Lottie Weaver was doing what millions of people do every day: scrolling through TikTok, looking for a little escape, when an advertisement stopped her cold. It was Aerie, the underwear and loungewear brand she genuinely loved. The pajamas she normally saw priced at upwards of $80 were marked down to just $6. It seemed too good to be true, but in the moment, it felt like a stroke of luck. Weaver, a 32-year-old content creator with millions of followers across TikTok and Instagram, decided to get a head start on her Christmas shopping. She bought $40 worth of discounted pajamas, feeling clever and excited. She was so thrilled by the deal that she reposted the link to her 700,000 Instagram followers, wanting to share the savings. Then she waited. A month passed. No packages arrived at her home in Queen Creek, Arizona. When she finally checked her credit card statement, the truth hit her: she had never bought anything from Aerie at all. The money had gone to a scammer who had stolen Aerie’s name and look to build a fake storefront. Later that year, she fell for another TikTok ad—a $400 Ralph Lauren “Polo Bear” sweater for just $40. That, too, never arrived. When she shared her story, the response was overwhelming. “Everyone was like, ‘That happened to me!’” she said. “Or it wasn’t Aerie, but it was another brand. They’re going around scamming all kinds of people.”
The scheme itself is brutally simple. Fraudsters create advertisements that impersonate beloved brands, route shoppers to slick, convincing external websites, take their money, and disappear without ever sending a product. For years, running scams like this on TikTok was enough to get an advertiser permanently banned. But that changed last fall, around the time Weaver was duped. According to four TikTok insiders and internal documents reviewed by Forbes, the Chinese-run social media giant quietly gutted the rules used to police advertisers. Executives slashed the number of violations that could trigger an immediate advertiser ban from 37 down to just 13. Running so-called “non-delivery” scams—the exact kind Weaver fell for—was no longer considered severe enough to merit suspension. Neither was selling weapons, sketchy financial investments, weight-loss miracle products, fake GLP-1 drugs, or pro-eating disorder material. The documents revealed a vast relaxing of policies that had long protected consumers from fraud and harm. The change left TikTok staffers tasked with keeping harmful content off the platform feeling hamstrung. Soon after, internal data showed a massive spike in fraudulent and forbidden sexual content, including prostitution and explicit imagery. Upwards of 100,000 new advertisers a day that previously would have been immediately banned were instead allowed to remain. Moderators could still take action if users reported financial fraud like pig butchering or investment scams, but non-delivery scams were no longer included in the company’s anti-fraud policies. “We can’t do anything about it. We have to idly sit by and continue to watch people get scammed and get their money stolen,” one insider said. The fastest enforcement tool left was brand impersonation—if a bogus account was clearly masquerading as a major company, there was a basis to act. But enforcement appeared lax, and advertisers were only removed if they violated one of the few remaining zero-tolerance policies, like child sexual abuse material, terrorism, or narcotics.
TikTok denies any wrongdoing. Spokesperson Jessica Casano-Antonellis said the company strictly prohibits fraudulent and deceptive advertising and has continuously strengthened its policies and enforcement systems. But she did not answer detailed questions about why the policies were changed or how much money TikTok makes from scam ads. The policy relaxation came at a turbulent time. TikTok was navigating intense U.S. scrutiny and a deal with the Trump administration, which created a U.S. joint venture meant to safeguard American user data and content. ByteDance, TikTok’s parent company, remained responsible for commercial operations, including advertising. Among staff, the more permissive approach was widely understood as a revenue grab. Internally, executives argued that older, stricter policies were sweeping up too many legitimate advertisers. But the newly implemented changes opened the floodgates to a surge of garbage and scams. And with more fraudulent ads came more ad spend. In the first half of 2026, ByteDance reportedly earned $120 billion in revenue, a roughly 30% increase year-over-year; in 2025, it made about $200 billion total. Advertising is its core business. It remains unclear exactly how much of that money came from fraudsters, but insiders say the motivation was obvious. “It was very clear that it was revenue,” one source said. “We could not take it down because they want to make money off of it.” When one TikTok employee alerted executives to the surge in fraudulent content, they were told to focus instead on opening new markets. Weight-loss drugs, peptides, counterfeit goods, and gambling were considered major opportunities. “They just say, stop raising your concerns and focus on unlocking new revenue,” the source said.
The consequences have stretched far beyond individual disappointment. Singapore, where TikTok CEO Shou Zi Chew is based, flagged an increase in fraud and scams directly to the company. According to two sources familiar with the situation, TikTok itself paid to directly refund at least one Singaporean victim who had been scammed by advertisers on the app. TikTok did not answer questions about its policies for refunding people who are scammed. In August, the Singapore Police Force issued new regulatory guidelines requiring social media sites to prevent and promptly remove ads suspected of furthering scams and to verify advertisers’ identities. The rules take effect by the end of January 2027. This month, Singaporean police also warned citizens about phishing scams involving fake e-commerce stores across social media, including TikTok. They reported 246 complaints since July, with at least $1.1 million in losses. A review of TikTok’s ad library, a searchable index of advertisements running in Europe, reveals multiple examples of ads that look very likely to lead to non-delivery scams. One offered a $165 Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater for just $2.14. Another advertised a professional barber kit that costs $250 on Amazon for just $37.15. Both ads were run by agencies based in Hong Kong. As of publication, the Ralph Lauren ad was still running. The barber kit ad had been removed for “suspicious or unusual activity,” and the advertiser had disappeared. Because the discounts are so dramatic, individual purchases tend to be small. But the scale at which these scams operate means huge profits. The nonprofit Consumer Federation of America estimated that Americans lost a total of $5.6 billion to non-delivery and non-payment scams across the internet in 2024. The FBI reported that in 2025, more than 56,000 people submitted complaints related to this category of scam, losing a collective $500 million—making it the third most common cyber-enabled crime that year.
For advertisers, there is very little friction on social media sites like TikTok. “Ads run immediately. It doesn’t matter if you’re a legit company, a convicted felon, or if the website you’re pointing people to is real,” said Paul DelPonte, executive director of the National Crime Prevention Council. TikTok told the NCPC it took down the fake Aerie ads the nonprofit had flagged in late October 2025, according to emails seen by Forbes. Still, between November and February 2026, more than 30 people reported to the Better Business Bureau that they had bought from a fake Aerie site after seeing it on TikTok. Scams using fake e-commerce websites to dupe victims who pay for goods that never arrive are among the most prevalent on the platform, multiple insiders said. Internal data viewed by Forbes showed that after the policy change, more than 20,000 American users reported just one network of Asia-based advertising accounts pushing such a scam on TikTok, impersonating brands like Nike. The true scale is likely far larger. Forbes used a combination of AI, machine learning, and human review to analyze more than 5,500 anonymous, unverified complaints about TikTok scams posted to the Better Business Bureau’s website before and after the policy change at the beginning of November 2025. In the six months before and after the policy change, all scam reports on the BBB website increased by 59%. But reports that mentioned TikTok in any capacity surged 142%. Reports specifically detailing a non-delivery scam spiked by more than 200%—more than triple. Thousands of people reported buying heavily discounted products that never arrived, often from sellers impersonating brands like Aerie, Hey Dude, and Figs. Both Hey Dude and Figs said they were aware of the scams and encouraged customers to buy directly from their websites. Aerie did not respond to a comment request. TikTok’s automated review system may remove individual ads, but multiple sources said it does little to stop repeat offenders because the platform lacks an escalating advertiser-violation system. “Even though we know it’s a scam, if we don’t have proof enough to say it’s a scam, we let it live on the platform,” one source said. There are clear ways to address the problem, another source said: strict policies and well-trained human moderators. But TikTok has lately been downsizing teams focused on advertiser policy and response, including layoffs in Brazil and Texas, while reposting some roles in San Jose with Mandarin fluency requirements.
This week—almost a full year after she was first victimized—Lottie Weaver received yet another ad for what looked like deeply discounted athleisure on Aerie’s website, with leggings priced at just $2.99. This time, she knew better than to buy. But the fact that she has to know better is the problem. Every day, countless ordinary people see these ads and trust them, because they appear on a platform they love, next to videos from friends and creators they admire. They hand over their credit card numbers, their money, and their hope for a small moment of joy, only to be left with nothing. TikTok has profited from their pain, allowing known scam networks to operate with impunity while regulators scramble to catch up. The company’s own staff have been silenced, told to stop raising concerns and focus on unlocking new revenue. Governments like Singapore are beginning to act, but the rules will not fully take effect until 2027, leaving more people vulnerable in the meantime. Lottie Weaver was lucky in one sense: she is a public figure with a large following, and her story has been heard. Most victims suffer in silence, embarrassed and uncertain, never getting their money back. The burden of safety should not fall on the shoulders of individual users. It should fall on the platforms that run the ads, collect the revenue, and know exactly what is happening. Until TikTok and other social media companies are held accountable for the scams they enable, the fake Aerie ads will keep coming, and so will the victims—one excited shopper at a time.
