Dear Media Friends (and random internet strangers),
I almost got scammed last week. I write about internet scams regularly, but this was completely different, since it came under the guise of a potential one-off business partnership. And the useful part, for you, is who they pretended to be.
They didn’t come at me as a stranger. They came at me as someone representing a brand — a somewhat recognizable one, with real products you can buy on Amazon in ten seconds. That borrowed legitimacy is why it worked as long as it did.
The pitch was a sponsored content review. I’m vigilant about who I partner with, but they seemed legit, albeit too flattering, curiously unprofessional, and way too eager. Something felt off from the first email, and I’ll be honest: I noticed and kept going anyway, because they were polite and persistent and I shrugged it off as an easy win.
The tells, in the order they showed up:
The sender's email domain had nothing to do with the brand they claimed to represent — a random overseas address invoking a known company. And here's the honest part: that alone isn't damning. Publicists email me from mismatched domains, agency addresses, and personal Gmails constantly. So in theory it could've been fine. But my spidey senses were already tingling.
The offer was bait-and-switch. They talked my rate down, called it a discounted first collaboration, and sweetened it with promises of future products and launches. I didn’t trust it, but it felt like an easy project to become involved with. That and the promises of more work down the line.
The follow-ups never stopped — a warm nudge every day or two, never quite hearing my no. That relentlessness is engineered, because scammers know that decent people don’t want to offend anyone intentionally and will respond at some point.
When I said PayPal only for payment, they pivoted straight to bank transfer — toward the method with less paper trail, easier potential access and no recourse.
Far too many oddly specific questions. It’s almost like they were reading a script about what to ask instead of tailoring the partnership to their client’s needs.
Repetitive. I’d explain something and then they’d ask about it again. In about eight emails they asked me the same thing three different ways.
Then the one that gave it away. After I declined, they asked me to accept the product anyway and forward it to another address, shipping fully reimbursed…by bank transfer, of course! There’s no honest reason a company needs a writer as its package relay. That isn’t a review. That’s a mule.
And that request is worth stopping on, because it may have been the entire point. Forwarding a package for someone you can’t vet can make you the shipping origin for something they can’t legally send themselves — goods bought with stolen cards, or something they need moved out of or across the country under a clean American name and address. Yours. You’d be the exporter of record for a box you never opened.
Even creepier, before waiting to hear if I’d say yes or no, they included the writer in question’s home address and phone number. Easy enough to find online, maybe, but it felt like a double violation.
One detail I only caught at the end: they never once sent a link to the actual product. No images, no links, no spec sheet, nothing. But the second they needed me to click, a “tracking link” appeared. The product was always the bait. The click was the point. Reader, I did not click.
Here’s why I’m writing it up for you specifically.
We treat reputation risk as the stuff a brand can see coming — bad press, a botched launch, a founder’s dumb tweet. This aims straight at your client but originates entirely outside their reach, and travels through a channel no one on your team is watching. Someone pitches it to fifty creators while wearing your client’s name. A few get burned, or nearly do. Each one warns her audience using the brand name, because that’s the only name she was handed. By the time it reaches you, it’s a reputational dumpster fire that’s been burning for weeks, yet you find out last.
I know the brand they impersonated. My first instinct was to name it, to prove exactly this point. I’m not going to. I won’t link my name to theirs in either direction. If they’re a victim too, they don’t deserve to be permanently keyword-tied to a scam in my archive — and if they’re not, the pattern protects you, not the label.
Monitor your own name/client’s brand where the coverage is or isn’t: Alerts for your brand paired with “scam,” “collab,” “sponsored.” The early warning lives in creator spaces, not the press you already track.
Write the response before you need it: If your client’s name gets used this way, a short, human “this isn’t us, here’s how to spot the real us” moves the brand from apparent villain to fellow victim — which is the truth.
For those of us on the receiving end, the lesson is old and simple. The feeling that something’s off isn’t noise to talk past on the way to a yes. It’s information. My gut knew that something was off from the first email. I overruled it because the pitch was pleasant and I wanted the win to be real.
When someone structures a scam this way, they’re testing whether you’re polite enough to override your gutwhen someone keeps asking nicely. They feed off your good manners. Your decency. The part of you that was raised right
Answer anyway. Then trust your gut faster than I did.
Two asks. If you're an attorney who works on influencer, content, or brand agreements and you'd be willing to be interviewed for a follow-up, I'd love to talk — reply with your name, firm, and bar admission. And if this happened to you, or nearly did, tell me what landed in your inbox. I'm working on a follow-up and your story may help someone else trust their gut faster.
See ya next week!
Rachel
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