Sana: The Descent

Sana Aftab stared at her phone screen, the glow illuminating her face in the dim light of her bedroom in Westridge, Rawalpindi. It was past midnight, and the house was quiet—her parents asleep in the adjacent room, her 10-year-old son, Ahmed, snoring softly down the hall. At 35, Sana had rebuilt her life after a messy divorce five years ago. Her ex-husband, a mid-level banker, had left her for a younger colleague, taking most of their savings and leaving her with Ahmed and a mountain of unspoken regrets. Her father, a retired government clerk, and her mother, a homemaker, had welcomed them back into their modest two-story home in this middle-class neighborhood. The walls were cracked in places, the furniture worn from years of use, but it was home. They weren't poor—her father's pension covered basics, and Sana's full-time gig as an Instagram model brought in enough for Ahmed's school fees and the occasional treat. But luxuries? Those were dreams.

Her Instagram handle, @SanaStylesPK, had exploded in the last year. What started as casual outfit-of-the-day posts—modeling local boutique dresses, high-street dupes, and the occasional designer knock-off—had snowballed into nearly 100,000 followers. She posed in bodycon dresses one day, flowy maxis the next, always with flawless makeup, hair in loose waves or sleek ponytails. Brands sent free clothes; online stores paid for sponsored posts. Comments flooded in: "Slaying, queen!" from women, and from men... well, those were different. "Body like a Coke bottle," "DM me your rates," "Wanna fly you to Dubai." She ignored most, blocking the creeps. Propositioned daily, she told herself it was the price of visibility. She was a modern Muslim woman, divorced but confident, raising her son with balance.

But lately, the temptations whispered louder. Ahmed needed braces—20,000 rupees the dentist quoted. Her mother's arthritis medication was running low, and the generic brand wasn't cutting it. Sana's phone bill was overdue because she'd splurged on a new ring light and backdrop for better shoots. The house needed repairs; the roof leaked during monsoon season. Middle-class life in Pakistan meant scraping by, smiling through inflation that made groceries a weekly battle. Her followers saw the filtered glamour—the perfect pose, the sponsored heels—but not the empty fridge some nights.

It started innocently enough. One evening, scrolling through DMs while Ahmed did homework, a message caught her eye. From @KarachiKing87: "Sana, your curves light up my feed. I'm in Islamabad next week for business. Dinner? No strings, just admiration. I'll cover everything." Attached was a photo of a sleek BMW and a hotel suite. He was 42, divorced too, a textile exporter with a verified profile. His offer: 50,000 rupees for an evening of company. Not sex, he clarified—just talk, laugh, feel desired again.

Sana's heart raced. 50,000? That was two months' worth of her Instagram earnings. She could pay the dentist, buy her mom the good meds, even treat Ahmed to that PlayStation he'd been begging for. She typed a rejection: "Thank you, but I'm not interested." But she didn't send it right away. Instead, she lay awake, imagining the freedom. What harm in dinner? Men had been chasing her since her teens; this was just... compensated attention.

The next day, she replied: "Just dinner. Nothing more." They met at an upscale café in F-7, Islamabad—a 45-minute drive from Rawalpindi. She wore a fitted emerald-green midi dress, hair down, red lips bold. He was charming, complimented her legs, ordered steak she couldn't pronounce. He talked business; she shared stories of Ahmed's cricket matches. At the end, he slid an envelope across the table. "For your time," he said. Inside: crisp notes, exactly 50,000. She pocketed it, guilt gnawing like a thorn. On the drive home, she rationalized: It was harmless. Like a brand deal, but personal.

Word spread in those shadowy DM circles. Men like @KarachiKing weren't subtle; they bragged in private groups. Soon, more offers trickled in. "Heard you're open to meets. 30K for coffee?" from a Lahore-based doctor. "100K for a weekend in Murree," from an anonymous account with Dubai plates. Sana blocked most, but the seed was planted. Ahmed's school trip to Hunza was coming up—40,000 rupees. Her father's blood pressure pills were short. And deep down, a void ached. Divorce had stripped her confidence; these men made her feel wanted, alive.

The first real slip happened three months later. @DubaiDreamer, a 38-year-old Overseas Pakistani visiting family in Rawalpindi, messaged persistently. "Sana, you're a fantasy. Let me treat you. 80,000 for one night. Hotel, privacy guaranteed." Photos of five-star suites, shopping bags from Dolce & Gabbana. She hesitated for days, praying istikhara for guidance. The dream was confusing—flashes of money and shame. But Ahmed came home crying; bullies teased him about his old shoes. That night, she replied: "Fine. But discreet."

They met at a boutique hotel in Bahria Town. She told her parents she was at a late-night shoot for a brand. Nerves jittered as she entered the room, lavender-scented and lavish. He was gentle, respectful at first—champagne (non-alcoholic, he assured), compliments in Urdu laced with English. "Tum bohat sexy ho." Clothes stayed on longer than she expected. But money clouded judgment. When he kissed her neck, she didn't pull away. 80,000 rupees bought more than company that night. Afterward, she cried in the shower, scrubbing until her skin raw. Haram, she whispered. But the envelope on the nightstand felt like salvation.

The descent accelerated. Shame fueled denial; money fueled repetition. She created a separate Instagram account, @SanaSecretPK, private and encrypted, for "premium" followers. Rates started at 50,000 for meets, escalating to 200,000 for overnights with Overseas Pakistanis flying in. Clients were vetted—married men mostly, discreet professionals from Islamabad's elite: bureaucrats, businessmen, even a low-level politician's son. They wired advances via Easypaisa, met in hotels or Airbnb apartments. Sana justified it: Temporary. For Ahmed's future. A private school scholarship? University abroad one day?

Her routine shifted. Mornings: Drop Ahmed at school, post glamorous Reels—trying on a new bodycon from a local brand, twirling in heels. Afternoons: Gym for that "model body," secretly to stay desirable. Evenings: "Shoots" two, three times a week. She bought Ahmed new gadgets, told her parents it was from a big sponsorship. Her mother noticed the new designer bags, the sudden salon visits. "Beta, where's this money coming from?" Sana lied smoothly: "International brand deal. They pay in dollars."

But cracks formed. Guilt haunted prayers; she skipped Jummah sometimes, too ashamed for the mosque. Followers on her main account grew to 150,000, but comments turned suspicious. "Why so many hotel backdrops?" one asked. She deleted, blocked. A client got possessive—@IslamabadElite, a 45-year-old CEO. He paid 300,000 for exclusivity, demanded photos, videos. When she refused nudes, he threatened to expose her. Panic set in. She met him anyway, in a DHA villa, letting him record to appease. The video leaked to a private WhatsApp group; whispers reached Westridge aunties. "That Sana who models clothes? Heard she's... you know."

Ahmed sensed changes. "Mama, why are you sad?" he'd ask, hugging her tighter. She'd smile, buy him ice cream with blood money. Her body ached from late nights; soul from deception. One client, a kind-eyed doctor from Karachi, paid 150,000 and held her as she cried post-act. "This isn't you," he said. "Stop before it destroys you." But stopping meant poverty's grip again—the leaking roof, Ahmed's dreams deferred.

The breaking point came six months in. Earnings topped 2 million rupees, hidden in a bank locker. She splurged: New furniture, Ahmed's braces, a plot of land for future security. But isolation gnawed. Friends distanced; family questioned. Her father confronted her after finding a hotel keycard. "Sana, what's happening? You're not the daughter I raised." Tears flowed as she confessed partially—"Debts, Abbu. Bad choices." He hugged her, unaware of the depths.

That night, a new DM: @AnonymousRich, offering 500,000 for a weekend in Lahore with "friends." A group. Her stomach turned, but the amount dazzled—enough to quit forever. She almost accepted. Instead, staring at Ahmed's sleeping face, innocence personified, she deleted the app. Blocked all contacts. Burned the sim in the kitchen sink.

Rehab was brutal. Cold turkey from the rush—money, validation, escape. She confessed to a trusted counselor, sought therapy via online apps (paid anonymously). Instagram went dark for weeks; followers speculated. She returned humbled, posting about body positivity, single motherhood's struggles—veiled truths. Earnings dipped, but authentic modeling gigs trickled in.

Sana never fully escaped the shadow. Scars lingered: A leaked photo here, a judgmental glance there. But she rebuilt. Ahmed thrived in a better school, oblivious. Her parents forgave, pride restored in her "comeback." At 36, Sana Aftab was still a model, but wiser. The descent taught her: Temptation wears luxury's mask, but descent devours the soul. She rejected advances now with steel resolve, channeling energy into empowerment content for divorced women. Middle-class life resumed—tight, but honest. In Westridge's quiet streets, under Rawalpindi's starry skies, Sana prayed for forgiveness, one day at a time.