Lottie Weaver was doing what millions of people do every day: scrolling through TikTok, half-watching videos, letting the algorithm carry her along. Then an ad stopped her cold. It was from Aerie, the underwear and loungewear brand whose pajamas she genuinely loved. The company seemed to be having a massive sale, with normally expensive PJs marked down to just six dollars. It felt like a gift, a lucky find, a chance to get ahead on Christmas shopping without breaking the bank. So she bought forty dollars’ worth of discounted pajamas and, excited by the deal, shared the link with her 700,000 Instagram followers. Then she waited. A month passed. Nothing arrived at her home in Queen Creek, Arizona. When she checked her credit card, she realized what had happened: she hadn’t bought anything from Aerie at all. She had been tricked by a scam ad that looked exactly like the real thing. Later that year, it happened again. A $400 Ralph Lauren Polo Bear sweater advertised for just $40 seemed too good to be true, and it was. It never arrived. When Weaver posted about her experience on TikTok, she was flooded with messages from strangers saying the same thing had happened to them. Not necessarily with Aerie, but with another familiar brand, another slick ad, another payment that vanished into thin air. She was not alone, and that was the scariest part.
The scheme itself is simple and devastatingly effective: ads impersonate well-known brands, send shoppers to professional-looking websites, collect payment information, and then disappear without ever delivering a single item. Until recently, running scams like these was enough to get an advertiser permanently banned from TikTok. But according to internal documents and multiple insiders, the platform quietly changed its rules last fall. Executives slashed the number of violations that could lead to an immediate advertiser ban from 37 down to just 13. Running so-called “non-delivery” scams, the exact kind that fooled Lottie Weaver, was no longer considered severe enough to merit suspension. Neither was selling weapons, promoting sketchy financial investments, peddling weight-loss miracle products, advertising fake GLP-1 drugs, or sharing pro-eating-disorder material. The policy shift was so broad and so sudden that staff members charged with keeping harmful content off the app found themselves hamstrung. Internal data soon showed a massive spike in fraudulent content and forbidden sexual content, including prostitution and explicit imagery. More than 100,000 new advertisers per day that previously would have been banned were now allowed to remain. Moderators could still take action if users reported financial fraud like investment scams, but non-delivery scams were no longer covered by the company’s anti-fraud policies. One insider described the helplessness of watching people get scammed in real time, unable to intervene. The only fast route to enforcement was brand impersonation: if a fake account was clearly masquerading as a major company, there was a basis to act. But enforcement appeared lax, and many fraudulent ads were left up long enough to do real damage.
When asked about the changes, TikTok 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 rules were relaxed or how much money the company makes from scam ads. The policy changes came at a politically delicate moment, as TikTok was navigating intense scrutiny in Washington and negotiating a deal with the Trump administration to create a U.S. joint venture meant to safeguard American user data. ByteDance, TikTok’s parent company, remains responsible for the platform’s commercial operations, including advertising. Multiple sources said the more permissive approach was understood internally as a revenue grab. Executives argued that the older, stricter policies were sweeping up too many legitimate advertisers and hurting growth. But the newly implemented changes opened the floodgates to a surge of garbage, fraud, and outright scams, which naturally meant an increase in ad spending. In the first half of 2026, ByteDance reportedly brought in $120 billion in revenue, a 30 percent increase from the year before. Advertising is its core business, and no one could say exactly how much of that money came from fraudsters. One source said it was clear the company wanted the revenue and did not want to take down content because they were making money from it. When an employee raised concerns about the surge in fraudulent content, they were reportedly told to focus instead on opening new markets. Weight-loss drugs, peptides, counterfeit goods, and gambling were described as major opportunities. The message was blunt: stop raising concerns and focus on unlocking new revenue.
The impact of this policy shift is not theoretical. Singapore, where TikTok CEO Shou Zi Chew is based, flagged an increase in fraud and scams directly to the company. According to two sources, TikTok paid to refund at least one Singaporean victim who had been scammed by advertisers on the app. In August, the Singapore Police Force issued new regulatory guidelines requiring social media platforms to prevent and promptly remove ads suspected of furthering scams and to verify advertisers’ identities. This month, Singaporean police also warned citizens about phishing scams involving fake e-commerce stores on social media, saying they had received 246 reports since July with losses of at least $1.1 million. A review of TikTok’s ad library, a searchable index of advertisements running in Europe, reveals dozens of examples that look very likely to be non-delivery scams: a $165 Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater offered for just $2.14, a professional barber kit that sells for $250 on Amazon marked down to $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 supposed discounts are so extreme, individual purchases tend to be small, but the scale is enormous. The Consumer Federation of America estimated that Americans lost $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 filed complaints in this category, losing a collective $500 million. On TikTok, there is almost no friction for advertisers. Ads run immediately, whether the company is legitimate, a convicted felon, or a fake storefront pointing to an empty website. Paul DelPonte, executive director of the National Crime Prevention Council, said the platform owes it to users to ensure that the ads it profits from are at least run by legitimate enterprises. TikTok told the NCPC it took down fake Aerie ads flagged in late October 2025, but 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.
The true scale of the problem is likely far larger than any single report. 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 that impersonated brands like Nike and pushed a non-delivery scam. Forbes analyzed more than 5,500 anonymous complaints about TikTok scams posted to the Better Business Bureau’s website in the six months before and after the policy change. All scam reports on the BBB website increased by 59 percent during that time. But scam reports that mentioned TikTok surged 142 percent. Reports that specifically detailed a non-delivery scam spiked by more than 200 percent, more than triple. Thousands of people described 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 request for comment. Multiple insiders said TikTok’s automated review system may remove individual ads, but it does little to stop repeat offenders because the platform lacks an escalating advertiser-violation system. Even when staff strongly suspect an ad is a scam, they often cannot prove it to the standard required, so they let it live. One source said that if TikTok had strict, tight policies and well-trained human moderators, the problem would not happen. But instead of investing in those safeguards, TikTok has 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. The message from leadership is clear: enforcement is secondary to growth.
Almost a full year after Lottie Weaver was scammed twice on TikTok, she saw 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 so many others do not. The ad may look harmless, a tiny rectangle in an endless feed, but it represents a system that has chosen profit over protection. The people who fall for these scams are not naive or careless; they are ordinary people looking for a good deal, trying to save a little money, hoping to make the holidays special. They trust the platform they spend hours on every day, and that trust is being exploited. TikTok’s policy changes were not an accident or a technical glitch. They were a deliberate decision to loosen the rules, weaken enforcement, and let dangerous content run in exchange for ad revenue. Regulators are beginning to notice, and victims are speaking up, but the damage is already done. The human cost is measured in lost savings, empty Christmas mornings, and the quiet shame of realizing you have been tricked. And until the platform decides that protecting its users is more important than unlocking new markets, the ads will keep coming, and the scammers will keep winning. Lottie Weaver got lucky in the end, not because she recovered her money, but because she learned to stop believing what she saw. Everyone else is still scrolling, still trusting, still one click away from being the next victim.
