the notification bar: a new comment heart, two direct messages, a notification that her latest Reel is popping up in the "For You" column. A warm prickle runs through her—not exactly happiness, more an immediate, clear uplift, as if her back were being supported by invisible hands. She smiles as she looks at the screen, the world outside remaining a little blurry.

"Five more minutes," she murmurs, because it has to be that way, but her hand stays on the phone. One glance at the numbers is enough: the small boost that comes with each new follower count, the certainty that there's someone out there who sees her.

The radio is already playing softly in the bathroom, the presenter's voice like ground light. Natalie places the ring light in front of the window and switches it on, just to make sure the skin in the video looks the way it should: warm, vibrant, without shine. She knows the nuances of lighting better than most of her classmates know the library's opening hours. Light is both a friend and a judge; it makes what she wants to show the audience honest.

She takes the foundation, concealer, and bronzer out of the drawer—she knows their edges by heart. As she dabs them on, she hums a tune she heard in a video yesterday, a trending one. Trends are like magnets; following them is a form of work.

Natalie exhales with a heavy breath.

In front of the mirror, she practices three different poses, not just for self-affirmation, but because each pose brings out a different version of herself. "More chin, more relaxed smile, eyes a little smaller," she says quietly to herself, adjusting her neck. A reflection she creates to be observed. She speaks the first few sentences, testing the tone for the story: "Good morning, everyone! Have you had your coffee yet? Today I'll quickly show you my morning glow set..." Her voice is soft, friendly, a little coquettish. She blow-dries her hair, arranging the strands so they fall more easily on the right side. The camera, a smartphone on a small tripod, silently records the small rituals, which for her are both practice and ritual.

Her apartment is a hodgepodge of things that fit together what no other word than "rental" truly describes. A bed, a small chest of drawers, two stools, a table with a laptop. On the windowsill sits a withered plant, which she sometimes forgets about, but most of the time she manages to get a picture where the plant passes as "urban greenery." Postcards and a worn calendar page hang on the wall, its markings indicating past days like small milestones: bills, exams, posts with ten thousand views. Life has two rhythms: the student rhythm with seminars, and the algorithmic rhythm with upload times and peak hours. She tries to juggle both, but one increasingly overshadows the other.

As she reapplies her lipstick, she opens an app and reads the analytics data. The numbers speak a language that is sometimes clearer to her than any lecture: reach, impressions, retention rate. A bar rises—small but visible movements; the correlation between last night's post and this morning's slight increase in followers is obvious. "Nice," she says aloud, as if the statistics were a person complimenting her. The data gives her a sense of control. At university, she often feels adrift, without direction. Here, with the numbers, there's a kind of plan: Reels on weekdays A and B, Lives on Fridays. She can't rationally explain why it calms her; it's like a plan for an invisible life.

Her phone vibrates again. A message from her mother. "How are you, darling? Are you having visitors today?" Natalie sighs softly. "It depends," she types, then deletes the line. Her mother is a safe but distant place, one for which she sometimes struggles to find the right atmosphere. The messages are short, full of concern, rarely curious about details. "Yeah, I'm at university, maybe a shift at the café." A heart emoji. The connection is friendly, but it's less a bond than routine. The family is present, but at a distance; a harbor where boats rarely dock.

The household budget is tight. She's paid the rent, but the account has hardly any reserves. Bills are crammed into a drawer, tucked into a corner, marked with Post-it notes like little reminders. She's learned to prioritize: rent, electricity, internet – everything that makes life possible takes a backseat to small pleasures like new jackets or spontaneous restaurant visits. The occasional collaborations that come her way aren't just a compliment; they're a calculated move. An agent wrote two weeks ago, "Are you interested in an underwear campaign?" The message still sits unprocessed in her inbox. Underwear is a word that signifies both healing and risk. She keeps the message, considers it an option, because option also means freedom. But at night, when the numbers dwindle, she often thinks about how closely recognition is tied to money and how quickly a small monetization can transform into a necessity.

She puts on a light jacket, throws her backpack over her shoulder, and leaves the apartment. The cold outside is crisp; the smell of wet leaves mingles with exhaust fumes. On her way to the tram, she types a short voice message to her best friend, Lina.

"I have an idea for a Reel today that could go live. Want to test it later?"

“Sure,” Lina replies immediately, then adds a heart emoji.

Lina is a constant, a human counterpoint to the cold numbers: honest, direct, often careful to protect Natalie from rash decisions, but also the first to applaud. Their friendship is a mixture of advice and expectation, both reassuring and exhausting at the same time.

At university, she sits in a lecture, but the topic eludes her; the lecturer is talking about sociological theories that Natalie finds intellectually interesting, but which don't fit with her day. Instead, she fills notes with sketches for the reel: quick cuts, eight seconds of dance moves, a trendy soundtrack on a loop. Theory remains theory when the reality of reach targets calls. A fellow student asks her during a break if she wants to do the group project. "Yeah, sure," she says, without mentioning that "sure" often just means "I'll do it on the side." Her own priorities sort themselves out in a way that others often don't understand: for her, investing in visibility is like studying, only the result is immediately visible—a sense of accomplishment that arises precisely when the view count increases.

In the afternoon, she works at the café on the corner. The owner, Mr. Jansen, calls her by name as if she were part of the furniture and his favorite waiter all at once. "Natalie, you'll quickly make the lattes today, okay?" His voice has a familiar, practiced kindness. She nods, picks up the pitcher, froths the milk, and observes the small faces of the people holding their drinks like miniature scores of everyday life. Working in the café is different from social media; here, there are genuine gestures, warmth that doesn't multiply. An elderly couple thanks her, and she returns their smile genuinely. That's a currency that can't be measured in followers. Yet sometimes she feels compelled to reach for both currencies: her cash wages and the reward of online attention.

A regular customer, a young man with thick glasses, leans towards the counter.

"Hey, Natalie, nice to see you today. Did you see the new post yesterday?" He smiles shyly.

"Sure, thanks! You were so nice again." She gives him a quick, playful wink. Encounters like these are as gentle as sunshine; authentic, brief, and honest. Sometimes she envies those people who don't have to negotiate their identity through social media posts.

“I’m always really surprised by how many of my guests follow me,” she says later to Lina, as they share a cigarette outside.

"That's good, isn't it?", Lina replies.

"Yes, but sometimes I wish they would like me even without a filter."

Lina smiles. "Believe me, they like you just the way you are."

Her phone rings in the afternoon. A DM from an unknown account: "Wow, you're so pretty! Want to meet up?" She feels that familiar pull: the joy of being desired, and at the same time, a protective reflex. She ignores the message, deletes the chat. Such requests are like raindrops on a windowpane—they come, form lines, but they aren't necessarily weather. Yet every time someone addresses her directly, gets down to the personal level, a little vibration runs through her. It's hard to say whether it's the attention she craves or the chance to be close to someone without the camera in between.

At home, she plans the reel. She sets the music, edits sequences together, and plays with transitions. For her, the art of perfection isn't just expression; it's craftsmanship. Every second of the video is calculated: What will stick in the viewer's mind? Which pose? Which look? Editing is often meditative; there's no pressure, just the meticulous work that leads to a finished product. Toward evening, her nervousness rises: a live stream is scheduled. She likes live streams because they're fast and raw, but they also take courage. Live streaming is what the algorithm rewards most, and courage is precisely what she often lacks.

“Don’t stay up too long,” Lina writes, “you’ll need energy for your shift tomorrow.” Natalie smiles at the thoughtfulness. “I know. I’ll do half an hour. That’s enough.” She knows that more isn’t always better, but often she feels that the more visible she is, the more stable her visibility becomes. Maybe that’s not true, maybe it’s just superstition—but superstition is sometimes a better plan than no plan at all.

She starts the live video. The number of viewers slowly increases, the comments come in small waves. "Hi Nat!", "Do you have a product recommendation?", "Lina, say hi to her for me!" She answers, laughs, asks questions, wrestles with the insecurity that keeps creeping in: Am I interesting enough? She notices her voice tremble when a troll message appears—someone posting something malicious, a comment about her appearance. It hurts, but she's learned to balance the pain: she smiles, ignores it, filters it, and carries on. "Ignore it," Lina writes in the chat, and Natalie nods as if it were a physical signal.

After the live stream, a brief surge of interest sets in: charts, hearts, new followers. The statistics show a positive reaction, and the feeling is like warm tea: comforting, satisfying for a brief moment. She goes through the comments, replies to some, and saves screenshots for a potential collaboration. The agent who wrote about the underwear campaign would be pleased. The question remains: How much of yourself do you sell before authenticity becomes a commodity? She doesn't answer the question. For now, the numbers are enough, and for now, the burning sensation in her chest, stemming from the certainty of having accomplished something, is enough.

Around midnight, bills remain unpaid, but so do small glimmers of hope. "You were really good today," Lina texts, "and you spoke so calmly." Natalie puts her phone down and looks up at the ceiling. The apartment is silent except for the soft hum of the radiator. There, like a shadow behind the sofa, lies the emptiness she rarely names. She feels a melancholy that isn't dramatic, more of a constant presence: the suspicion that visibility is merely a surface; that perhaps something is missing beneath this luster—continuity, genuine intimacy, a bank account that doesn't rejoice at the slightest withdrawal.

She thinks of her mother, of the voice that occasionally calls her with worries, of the last money transfer she sent.

As she switches off the light, a brief image flashes before her eyes: herself in front of a mirror, but not as if for a social media post, rather matter-of-factly, pondering who she is when no one is watching. The awareness of her body is there, the memory of the smile she has practiced a million times today.

She closes her eyes and tries to quiet the inner voice that asks: "Was that real? Or just good lighting?"

Sleep comes slowly. During the night, in the liminal space between dream and waking, her brain is already reeling off ideas: a new reel, a collaboration, perhaps a seminar she might half-heartedly attend after all. It's a constant oscillation between aspiration and reality, between desire and possibility. But morning is already calling again with its own little promise: a ring light switching on, a countdown beginning, and the comforting squeal of the tram. Natalie knows that it will continue—always onward. The platform awaits, and with it, the chance to fill what burns within with the outside world. For now, she places her hands behind her head, breathes deeply, and lets the tiredness come. Tomorrow the light will be switched on again.

Chapter 2 - Bilal

The event takes place in a disused warehouse on the Rhine, a hall with rough brick walls, fairy lights, standing tables, and a bar serving Prosecco in small glasses. Music pulses softly through the room; voices mingle with the clinking of ice. Natalie enters like any other, but with the faint awareness that her face has already flashed across a stranger's smartphone screen a few times. She wears a simple yet photographic outfit—a white blouse, black high-waisted jeans, her hair framed loose. Her hands are slightly damp; the excitement isn't new, yet every event carries a different weight.

She'd planned to be open, make connections, maybe take some good photos. Later, she posts to her followers: "Networking #event in Cologne today! Excited." The story is already half in her head; the real moment is unfiltered and loud. Between pitches, free snacks, and brief conversations about collaborations, she glides from one small talk conversation to the next, laughing, repeating technical terms as if she's known them for ages. Then a figure catches her eye, someone who isn't just watching, but listening.

“So you’re saying that authenticity is often sold as a strategy these days?” he asks, without finishing the question, his voice calm, tinged with a slight curiosity. His trademark isn’t his clothing or hairstyle, but the way he tilts his head, like someone who truly wants to understand.

Bilal Ahmed is slim, wears a tailored jacket, and has dark hair styled to suggest naturalness. His eyes are warm and attentive. He is a bit older, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and to Natalie, this gives him an air of experience that brings order to the room.

Natalie surprises herself with a detailed answer, more than she usually reveals to strangers.

“I think a lot of people only show a snippet and call it real,” she says. “But the audience is smart. They can tell when something is just an act.” She notices that she thrives in the discussion, offers counterexamples, laughs at ironic situations, and doesn’t realize how close he’s getting, how the unspoken movement is building a bridge.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Bilal says, “and that’s precisely why I like your work. You have a quiet precision—no loud pronouncements, but small, meaningful images. That stands out.” He articulates what resides in her mind, framing her insecurities as a compliment. His words place her on a stage she hasn’t yet dared to step onto herself. A warmth begins to stir in her palm, something like agreement, which she hears so rarely so clearly.

“Thank you,” she replies, and the response is genuine, surprised by the sincerity her audience gives her. “You saw the posts too?”

“Yes,” he says, “especially the reel with the book recommendation and the coffee. Authentic, not contrived. You seem… focused.” He emphasizes the word as if it were a rare quality. Then he asks casually, “Do you work alone? Or is there a team?”

Natalie looks at him with slight uncertainty.

“Alone,” says Natalie. “At least most of the time. A few people sometimes help me with makeup or camera, but that’s about it.”

"Then you might be interested in networking. I often organize photo shoots and know photographers who work well with natural looks. I could introduce you to someone." He smiles the way you smile when making an offer that doesn't sound like a favor, but rather a logical addition.

Her heart leaps. Networking is the word she hears so often, like a promise: growth, visibility, another wave of what she wants. Before she can rationally weigh it up, she says yes. "That would be great," she says. "Really. Thank you."

They exchange numbers; he sends a short message to her smartphone, his hand lingers on hers for a fraction of a second longer, too fleeting to attract attention, yet enough to send a small current. Then he disappears into the crowd, but the small connection remains like a light pressure in her pocket.

In the days that follow, Bilal suddenly appears more frequently in her feed—not online, but in notifications: a message in the morning, a studio recommendation, a linked photo he's sent. His language is direct, practical; his pictures of him with cameras and laptops convey an impression of efficiency. He sends her mood boards, small collages of color combinations and lighting moods, explaining why these tones work best right now. "You should use more warm tones," he writes in a direct message. "They give you depth on small screens." Natalie reads it, saves the advice like a key, and tries out the suggested filters in her next Reel.

“That looks good,” Lina says when she sees the new reel. “It looks more professional.” Lina winks at her, but there’s also a question in her eyes: does Natalie even recognize herself anymore? Natalie answers evasively: “It’s just an experiment.” Inside, she’s cheering. The numbers are rising slightly, in bursts, and she’s happy about the validation—not just of his advice, but of the fact that someone is taking her work seriously.

Bilal arranges their first photoshoot together a week later. He takes her to a studio, bringing along a photographer whom he praises: "He has an eye for the everyday, without exaggerating." A concentrated calm fills the studio. The photographer is friendly, giving clear instructions; Bilal observes, remains silent, and comes across as neither intrusive nor insecure. He is a table she can lean against. The pictures flow easily; she poses, laughs, looks serious, and in the end, there are a few shots that feel like little discoveries.

“These are powerful shots,” Bilal says as they leaf through the selection together. “Especially the one with the window light. It has a certain authenticity to it.” He briefly places his hand on her shoulder, a fleeting, supportive gesture. “If you’d like, I can send the files to my contacts. Brands that would suit you, people in the fashion industry. There are options.” He says it as if it’s something natural, something that costs nothing—except for Natalie’s willingness to reorient herself in that moment.

It begins like a friendship: shared coffee breaks, messages about the best photo locations in Cologne, short coaching sessions where he shows her how to write captions that work without being verbose. He has a gentle pedantry, a way of creating structure that she appreciates. Her chaotic daily life—billes, university, shifts at the café—suddenly acquires small, clear regularities: posting schedules, peak times, when a Reel should be short, and when a story performs better. For her, it feels like a gift: a roadmap that transforms the vague pursuit of visibility into manageable steps.

“You work very functionally,” he says at one point, as they’re brainstorming a strategy together. “That’s good. But we need to emphasize your voice more often. Not just the images—but also what you say.” He takes her phone and plays around with a caption draft. “Here: ‘Morning routine without filters,’ and then a short statement about what this routine means to you.” He writes, reads aloud, and asks, “Does this sound like you?”

She feels as if he is tuning an instrument, and the instrument is herself.

The more he helps her, the more she allows. It's not even a critical act—it feels more like a natural flow: someone seeing the pieces she barely notices and piecing them together. Collaboration requests come more easily. Brands write; Bilal responds professionally, tactfully. And because he acts as a buffer in the conversations, everything seems less threatening. "I'll handle the initial negotiations," he says. "You can decide whether to give your final approval." His voice sounds reassuring and comforting, as if he's a translator between her vulnerable world and the cold language of business.

But with every email he writes for her, with every meeting where he stands by her side in public, the persona she presents changes. He is always polite, charming, a pattern she begins to follow without really noticing that her pace is synchronized with his. When she is alone, she feels relieved; someone else is carrying the burden of negotiating. When he is present, the world seems bigger and more organized. He teaches her things: how to read a contract, where to look for pitfalls, how to set prices. He talks about brand collaborations like someone who is part of an ecosystem, and she greedily absorbs the information.

Her friends notice the change. "He's nice," Lina says one day over a cup of coffee. "And he really does seem to be taking some work off your hands." Lina is happy for them, but also cautious. "Be careful not to delegate everything," she adds. "You shouldn't lose your voice."

Natalie isn't fazed by the warning; she nods and smiles. "I know," she says. But inwardly, a new pattern has taken hold: Who negotiates if not him? Who tells my story if not him? The answer seems superficially simple: him.

One Sunday, they sit together in a park. Bilal explains the next big opportunity: A local underwear brand is looking for "real faces." "They want people who come across naturally," he says. "Not just models." He turns the cup in his hands, looks at her. "This would be good for you. Visibility, money, and it would be honest—no over-the-top looks, just simplicity. You wouldn't do anything you didn't want to." His words are reassuring. Natalie has been thinking about the agent for weeks; Bilal sounds like the solution. She feels her answers smooth things over: The fear of others' judgment diminishes in the shadow of the prospect of stability.

“I don’t know,” she says hesitantly. “Underwear is pretty… obvious.”

“It can be done elegantly,” he says. “We’re working with a brand that values taste. It’s not about selling out, it’s about confidence. And if you don’t want to, you say no. But I think you could do it well.” His voice is calm, gentle, like a friend standing on the edge of a cliff, offering you their hand to put your foot in, but assuring you that they’ll catch you.

She finally agrees—not with the fire of conviction, but rather with a practical weighing of opportunities and risks. The math is ticking in her head: good money, exposure, a step forward. The shoot is scheduled for next month. Bilal organizes the team, creates mood boards, talks to the brand manager, and speaks in a way that exudes confidence. Natalie feels as if someone is setting up the ladders she's meant to climb.

Before the shoot, she has a sleepless night. She wonders if she's selling out. There's a small, sharp emptiness in her chest, not painful, but more like an empty glass longing to be filled. She thinks of her mother, of her quiet worries, of Lina, who told her to be careful. And then she thinks of the bank accounts, the rent, the possibility of working fewer hours at the café and focusing more on her studies—if the money lasts. Finally, she falls asleep, with the image of Bilal reliably pulling the strings in the background.

The shoot is meticulous, professional, and harmless. The studio is warm, the people polite; the photographer captures them with natural light. In the spotlight, everything seems just right. The brand posts the pictures, and the reaction is overwhelmingly positive: likes, compliments, new followers. The contract is fairly paid; she's putting a portion of the earnings toward her savings plan—or at least that's how it feels. Bilal is pleased; he writes privately: "Well done. You handled that really elegantly." He sounds proud, and his pride is like a positive echo, reinforcing her self-image.

But not all the comments are friendly. A few are critical, offering moral judgments; some write that she's "too light" for this industry. Natalie reads the comments secretly, swallows hard, deletes the app, and takes a deep breath. When she tells Bilal about it, he reacts immediately—not with pity, but with energy. "People like that will always talk," he says. "Let them talk. We have numbers. We have a good product. And you're doing a good job." His response is like a shield. Later, in the park, as the autumn sun dips low, he places his hand on hers. It's a gesture that whispers security to her—and something else. Not threatening, not now, just a gentle display of possession. She returns the gesture because it signifies trust, and because she believes it's right to confide in someone who helps her make sense of the world.

This is how intimacy and career become intertwined: Bilal as a promoter, a mentor, someone who opens up networks while simultaneously making closeness seem forced. For Natalie, he is both: a lever for visibility and a person who makes her feel less alone. The bond that forms is quiet and smooth, like a cord that only later shows tension. For now, there is simply warmth, plans, voices saying she's on the right track. And in that warmth, the small warning Lina voiced fades away—in that moment, it seems as if what she's doing is meaningful and right.

Chapter 3 - Roses and reach

The weeks that follow feel as if someone is invisibly adjusting the dials of her life. Natalie's days take on a rhythm: morning routine, posting, university, café, Bilal, meetings, photo shoots, networking. The hours have become thicker, filled with small decisions that previously carried little weight. Now they have names. "Collaboration," "Brand Meeting," "Content Plan," and every time she ticks a box, a brief pulse of relief surges in her chest: This is a step forward.

One Monday morning, she sits at the kitchen table, her laptop open, staring at the numbers in her analysis tool.

"Do you see that?" she asks, tapping her fingertip across the touchpad. The curve rises, almost undulating like a small wave. "Last week it was up 20 percent. I couldn't believe it."

Bilal leans back, hands clasped, and smiles as if it were his personal triumph. “We timed this perfectly,” he says. “The content plan is working, and you’re doing a fantastic job. Brands are really taking notice of you now.” His voice is calm, almost celebratory. “The boutique wants you for the weekend, and the cosmetics company is offering an ongoing trial. This is regular income, not a one-off payment.”

Natalie feels the mental calculation transforming red tones into green: fewer shifts, more time for her studies, maybe seeing a few friends more often. "That would make things so much easier," she says, unable to hide how much the thought warms her heart.

He now controls many touchpoints in her external world—the emails, the pitches, the draft texts—and she finds this a relief. It's not that she doesn't appreciate his help; it's that his help is slowly replacing her own voice. Often it's a subtle shift. He writes a caption suggestion, and she signs it with a small checkmark. He selects images, and she nods. "You look better like this," he says, as if it were an objective observation, like the weather or temperature.

On the day the boutique is planning the live event, Natalie rehearses the script at home. "I'll do a short introduction, then a Q&A, and at the end I'll present my favorite pieces," she explains to Bilal, who sits beside her taking notes. "That sounds good. Stick to your tone—warm, down-to-earth. That's your brand," he says. He clicks on her video, pauses, and zooms in on her gaze. "If you add a little smile here, it comes across as very open. But not too much. Authenticity, Nat. Always authenticity."

“I know,” she says, practicing her smile until it feels like a well-trained muscle. She rehearses texts, short answers to possible questions, and he jots down keywords, corrects a word here, adjusts a phrase there. “You’re doing very well,” he praises. His voice is warm, its tone soothing and calming.

The air crackles with energy at the live event in the boutique. The owner has decorated the shop window with candles, and soft music creates a cozy atmosphere. A few regular customers, a few new faces, and a few followers who came especially for the event are present.

Natalie stands at a small table, the jewelry is displayed, and talks.

“I’ve been wearing this piece for a few days,” she says, “it’s light, you hardly notice it, and it has such a simple design that it fits into any everyday life.” People nod, buy, take photos. A woman comes up to her and says with a smile, “You have such a natural way about you—it comes across as genuine.” The compliment resonates within her like a pleasant sound.

Later, when the sales figures look promising and the boutique wants to repost a photo of her on Instagram, Bilal pulls her aside. “We’ll link to it, and I’ll register the leads. I can plan next Saturday with them, a bigger event, maybe an Instagram takeover.” He speaks like someone with a game board in front of them, moving the pieces. Natalie listens and feels supported. Things are going well, and that’s a comfortable feeling.

The attention is visibly growing. People on the street stop more often, look at her, a fleeting recognition, a "Hey, I follow you!" Once, a young woman is in the bakery and doesn't hesitate to approach Natalie: "You're the one with the morning routines! I always watch your videos when I have to leave early. Thank you for doing this." Natalie smiles, touched, and for a second, her mind slows down—a clear, simple moment of genuine connection.

But with every new compliment, every new collaboration, something else comes along: decisions that are no longer solely hers. The image selection changes because Bilal thinks architecturally. "This is too soft for the target audience," he says, pointing to a photo of her laughing, so uninhibitedly that she almost doesn't seem to be in charge of the picture. "We need a series with more contrast, something that immediately catches the eye in the preview. The algorithm loves strong thumbnails."

“But the laughter…” she begins. “That feels real.”

“Authenticity is good,” he says, “but authenticity also has to fit the mold. Otherwise, it gets lost. Look, we can use laughter as a story, a powerful image as a post—both work.” He smiles with a confidence that softens any disagreement. She feels convinced and accepted because his solution doesn't prohibit, but rather arranges.

At a photoshoot for a cosmetics brand, Natalie sits in front of the set, her hair loose, the light flattering. The brand's creative director, a strikingly matter-of-fact woman, glances at some mood boards and says, "We want something that hovers between lifestyle and glamour. It needs to feel intimate, not like a typical advertisement." Bilal stands beside her, his gaze shifting from camera to camera, communicating with the photographer in short, precise sentences. "More movement in your hair, Nat. Looser, but with poise. Remember, this product is for women who treat themselves." He winks at her—a gesture that is both reassuring and instructive.

Later, in the dressing room, alone with her smartphone, she films a short behind-the-scenes clip. She speaks to the camera: “The set is great, the team is lovely. I’m so excited.” Then she hesitates, deletes the video, takes a deep breath, and uploads a different version that sounds more professional and contains fewer intimate anecdotes. The feeling of holding back grows. It’s not dramatic, more like a slight narrowing—like a ring that slightly restricts her vision.

"How do you feel about the product?" Lina asks one evening as they sit on the sofa at her house drinking wine. The question is simple, but it carries weight. Lina looks at her, not accusingly, but with concern. "I mean—is this what you envisioned?"

Natalie pushes the cup closer, thinking about the accounts, the dwindling shifts at the café, the feeling of having something in the evening that feels like direction. "It helps," she says. "It's not perfect, but it helps." She bites her lip. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm expressing more than I am myself. But then I think: What's the alternative? To keep slavering away at the café?" She tries to put the doubt into words and senses that it hardly ever truly disappears.

“You can’t just give things away,” Lina says, slowly, like someone who doesn’t want to hurt anyone. “Your voice is important. I can see it – you’re good in front of the camera. But be careful not to put yourself in situations where you feel uncomfortable, just to meet the numbers.”

“I know,” Natalie replies. “I often say no too. Most of the time.”

Lina nods, but her eyes hold the memory of other stories where "most of the time" wasn't enough. "Just promise me you'll take care of yourself. That you won't delegate everything."

“I promise,” says Natalie – and she means it in that moment, because her promises are honest. But promises have a way of stretching themselves the more they are needed.

The compromises creep into small habits: Bilal accepts the payment terms, but he also asks if he can have temporary access to her advertising channel, "just to be readily available if a brand wants to run an ad immediately." He phrases it like a tool: efficiency, speed of response, better deals. "It remains your account," he emphasizes, "I'm just making temporary adjustments, and you can change the password at any time." It sounds logical; her hands hesitate for only a moment before she sends him the password. In retrospect, it's an act she barely considers: a small handover, packaged as a pragmatic measure.

“I only want the best for you,” he says as he confirms the entry on his device, and his words are warm. Natalie nods because it sounds familiar and reassuring. Trust is a reward he earns through consistent help. It is also a commitment that slowly grows on both sides.

The more he manages things, the less often she makes decisions alone.

He suggests which offers she should accept and which she shouldn't. Most of the time she complies because he has concepts, because his perspective reflects commercial realities that work to her advantage. Once, after a particularly lucrative brief, he suggests she take a more provocative approach for a larger project: "Not more than you want to, but a bit bolder. That'll increase your reach." His voice is diplomatic, like a manager weighing risk and return.

“I don’t feel safe with some ideas,” she says candidly that night. She sits on the balcony, her phone warm in her hands, looking at the street lights. The city seems calm; she has no idea what’s happening online.

“What exactly bothers you?” Bilal asks. His response is attentive, and she feels encouraged to be more specific. She describes vague images, a pose, a piece of clothing that is too low for her. He listens, clearly, and then explains that they can find nuances, a way to reveal without exposing. “You don’t have to lose yourself in the action,” he says. “You always set the boundaries. We test. If you feel uncomfortable tomorrow, we’ll stop immediately. We document everything, and you have the final say.”

She wants to believe him. She almost always does, because he constantly reminds her that she's the center of attention. But in practice, things start to play out differently: he tests small boundaries, which she accepts more easily because they're small. A lower neckline here, a more revealing pose there; at first, it seems like aesthetic work, nothing sensational – and yet these small adjustments gradually change the public image of her and the image she has of herself.

When the first controversy erupts—a comment branding her post "too revealing"—Bilal immediately finds his words. He responds publicly, factually, defending her. "Platforms change, and taste is subjective," he writes in a lengthy comment that sounds more like management than emotion. Privately, however, when the messages are full of derision, he becomes angrier; privately, his tone is sharper. "People don't understand how the business works," he says one evening as they sit on the bed, his hand in hers. "They think it's all about morality. It's about art, about distribution, about opportunity."

She finds comfort in his clarity. His anger often has a protective quality; she accepts it as a form of loyalty. But beneath the surface, unease grows: Who decides what is art, what is commerce, what is possibility? Is it she, or is it he who sets the boundaries because he understands the calculations better?

As her days fill with appointments, pitches, and new faces, a part of her hardens and a part softens. The soft part soaks up recognition like water quenches thirst. The hard part notices how the edges of her self-image become smoother, almost industrially polished. It's a process, not dramatic, more like the ebb tide. And as her follower count continues to grow, she occasionally feels a small, stinging question, not phrased politely, but as a fleeting tug in her stomach: Who am I behind these images when all the images disappear?

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---