Inside the Fashion Week Black Market Pt. 2

Two years ago, I revealed the black market for Fashion Week invites. This time, I infiltrated it from the inside.

In Part 1 of this investigation, I dove into the shadowy world of Fashion Week ticket reselling by inventing Mrs. Meilan Jang, a fictional Chinese heiress, Balenciaga couture client, hotel suite devotee, and entirely nonexistent. Armed with a fake assistant email, a wire transfer template, I hooked an alleged ticket broker named Steve. He promised second-row seats to Chanel and Schiaparelli, a front-row spot at Balenciaga, and a €24,500 invoice to seal the deal though "confirmations" from brand PRs looked more like Al-generated fakes than legitimate emails. Yet he didn't waver, pressing for payment by noon. What he didn't know: I was already cross-checking with the real PR teams.

Friday, July 4th

With Steve’s noon deadline for payment looming I leaned fully into my assistant role. I fired off a carefully crafted reply to keep him hooked and to bait out his dubious Harper’s Bazaar connection:

Louis: “Hi Steve sorry to get back to you so late, Mrs. Jang has just authorized her accountant to wire the funds ( 24.5k ) to you immediately. Will we receive a physical invitation for the shows? She will be staying at the Plaza Athenee. Also I saw you work for Harper’s Bazaar? The French or US, she may be interested in purchasing a digital article if you have a quote for that”

With the help of ChatGPT, I generated a draft of a wire transfer confirmation from Citibank Hong Kong. I decided it looked a little too fake so then in Notes App I finessed the layout myself adding a transaction reference number that looked convincingly soulless. I timestamped it for 8:11 PM HKT, just late enough to justify a delay but early enough to look like an eager billionaire’s accountant got it done before dinner. The memo line read simply: Fashion Week Invitations. Clean. Just the kind of vague luxury paperwork a woman like Mrs. Jang would delegate without a second thought.

Then I staged the next step: I had the Mei Zhao email account I’d created, my fictional assistant persona, email me the screenshot of the transfer confirmation. A little performance for an audience of one. From there, I simply DMed the screenshot to Steve. He bit, but not without a twitch.

Steve: “Thanks for this copy, I did not receive anything until now on the account.”

Naturally I blamed the time difference: “the transfer was made probably because of the time difference you'll receive it in a few hours. Her team would like to know if they can expect a physical invitation or digital?”

Steve pressed on: “Did they do it by normal wire or really instant transfer where it shows in the next Minute normally? PS: I was even advised they could prepare a physical invitation. Pleasure!”

“Did you make sure the transfer was sent SEPA or normal wire? What was the expected time of arrival at my account from their bank?”

Louis: “It was an international wire sent at 8:11pm Hong Kong time so it should be in your account Sunday evening, Monday morning.”

To add to Mrs. Jang’s mystique and keep the illusion airtight, I circled back with one more logistical note the kind of high-maintenance instruction only a paranoid billionaire or her overly attentive assistant would think to include.

I told Steve that, for security reasons, Mrs. Jang never accepted deliveries personally at the hotel. All physical materials including the invitations would need to be addressed to her security detail instead. I handed over the address:

Mr. Liang Wei

c/o Concierge

Hôtel Plaza Athénée

25 Avenue Montaigne

75008 Paris

France

A discreet drop for a woman who didn’t technically exist.

“Alright, if we have confirmation, good so far,” Steve messaged. “Yet I wanted to make sure to receive in time for the fashion Houses.”

With Steve convinced the bag was secured and €24,500 was humming its way from Hong Kong to his Lithuanian Revolut, I knew it was time to tighten the trap and stop playing assistant and start playing detective.

That afternoon, I shot emails to Chanel’s Christoph Heinrich, Balenciaga’s Robin Meason, and Schiaparelli’s Ornella Humler, attaching Steve’s so-called “confirmations.” As a journalist peeling back the curtain on Fashion Week’s shady underbelly, I kept it simple: Are these emails legit? Is Mrs. Jang on your guest list?

By dusk, the responses hit my inbox. Chanel’s Heinrich was diplomatic but firm: “We strongly refute the allegations made by this individual. Invitations are never issued in exchange for money, and we strictly enforce this policy. The email you forwarded is fraudulent. The person who was supposedly invited is not one of our guests.” He promised to investigate a possible email hack.

Balenciaga’s Meason didn’t mince words: “It’s undoubtedly a scam.” She listed the giveaways, wrong signature, premature seating assignments, and Mrs. Jang’s absence from their list and offered to alert Balenciaga’s security team.

The fantasy collapsed in two replies. I wasn’t chasing a maybe anymore, I had the receipts. Mrs. Jang was never getting into Chanel & Balenciaga but then again she was never real to begin with. Steve’s scam was sloppier than a Shein seam, but bold enough to fool the desperate. I was curious to see just how long he’d keep it up.

Saturday, July 5th

At 2:48 AM, the anxiety in his latest DM was palpable: “PS: do we have a 100% confirmation that she sent it to the IBAN and BIC provided?”. Over morning coffee, I re-sent the fake Citibank Hong Kong receipt with the same “weekend processing” excuse and assured him the €24,500 was en route. To keep him on the line, I dangled a baited hook: “You attending any shows this season?”

He bit again, claiming he’d hit “some selected ones like Zuhair Murad.” As for the Harper’s Bazaar features? “Noted, I will see what is possible” he texted. “Looking forward to some interesting Couture inputs & wish you a great Saturday!” he chirped, like we were swapping brunch plans. Yeah, Steve, let’s grab mimosas at the Plaza Athénée.

Time to crank the pressure. My fictional Mrs. Jang had “boarded” her Gulfstream III and was wheels up soaring toward her dream couture week. I pinged Steve, ever the dutiful assistant: “Hi Steve, just looping back to confirm Mrs. Jang’s accountant said the transfer should clear by tomorrow evening. In the meantime, would it be possible for Mei Zhao, her assistant to schedule a short call with you tomorrow? She just wants to double confirm the show logistics and seating so Mrs. Jang is briefed when she arrives tomorrow. She’s flexible on time. Let me know what works best!”

Would our couture guardian angel humor his benefactor? Not even close. At 1:48 AM Sunday, he dropped an excuse so wild I nearly spit out my vodka Red Bull at the bar.

Steve: “Thanks for the Note and guaranteed confirmation of the Bank Transfer. Unfortunately I got injured similar like ago Caro Daur on my eye around, was struggling and falling down. Stitches I. Hospital. You could foresee later on tomorrow when I recover quickly. Otherwise will let you know. Best wishes, Louis!”

This was peak comedy. A blind man selling visibility? The audacity was Oscar-worthy because who needs 20/20 vision when you’ve got this much nerve? And writing Caro Daur into his hospital fanfic???? Sir….. but I fired back, all faux concern the next morning: “Wishing you a speedy recovery. Mrs. Jang will wait for your green light on next steps. Please let me know if you have received the transfer.”

Sunday, July 6th

By Sunday evening, with Paris Couture Week kicking off and Steve’s stitches presumably holding, I was done playing. I crafted the email like a couture gown, tailored to him:

“Hi Steve, I'm going to be very direct. There was never a Mrs. Jang, no assistant, and no money transfer. My name is Louis Pisano and I'm a journalist.” I laid out the receipts: his €10,000 Chanel price tag, €8,000 Schiaparelli ask, €6,500 Balenciaga hustle; his forged emails with no metadata; his “confirmations” that fell apart under scrutiny. “I have confirmed with the PR teams at Balenciaga & Chanel that these emails & invitations do not exist and constitute fraud.”

Then I dropped the hammer: “Chanel and Balenciaga have alerted their security teams. I told him this constituted as usurpation d’identité, a serious crime under French law. “The full investigation will be published tomorrow afternoon. If you would like to make any final statements or clarifications, please send them now and I will include them in my report.” I signed off: Regards, Louis Pisano.

The mask was off. Instagram lit up: “SEEN.” Then typing… then nothing. Typing… nothing.

For two hours, Steve’s digital meltdown flickered like a glitchy livestream when finally, at 10:32 PM, he replied: “Im heavily injured and I tried to reach out to my contacts for all requests. Im innocent. No damage was done. I can repeat Im totally innocent. and I never usurpated any identity. Im fully innocent and without any fault.” Then, like a true diva exiting stage left, he blocked me.

But after all this, was Steve ever the real deal, or just a hustler riding a carefully curated facade? On paper, he seemed legitimate. His Instagram, brimming with selfies at global Fashion Weeks and tags for stylists, editors, and minor PR reps, oozed credibility.

He name-dropped Zuhair Murad, Harper’s Bazaar and Caroline Daur with the ease of someone who was true to this, not new to this. Yet his operation was an unmitigated clown show. The truth likely lies in the gray: a small-time player with just enough access to seem credible, but not enough to deliver the golden tickets he peddled. As Paris Couture Week winds down without my fake heiress, I wondered how many others had bought Steve’s lies, clutching QR codes to nowhere.

This brings us to the bizarre economy of selling access, where a Chanel invitation can allegedly command €10,000 or more. Fashion Week hosts two shows: one on the runway, and one off, it’s a status arena where proximity to luxury signals power and a front-row seat is social currency. For the ultra-wealthy, influencers, or wannabe insiders, €10,000 is a small price to rub shoulders with Anna Wintour or post an Instagram story from a luxury brand’s step and repeat, much like Vogue 100's elite who shell out $100,000 annually for exclusive access. Brands like Chanel, Balenciaga, and Schiaparelli hoard invitations like Infinity stones, creating scarcity that fuels a black market where hustlers like Steve flourish. Desperation meets demand, and cash bridges the gap.

Then there’s the industry of fake influence, where “fake it till you make it” isn’t just a mantra but a business model in an ecosystem that rewards optics. Show up at enough shows, even in the back row, with a borrowed outfit and a convincing caption, and you might catch a junior PR’s eye. Post consistently, tag the right brands, and finesse your way into a showroom appointment. Over time, those staged appearances can snowball into real invitations, brand partnerships, or gifting all by mastering the art of perception. Steve’s hustle fits this mold: flash enough credibility real or fabricated and someone will bite. As long as there’s a queue of Mrs. Jangs, real or not, chasing that front-row experience, there’ll be a Steve lurking in the DMs, stitches or no stitches. Because if status is the dream, someone will always be selling the fantasy. No PR contact required.