Part One: From Suburbs to Spotlight
Hey, I’m Leya Moreno. If you haven’t heard of me, don’t worry, you will. Some call me a scammer, others say I’m a visionary. I say I’m just someone who refused to live a small life. I grew up in a bleak suburb outside Buenos Aires, where the future looked like factory shifts and family barbecues. But I had bigger plans.
By 15, I was designing and stitching my own clothes. People noticed. I was the weird girl with bold patterns and stranger dreams. Then, my world flipped when we moved to a sleepy village in Austria. I thought my flair would impress. Wrong. They laughed at me. My Spanish was useless. My German? Embarrassing. But one day in class, I accidentally turned a quirky water bottle into a musical show. The kids were stunned. For a moment, I mattered. I gave them my bottles, hoping to be accepted. But they still mocked me. That night I cried in the school bathroom and swore I'd never be small again. They didn’t hate me. They feared me. Because I dreamed differently.
Part Two: Parisian Masks and New York Dreams
At 18, I made it into an arts program in Milan, but the teachers were as dusty as the textbooks. I dropped out, chased excitement to Paris, and hustled my way into a low-paid internship at Volta magazine. I lived off scraps, but partied like royalty. Clubbing with elites, snapping selfies with models, pretending I belonged. Paris was expensive, so I borrowed from my parents under the excuse of "internship survival." Truth was, I was building a name, crafting an image.
When things fell apart and the rent closed in, I escaped to New York. I checked into a chic hotel using a half-legit press pass. Dressed in electric blue, I crashed Fashion Week, and to my surprise, the cameras loved me. A woman named Jade, who worked at a major fashion magazine, bought into my act. I became Lara von Westfield from Berlin. Heiress. Visionary. Founder of the "Westfield Collective," an elite cultural society I completely invented. She adored the story. She introduced me to Manhattan's tastemakers. I thrived in the illusion.
Part Three: Smoke, Mirrors, and Millions
My cards maxed out quickly. I needed capital to keep the game going. I hosted a fake charity gala in the Hamptons. Jade covered the costs "temporarily" because I convinced her I was having issues with my trust fund. I even created a fake Swiss account, forged financial docs, and set up an email as my “financial advisor.” A bank nearly approved me for $25 million. I just needed to cover $12,000 in legal fees. Which, of course, I didn’t have.
One glitch ruined it all. My fake bio claimed I was born in Berlin, but my passport still screamed Argentina. They pulled the loan. I was exposed. Instead of running, I tried one last makeover. New hotel. New style. New crew. I became besties with the concierge, Naya, who reminded me of me before the lies. But reality was catching up. The hotel bills stacked up, and no one believed I was royalty anymore.
I wanted power, beauty, and control. And for a while, I had it all—on borrowed time. So yeah, maybe I lied. Maybe I built an empire out of nothing but charisma and Chanel knockoffs. But when I walked those red carpets and whispered fake promises in penthouse parties, I wasn’t just pretending. I was becoming. And isn’t that what dreams are made of?