Anna Delvey said she was an heiress. She wore Céline, tipped $100 like spare change, and dropped names like trust-fund confetti. She floated through Manhattan’s inner circles with a borrowed accent and the kind of confidence that made people stop asking questions. Gallery owners, hotel managers, venture capitalists—everyone wanted a piece of her promised art foundation, her exclusive club, her grand vision. But none of it was real! This is how one dangerously imaginative and totally unrestrained woman fooled New York’s elite—and why, to this day, she insists she did nothing wrong.
A Hundred-Dollar Hello
In Manhattan, where cash is both king and camouflage, it all started with a hundred-dollar bill. At the concierge desk of 11 Howard, a minimalist-chic hotel in Soho, Neff Davis watched the tip slide across the counter.
She looked up and saw a redhead around her own age, wearing oversized Céline glasses and speaking with a vaguely European accent. “Where can I find the best food around here?” the guest asked.
Neff rattled off local staples—Carbone, Mercer Kitchen—but the woman brushed them aside and chose the Butcher’s Daughter. “What’s your name?” Neff asked. “Anna Delvey,” she replied.
The Guest Who Stayed
Anna mentioned she’d be staying for a month—an unusual length even for celebrities. Curious, Neff checked the booking. Sure enough, a Howard Deluxe room, around $400 per night, was reserved for weeks.
“Thanks,” Anna said breezily. “See you around.” She wasn’t joking. She kept showing up over the next few weeks—always with another $100, always ready to talk.
But Neff soon realized Anna wasn’t looking for food recommendations. She already knew the scene. It wasn’t help she wanted—it was attention.
A Different Kind of Guest
Neff had seen her share of eccentric hotel guests. But Anna didn’t come across as troubled or needy—just persistently present.
She skipped the usual niceties—no “please,” no “thank you”—and sometimes her comments were jarring. According to Neff, she once turned to a coworker and asked, “What are you bitches, broke?” But to Neff, it felt more like ignorance than insult.
It dawned on her: Anna wasn’t asking for concierge services. She was buying companionship—and she was paying in hundred-dollar increments.
Making 11 Howard Her Stage
Anna’s presence transformed her into a hotel celebrity. Draped in sheer designer leggings or sometimes just a hotel robe, she strolled the halls like she owned them.
“People would rush to carry her deliveries,” Neff remembered. The reason? “You knew a tip was coming—always a hundred.”
Anna commanded attention the way pop stars do. Neff laughed, comparing her to Rihanna casually strolling off with a wineglass, unbothered and untouchable. “Only this time, it was Anna—and no one stopped her.”
From Concierge to Confidante
As Anna’s routines became more theatrical, her needs grew, too. She talked about launching an elite arts club, and soon Neff found herself planning her meetings and managing her restaurant reservations.
“If the front desk was swamped, she’d quietly count out bills until I looked up,” Neff said. “There’d be a line of guests, and she’d just wait—stacking cash.”
Neff accepted the money. But it wasn’t just about tips anymore. “She felt like a real friend,” Neff admitted. “Maybe a selfish one—but still a friend.”
The Magnetism of Manhattan Money
In New York, cash isn’t just a currency—it’s a force of nature. It pulls people in, breaks barriers, and makes inconvenient questions disappear. Neff wasn’t immune.
No matter how unusual Anna’s behavior became, the money kept flowing. Sometimes there were conditions, sometimes not—but the bills always arrived.
It was easy to look past oddities when the rewards were immediate. In a city where even time has a price tag, Anna understood the exchange better than most.
Lavish Without Limits
Anna’s generosity wasn’t just occasional—it was compulsive. She tipped Uber drivers like royalty, treated restaurant staff like confidantes, and spared no expense.
Her room brimmed with luxury bags from Supreme and Acne Studios. In between “meetings,” she whisked Neff to cryotherapy and pastel-pink manicures, all paid in cash.
Once, she invited Neff to a session with her personal trainer-slash-guru, a woman who trained Hollywood’s elite. Afterward, Anna purchased a package worth $4,500 without hesitation. Not a blink.
The Boyfriend Ultimatum
As Anna and Neff’s bond deepened, their outside relationships grew strained. Neff’s boyfriend didn’t understand the connection, and Anna didn’t understand the boyfriend.
“Dump him,” Anna advised bluntly. “I’ll finance your movie,” she added, as if offering gum. Her confidence was casual—like this was just what rich friends did.
Eventually, Neff did end the relationship, not solely because of Anna, but her influence lingered. When someone flashes wealth and support so easily, dreams feel closer, and doubt feels distant.
Famous Faces at Dinner
Anna didn’t just dine out—she held court. Le Coucou became her clubhouse, its tables dotted with artists, CEOs, and occasionally, celebrities.
One night, Neff found herself seated beside her childhood idol, Macaulay Culkin. “It was surreal,” she remembered. “I had a thousand questions—but they were all just chatting, like old friends.”
Tommy Saleh, a nightlife insider who met Anna years prior, wasn’t surprised. “She showed up everywhere that mattered,” he said. She didn’t just infiltrate the scene—she became it.
Where Did She Come From?
As Anna’s aura grew, so did speculation. Her accent floated somewhere in Europe. Her stories? Even foggier.
One day, her father ran a solar company. Next, he was a Russian diplomat or an antiques mogul in Germany. Her outfits screamed high fashion—Balenciaga one week, Alaïa the next.
“She once told someone she flew in on a private jet,” a friend recalled. But the magic wasn’t in the details—it was in how confidently she delivered them. Truth was beside the point.
A Stylish Scam in Venice
Art collector Michael Xufu Huang met Anna just as effortlessly as everyone else did—charm first, logistics second. She suggested they attend the Venice Biennale together.
There was one catch: Anna needed him to cover the trip. Flights and hotel went on his card. She’d pay him back, of course.
At first, it all seemed legit. She used cash the whole time and fit in easily. But after they returned to New York, repayment never came, and Michael quietly moved on.
Rich, But Strangely Resourceful
Despite her supposed wealth, Anna’s requests began to raise eyebrows. She’d ask friends to cover taxi fares, crash on couches, or float rent “just temporarily.”
She wasn’t the first eccentric in New York with mysterious money, but her behavior strayed from typical elite norms. It wasn’t just unconventional—it was sloppy.
Still, many gave her the benefit of the doubt. “She probably just loses track,” one friend suggested. In a world obsessed with perception, the illusion still held.
The Party That Broke the Spell
Anna’s birthday bash at Sadelle’s had all the gloss of upper-crust success: trendy guests, professional PR, curated chaos. Instagram lit up with filtered evidence.
But then the restaurant called Michael. “Do you have a way to reach her?” they asked. She hadn’t paid.
It was a jarring moment. All the cash, all the flair—and no credit card on file. “That’s when I realized,” Michael said, “this wasn’t just flakiness. Something wasn’t right.”
Hints of a Hollow Empire
Rumors started swirling. Was Anna a German heiress or just another social chameleon? Her backstory morphed with every retelling.
She had a boyfriend once—a TED Talk–type futurist. For two years, they lived like nomads with an itinerary of hotel lobbies, start-up parties, and vague ambition.
“He was always pitching some app,” a friend recalled. “She was talking about this arts club.” Then he vanished to the UAE. She stayed behind, with an empire to build.
Introducing the ADF
The Anna Delvey Foundation—ADF—was her crown jewel. A hybrid of Soho House and contemporary art utopia, it promised exclusivity, culture, and global expansion.
“I’m not sure about the name,” she told a branding consultant. “Maybe it’s too self-referential?” But the modesty was brief. She marketed the concept like a seasoned founder.
Her first venue choice fell through—she claimed there were liquor license issues. But instead of retreating, Anna doubled down and aimed for a more iconic space uptown.
The Dream Gets Bigger
Anna set her sights on 281 Park Avenue South, a building with six floors of Gilded Age architecture and high-end potential. Aby Rosen, who also happened to own 11 Howard, owned the building.
She dropped names easily: architect Ron Castellano, Gabriel Calatrava from the famous design family. She said they were helping bring her vision to life.
It wasn’t just a club anymore. It was an empire-in-waiting, complete with exhibitions by Jeff Koons, Damien Hirst, and a German bakery. “Christo’s going to wrap the building,” she added casually.
A Price Tag for the Illusion
Big plans require big money. Anna claimed she had secured $25 million and just needed another $25 million to get things off the ground.
At first, she considered outside investors, but changed her mind. “They’ll just question me,” she told one contact. “They’ll say I’m too young.”
So she chose a bolder narrative: she would fund the project herself. Independence, she believed, was more convincing than transparency. And confidence, in Anna’s world, was always enough.
The Legal Muscle
To make ADF happen, Anna contacted Joel Cohen, a former prosecutor known for convicting Wall Street sharks. Through him, she was introduced to real estate lawyer Andy Lance.
Unlike others, Andy didn’t talk down to her. “He explained things in a way that wasn’t condescending,” she said. “We talked every day.”
With his help, Anna opened doors at banks like City National and Fortress Investment Group. Her pitch was slick: a visionary cultural hub, backed by offshore assets.
Fake Accounts, Real Doubts
To prove her finances, Anna presented figures from a UBS account in Switzerland—allegedly holding millions. But when asked for statements, she redirected the request to “Peter Hennecke.”
Peter responded using an AOL address. “These numbers are for projection purposes,” he wrote. “Physical documents will follow.” When asked if he worked for UBS, the answer was simple.
“No,” Anna clarified. “He’s head of my family office.” It sounded official—until someone paused long enough to question the logic.
From Art Stars to Finance Bros
As ADF inched forward, Anna’s dinner guest list evolved. The influencers and artists left. Sharp suits, Rolexes, and Goyard briefcases came in.
Neff noticed one especially infamous attendee: Martin Shkreli. “She introduced him like an old friend,” Neff said. But Shkreli later admitted they’d only just met.
Even he felt upstaged. “I’m a nationally known figure,” he later wrote from prison. “But standing next to Anna, I felt like the tech nerd at prom.”
Cracks in the Fantasy
One evening, Neff casually mentioned Anna’s ambitious real estate plans to Charlie Rosen, son of Aby Rosen, the building’s owner. His reaction was swift and skeptical.
“If she’s really negotiating with my dad,” he asked, “why is she staying in a Deluxe room instead of a suite?”
Neff eventually brought the question to Anna. Her reply was characteristically cryptic. “Sometimes, you owe someone so much, the best thing you can do is pay them back silently.” Poetic—but also evasive.
Rosé and Shrinking Circles
By April, Anna’s once-buzzing social life had thinned. Her trusted circle now included just a few: Neff, Rachel Williams, and her ever-present personal trainer.
When Neff asked about her old crowd, Anna waved it off. “They’re mad I left Purple,” she said, referencing her internship at the fashion magazine.
Publicly, she still played the role of a busy visionary. Privately, rosé-filled rooftop evenings replaced the gallery openings and glittering dinners. Fewer people were watching, but she stayed in character.
The First True Red Flag
The illusions began to fray at Sant Ambroeus, an upscale SoHo spot Anna loved. She invited Neff for dinner. But when the check arrived, none of Anna’s cards worked.
Instead of a new card, Anna offered the waiter a handwritten list of numbers. He tried each one. Nothing.
Neff, sweating, paid the $286 bill herself. It was a small price compared to Anna’s previous generosity, but it felt like a moment of reckoning.
Champagne and Damage Control
The next day, Anna showed up with cash, triple the amount Neff had paid. Then, a case of 1975 Dom Pérignon arrived at 11 Howard, a gift for the staff.
Hotel management wasn’t impressed. “How can we accept champagne,” they asked, “from someone who hasn’t paid her bill?”
Anna seemed shaken. At her next session with her trainer, she broke down. “They don’t take me seriously,” she said. “The money is coming. I just need more time.”
The Miracle Transfer
Shortly after, the wire did arrive. $30,000 from Citibank. Just enough to cover her mounting charges at 11 Howard and restore some confidence.
Neff called to check in. “Where are you?” she asked. “Rick Owens,” Anna replied. Neff found her holding up a bright red T-shirt.
“It’s perfect for you,” Anna beamed. The color matched Neff’s FilmColours branding. The price? $400. Anna offered to buy it—proof, once again, that the show wasn’t over.
Destination: Warren Buffett
Fresh off the wire transfer win, Anna announced her next high-profile move: “I’m going to Omaha. To see Warren Buffett.”
She claimed her banker got her into Berkshire Hathaway’s exclusive investor conference. A private jet was already booked. Joining her? A hedge fund executive she described as “fun.”
Back at 11 Howard, however, patience had run out. The hotel still had no working credit card on file. Management changed the lock code and packed up her belongings.
A Zoo, a Billionaire, and a Door Locked Shut
From Nebraska, Anna texted Neff with indignation. “How could they do that?” she asked. But her frustration quickly shifted to excitement.
While exploring the Omaha Zoo, she and her group stumbled upon a private dinner hosted by Warren Buffett himself. “Everyone was there,” she gushed. “Even Bill Gates.”
They allegedly mingled with the VIPs before slipping away unnoticed. It was Anna’s life in a nutshell—just convincing enough to believe, just unbelievable enough to question.
Digital Revenge and a Moroccan Escape
Back in New York, Anna wasn’t defeated—she was furious. Her plan? To buy up domain names tied to the hotel managers. “They’ll regret crossing me,” she told Neff.
Her next move was grander: Morocco. She booked a $7,000-per-night villa at the opulent La Mamounia resort and invited Neff, Rachel Williams, her trainer, and a videographer.
It would be part vacation, part business retreat, part documentary. “Quit your job,” Anna said lightly when Neff hesitated. “Come with us. We’ll film everything.”
The Trip of a Lifetime—Almost
Neff was tempted. But her mother’s warning rang louder: “Nothing in life is free.” So Neff stayed behind, watching the Moroccan adventure unfold on Instagram.
Gorgeous riads, poolside lounging, morning massages—everything looked picture-perfect. Until it wasn’t.
The trainer got violently ill and left early. Soon after, she received a panicked call from Anna. She was alone in Casablanca. Her credit cards weren’t working. The hotel warned that they were going to call the police.
A Hotel, a Breakdown, a Favor Too Far
Desperate, Anna begged the trainer for help. The trainer tried her own card—it failed. Then she called a friend to offer theirs—still nothing. Finally, the hotel relented.
Relieved but exhausted, the trainer arranged a flight for Anna to return to New York. Anna accepted, then made one last request.
“Can you book me first class?”
A Glamorous Goodbye
Back in Manhattan, a silver Tesla glided to a stop in front of 11 Howard. Neff’s phone buzzed. “Look out the window,” the message said.
There was Anna, standing like nothing had happened. “I’m here to get my stuff,” she said with a calm smile. She claimed she was moving to the Beekman Hotel.
The Tesla felt too extravagant to be hers. But that was Anna’s genius—she never needed to own the luxury, only to wear it convincingly for a moment.
Peter’s Sudden Disappearance
Soon, another thread unraveled. Marc Kremers, the branding consultant Anna had hired, had been waiting almost a year for payment.
Emails to her financial contact, Peter Hennecke, began bouncing. In an abrupt email, Anna claimed, “Peter passed away last month. Please don’t contact him again.”
No apology. No explanation. At the Beekman, her story played out in similar fashion. No card on file, no successful wire transfer. After 20 days, she was locked out again.
Wandering the Concrete Jungle
Wearing faded Alexander Wang, Anna drifted through the city she once conquered. One night, she called her trainer from outside her building.
“I’m near your place,” she said. “Can we talk?” The trainer, mid-date, let her come in. Anna’s tone was desperate. “I don’t want to be alone. I might do something.”
She chugged Pellegrino straight from the bottle and curled up on the couch. As she slept, something shifted. The trainer’s compassion turned to deep suspicion.
Truth from Morocco
While Anna slept, the trainer texted Rachel. The Morocco trip, it turned out, had ended in chaos. After the trainer left, Anna’s card was rejected at La Mamounia.
Two men arrived at the door. Rachel panicked and paid the $62,000 balance with her corporate Amex—a year’s salary, gone in seconds.
Anna promised to pay it back. A month later, Rachel received just $5,000. What followed were bizarre excuses, stalled replies, and an ever-growing sense of betrayal.
The Laptop and the Lock-In
The next morning, the trainer offered Anna a clean dress and sent her off. But Anna left behind her laptop—one more thread she refused to tie off.
That evening, she returned, asking the doorman for access. He refused. Still, she didn’t leave. “She’s waiting in the lobby,” he told the trainer. “She won’t go.”
“I felt like a hostage in my own home,” the trainer later said. When Anna finally departed, it wasn’t closure—it was a warning.
Headlines and Handcuffs
Soon, the consequences caught up. The Beekman and W Hotel both filed complaints against Anna for unpaid bills. Then came the tabloid blitz.
WANNABE SOCIALITE BUSTED FOR SKIPPING OUT ON PRICEY HOTEL BILLS, the New York Post blared. The story included another incident—Anna walking out of Le Parker Meridien without settling her tab.
She protested to the police. “Why are you making a big deal out of this? Just give me five minutes—I can get a friend to pay.” No one came.
A Last Attempt at Redemption
Anna called criminal defense lawyer Todd Spodek over and over until he agreed to meet her on a Saturday. “She sounded frantic,” he recalled.
She arrived looking polished, poised, and completely composed. Spodek was cautious. He had her sign a lien on all her assets, just in case.
Before leaving, Anna asked for something else. “Do you know somewhere I can stay?” Spodek declined. Bringing your work home was one thing—housing a client was another entirely.
The Intervention
Instead, Rachel and the trainer staged a final meeting at a nearby restaurant. They wanted answers: Why had she lied? What was real? Did she ever plan to repay them?
Anna deflected, cried, and offered vague assurances. “Once the lease is signed, I’ll pay everyone back,” she promised.
Rachel pulled out her phone. “The lease is gone,” she said, showing her a news headline. Fotografiska had secured the property. Anna’s reply was instant: “That’s fake news.”
Fraud in Plain Sight
Investigators were already peeling back the layers. The forged Swiss bank documents Anna submitted to City National and Fortress were just the beginning.
Fortress asked for $100,000 to begin due diligence. Anna convinced City National to wire the money, then sent it to Fortress—only to back out when they insisted on verifying her assets in person.
She rerouted the leftover funds to her Citibank account and went on a shopping spree. Money that was supposed to build an empire now buys shoes and skincare.
More Lies, More Flights
By April, Anna had deposited $160,000 in bad checks and managed to withdraw $70,000 before they bounced. That money paid off her hotel tab and funded a return to retail therapy.
In May, she booked a $35,000 private jet through Blade. She forged a wire confirmation and flashed a business card from Blade’s CEO, whom she’d met once.
Then came another forged wire for $8,200 from Signature Bank. It funded a “business trip” to California. That’s where law enforcement finally caught up with her.
Rikers, Reframed
Anna was arrested outside a luxury rehab facility in Malibu. She was extradited to New York and held without bail, facing charges of grand larceny and theft of services.
At Rikers Island, she quickly adapted. “I like L.A. in the winter,” she told a visitor. “New York in spring and fall. Europe in summer.”
According to Spodek, Anna stood out in Rikers—he reportedly called her “like a unicorn” among the usual crowd. While most inmates were there for violent crimes, Anna studied financial loopholes and plotted her next act. Prison, to her, was research.
The Russian-German Reality
Anna Sorokin was born in 1991 in Russia and moved to Germany at age 16. Her father worked in logistics and later launched a heating-and-cooling business. The family lived modestly.
Classmates recalled that her German was never fluent. She briefly attended Central Saint Martins in London, then left and bounced between Berlin and Paris.
In Paris, she landed an internship at Purple magazine, where Anna Delvey was born. Her parents covered her expenses, believing in her ambition. The “trust fund”? They’d never heard of one.
Defiant, Still
Even behind bars, Anna showed little remorse. “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that,” she said of Rachel’s financial ruin. “But I can’t fix it from here.”
She fumed about not getting bail. “If they’re so sure I’m a fraud, give me bail and see if I pay it.”
She dismissed the media labels. “I wasn’t trying to be a socialite. Those dinners were business. I was building something real.” In her eyes, she hadn’t lied—just anticipated success a little early.
Turning Fraud Into Content
While Sorokin served her sentence, Netflix acquired the rights to her life story. Inventing Anna, created by Shonda Rhimes, was based on journalist Jessica Pressler’s article detailing Sorokin’s exploits.
Sorokin was paid approximately $320,000 for her life rights, most of which was seized under New York’s “Son of Sam” law to pay restitution and legal fees.
The series blurred fact and fiction, just as Sorokin had. “They’re not interviewing me for accuracy,” she told Insider. “They’re making entertainment.”
A Dream Deferred
Anna still clung to the idea of the Anna Delvey Foundation. “I had a great team. I was doing something bold,” she said. “So I messed up—but I also got a lot right.”
People kept asking: Why did so many believe her? She wasn’t particularly warm, stunning, or magnetic. And yet, doors opened.
Because in New York, showing wealth is more important than having it. Flash enough cash, even fake cash, and people will roll out the red carpet.
The Final Illusion
“Money?” Anna once mused. “There’s an unlimited amount of capital in the world. But only so many people are truly talented.”
Talent didn’t pay her bills. But it opened penthouse suites, filled rooms with celebrities, and landed her front-row seats to a world she never actually owned.
In the end, maybe the real con wasn’t the lies she told—but how many people were willing, eager even, to believe them.
Author’s Note:
The information presented in this article is based on publicly available sources and reporting, including “How Anna Delvey Tricked New York’s Party People” by Jessica Pressler originally published in The Cut.
