The founder of a skincare line teeters on career-defining success when a bullish journalist sets out to write her inaugural profile, threatening to unearth her darkest secret—that she’s not the wealthy socialite she portrays, but an immigrant of modest means who built a life on someone else’s name. Perfect for readers of White Ivy and Yellowface.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Mansi Shah’s Saving Face, which releases on August 12th 2025.
People love a rags-to-riches story but hate a woman who lied to get ahead.
Ami Shah is on the brink of life-changing success. Her skin-care empire, Amala, is set for acquisition by a Fortune 500 company, and she has just been nominated for the Global Changemakers Award, the most revered entrepreneurial honor. There’s just one problem: she’s a complete and utter fraud.
Twenty years ago in Singapore, abandoned orphan Monica Joseph made a decision to steal her wealthy classmate’s identity and move halfway around the world to build her life on someone else’s name. For twenty years, she’s managed to hide in plain sight…until an ambitious fledgling journalist sets out to write the inaugural full-length profile on her. With her carefully constructed persona and life’s work now in jeopardy, Monica is left with no other choice: she must return to the scene of the crime—and the one place she vowed never to revisit.
Home.
March 2019
Ami Shah built an empire by saving other people’s faces. But she did her best to hide her own. As the CEO of an Ayurvedic skin care line, it was no easy feat. She was constantly pressured to be the public image for her brand.
Wearing an aubergine Valentino sheath dress and Prada heels that were described by the designer as “nude” but weren’t against her brown skin, Ami looked elegant enough mingling in the backyard pool area of the Viceroy Santa Monica. Her style and demeanor were demure compared to the influencers, investors, and other guests that her company, Amala, was hosting that evening. She wanted to ensure that the spotlight would always be directed at them, and, most importantly, away from her.
“There’s that gorgeous, glowing face,” said a milk chocolate–toned beauty influencer named Mira as she leaned in to double air kiss Ami’s cheeks.
Mira teetered on her heels, standing far too close to the edge of the swimming pool, her martini sloshing out of her glass. Ami could not fathom why anyone thought the combination of stilettos, alcohol, and water features was a good idea. She flashed her most high wattage smile and took a step back so that Mira would follow and move away from the danger zone. The last thing she needed was a woman with 14.2 million followers falling into the pool while her online frenemies live streamed it.
“You’re too kind,” Ami said. “We both know you’re the beauty people want to see. I’m so thrilled you could join us tonight.”
Mira waved her off with false modesty. Her luscious brown skin was the type that never needed a filter, and she always stood as if a camera were trained on her. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Some of us who have been with Amala since the beginning were so worried when we heard the announcement.”
Ami cocked her head sympathetically. “I know. Hopefully this will put your mind at ease that both Amala and I will be there for our loyal supporters after the merger, just as we have been in the past.”
Amala, which meant “clean and most pure” in Sanskrit, had been her baby for the past fifteen years. What had once been a kernel of an idea for a business school assignment had turned into a thriving company. It sometimes still shocked Ami that Los Angeles, the place most synonymous with vanity procedures, enhancements, and superficial quick fixes had become the home of her natural skin care line that focused on healing from the inside out.
Now her baby was in serious merger talks with Propelle, the leading American conglomerate of women’s lifestyle brands, which touted a portfolio that ranged from fashion to wellness to fitness and were now looking to round out their portfolio by adding skin care. The only problem was that Walter Johnson, the CEO of Propelle, wanted Amala but not Ami. That part wasn’t public yet, in large part because Ami was not about to turn over her inclusive company to a white man in his mid-sixties and was going to do everything in her power to remain exactly where she was. She would never have even considered Propelle’s offer if Amala didn’t so desperately need the cash. Influencers like Mira had blown them up on social media, but they couldn’t fund the inventory to meet the demand, especially with the R&D they’d already invested for a new line. Ami couldn’t have anyone knowing that while Amala appeared to be soaring, the company was cash poor.
Mira leaned in conspiratorially to Ami. “I heard a rumor that you have a new line coming out.”
Ami tried to hide her surprise that word had gotten out. It wasn’t meant to be a secret per se, but she also hadn’t been advertising it. In this instance, she didn’t see the need to lie.
“We do.”
The Releaf label that she had poured her heart and soul into—along with Amala’s available cash—was Amala’s soon-to-be-launched line aimed at helping those with dermatitis-related conditions. It was the crowning glory of her business, because she knew from personal experience how much poor skin health could change the course of an entire life.
Mira’s face lit up. “Please tell me you are finally going to put that glowing face of yours on the packages.” Mira was the type that could only see this kind of exposure as something to covet. If only she knew how staunchly Ami had avoided having her face on anything public, and with good reason.
“My face could never compete with yours and those of our other influencers,” Ami said.
Mira gave a coy smile. “Well, I can’t wait to see the new line and blast it across my socials.”
A photographer came closer to them and motioned for Ami and Mira to stand together for a picture, but Ami deftly ducked out of the way before he could take the shot. She gestured to Mira who was already sticking out her chest and pouting her lips waiting for the flash to go off. “She’s the real star.”
While the photographer was busy with Mira, Ami made her way through the glammed-up Southern California elite on the lawn. People called out and beckoned for her to join their conversations. She stayed in motion and smiled modestly at the right moments, including when half the attendees called her “Amy” instead of “Ami,” and laughed softly when the occasion called for it, like when people offered to set her up. This happened frequently, but she always insisted that she was married to her work. Crowds and schmoozing were a necessary part of life for any successful entrepreneur, and she projected confidence. But it was a facade. She’d never feel like she truly belonged in a group like this.
She saw another photographer approaching and turned her back toward the camera and began chatting with the person behind her.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Ami said to Kalisa, another of Amala’s influencers. Kalisa was a Rwandan-born content creator, and with her espresso skin and short natural curls, she was exactly the type of customer Ami had in mind when she came up with the idea for Amala.
Kalisa put a hand on Ami’s shoulder. “Thank you for recognizing that we can’t all use white girl skin products and need something for ourselves.”
Ami felt the heat of the flash go off behind her.
Kalisa continued, “I hope that things will stay the same after this merger. I’m sure it’s great for you—” Kalisa rubbed her fingers together in the sign for money “—but there is nothing more annoying than finally finding products that work, and then having the manufacturer make some change to the formula. Let’s not fix what isn’t broken, you know what I mean?”
“I’m doing everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Her company was throwing this party for exactly this purpose: to put their loyal influencers and content creators at ease following the media blitz about Propelle’s merger offer with Amala and the frantic messages they’d received in its wake. Amala had come a long way since she’d been hand-packing the products herself from her living room, and she wasn’t about to see all that hard work come undone. The brand had grown and developed a loyal following, and she could hardly believe the behemoth that it would become following a merger of this scale. She’d never thought the fabled American Dream was something she could actually achieve.
And while Kalisa was right that Ami had been offered a lot of money to step down, for once, her decision wasn’t about the money. It also wasn’t about the ego. Although every founder had a healthy one. For her, it was about having a reason to get up every day. Amala was the only thing she knew. She had no family, no friends, no love interests, no real hobbies and no desire to pick up any beyond her sewing. This company was her entire identity, and at forty-two years old, she wasn’t ready to start over and reinvent herself. Not again. She had already done that once and knew how high those stakes were. She was Ami Shah, CEO of Amala, today, and she was determined to be that after the deal closed too.
Ami felt a hand on her shoulder and turned carefully to first check if the photographer was still there before locking eyes with Divya, her COO and faithful second in command.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Kalisa, but can I steal her away for a moment?” Divya asked.
Kalisa waved them off. “When duty calls, we must answer.”
Divya clutched her phone and steered Ami toward a quiet corner of the Viceroy backyard behind a white cabana. Ami and Divya Chandrasekar had known each other since they’d attended London Business School seventeen years ago, and had worked together on Amala since its inception. They were friendly, but not friends in the way that most people would assume given their longstanding history, but that was simply because Ami didn’t have close friendships. Not anymore. They were too risky.
Ami tensed at the urgency on Divya’s normally calm face, her mind swirling through the various things that could be wrong. But then Divya smiled, and said in an excited whisper, “You have been nominated for the Global Changemakers Award!”
It took Ami a moment to register the information she’d just heard. The Global Changemakers Award was the most coveted accolade in the entrepreneurial world. It recognized leaders of innovative companies who have had a lasting impact on society. Founded by men in Silicon Valley in 1992, it was created after British inventor Tim Berners-Lee launched the first website in Switzerland and introduced the World Wide Web. Silicon Valley was loathe to be overshadowed by Europeans, so they created their own tribute. Despite having “global” in the title, it had mostly been given to men who looked a lot like the Award’s founders, and it had never been given to someone like Ami.
She glanced around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I didn’t apply for anything.”
Divya looked like she was about to hug her, but then refrained as if she’d remembered that Ami didn’t like to be touched. “There’s no application. The industry has recognized your achievements. You were among the first to bring to the Western market an inclusive natural skin care line for people who aren’t white, and people are finally starting to pay attention to what we are doing. I know you grew up in Asia where it was normal to have the right products for your skin, but trust me, growing up in the US, that wasn’t the case. Amala has helped so many people who are often excluded, and this nomination shows how impactful that work has been.” Divya beamed at her.
“They can recognize Amala, but there’s no need to make it about me.”
Divya looked exasperated. “Why aren’t you more excited about this? I never thought we’d see someone like us in the running for something like this. You’d be the first woman and Indian to win the Global Changemakers Award. Think of what it would do for girls who look like us. Actually, you’d be the first ever non-white person to win, so it’s even bigger than just our community.”
Divya was right that the nomination was groundbreaking, but Ami feared it would be earth-shattering for her. An award at this scale also meant media attention that she could not control. It meant people would start digging into her past. She had worked too hard to get to where she was and was on the brink of saving Amala and putting out the dermatitis line that she knew would help so many people who had suffered the way she had as a child. If people learned the truth, she would be stripped of everything, and she could not let that happen.
In a low voice, Ami said, “I don’t know if this kind of attention is really a good thing. We have so much to worry about already with the merger.”
“This could be exactly what we need. If you win, it could force Propelle to keep you on. The timing couldn’t be more perfect to have all eyes on you.”
Ami felt like her airways were constricting and her breathing grew shallow and ragged. “I don’t want all eyes on me.”
“I know you don’t like the spotlight,” Divya said gently. “Although, I’m not sure why, because if I’d accomplished as much as you have, then I’d be screaming it from the rooftops. But that being said, this is a good thing. This kind of visibility could help you keep Amala exactly as you want post-merger. We need to make the most of this opportunity.”
Ami glanced at their supporters enjoying the lavish party hosted by Amala. It was a sea of mostly melanin-rich faces. People who were so loyal to what she had built, because every day they were able to use products that they knew were designed for them. People that she wanted to continue serving long into the future, because she knew what it felt like to be unseen. She couldn’t guarantee Walter Johnson would do that. If anything, she could guarantee that he wouldn’t.
Ami clasped her hands tightly at her waist. “This isn’t the time for us to shift focus. We are so close to a merger and launching the Releaf line.”
“Exactly.” Divya’s eyes shone. “The winner will be announced two weeks before we are scheduled to close with Propelle. We can use the media attention to our advantage. How would Walter Johnson publicly explain why he is ousting a very capable CEO who is up for one of the most coveted awards of the year, let alone booting you after you win it?”
Ami tensed at the mention of press. She’d done everything she could to avoid the spotlight thus far even though everyone wanted to know “her story.” But she’d strategically made the mystery around her part of the allure of the brand. She only did written interviews so she could carefully tailor her answers and ensure her story was always consistent. But she didn’t do in-person interviews. Ever.
“The only way to secure Amala’s future is to close the deal with Propelle, and we need to be fully committed to that,” Ami said.
The upbeat music blaring from the speakers became deafening. A flash of light temporarily made her see spots, and she realized that she’d been so invested in their conversation that she hadn’t seen the photographer approach in time to hide her face.
“Please delete that,” Ami said brusquely.
The smile washed off the photographer’s face and he began to take small steps backward as he fumbled with his camera.
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t gotten a picture of the woman of the hour.”
Ami forced herself to neutralize her tone. “This event is in honor of our clients, so please focus on them. And delete that photo. I don’t ever want to see it published.”
He nodded and scampered away.
“That poor kid. Was one photo really going to kill you?” Divya asked.
Ami certainly hoped not.
Divya continued, “You are going to have to get past being camera shy really soon. Your face is going to be everywhere once they announce the Global Changemakers nominees.”
Ami started to feel an all too familiar itch creeping up herneck and couldn’t stop her hand from reaching to touch the area. “This is not what’s best for the company.”
Divya crossed her arms and looked at Ami sternly. “I don’t think this is up to you. They pick who they pick. And even if it were, you’re not giving up this award without a fight. This is a big deal for everyone who looks like us, and I’m not letting you throw it away.”
Ami didn’t bother arguing with her now. They had bigger issues. Besides, CEO trumped COO, so the decision was ultimately hers. She didn’t like to play that card often, but she couldn’t let the media start poking and prodding into the life she had built without having it crumble around her. She needed to find a way to back out of this award.
