Part 1Headliner: Rich, Single, and Obsessed

I haven’t been very happy lately. The problem is, my favorite celebrity "little brother" totally crashed and burned.

Getting caught in a scandal is one thing, but lying to me when all the evidence was out there, just to get me to spend more money to bail him out? That was the last straw.

In a fit of rage, I dumped all my considerable resources, connections, and hype onto his biggest rival—some indie nobody in the same agency.

I didn't expect the kid to have so much fight in him. He exploded overnight. Superstar status.

Just as I was about to retire, happy with my revenge, and looking to sponsor some new young talent, he grabbed me.

"Haven't I performed well enough for you yet, Chloe? How about you stop being a fan and start being mine?"

* * *

I used to be obsessed with a rising star named Tyler.

He was the definition of the "golden retriever boyfriend" aesthetic. Sweet, innocent face.

To be honest, his actual talent—singing, acting—was mediocre at best. But he had a face that checked every single one of my boxes, and he knew exactly how to work me with that charming, vulnerable act.

Apart from making a ridiculous amount of money, I didn't have many hobbies. Sponsoring young idols was my stress relief.

When he dropped a new single, I dropped serious cash to game the Billboard charts for him.

When he couldn't land a brand deal, I personally spent fifty grand on a designer wardrobe just so he could look the part at high-profile events.

Late at night, he’d call me, sounding so sweet and pathetic, complaining about how hard it was being low on the Hollywood totem pole and how badly he was treated.

My heart would break for the kid. I’d use my connections, call in favors with producer friends, and get him gigs.

What I didn't expect was for my "investment" to grow up and get a secret girlfriend.

Fine. Whatever. They all do. But this girl was a complete clout-chaser. She posted a photo on Instagram, not just announcing the relationship, but claiming that I—his biggest sponsor—was trying to sexually harass her boyfriend.

Her proof? Highly curated, out-of-context screenshots of our texts.

Within an hour, it was the number one trending topic on Twitter.

Fortunately, netizens aren't entirely stupid.

The top comments were savage, just not toward me:

"Hold on, are these two serious? Looking at these texts, any idiot can see it’s just Tyler playing the 'woe is me' card to manipulate rich women into giving him free stuff."

"I've seen videos of him live. His talent is a total train wreck. Without this sponsor lady, he'd be waiting tables at Denny’s. If I had a sugar mommy this rich, I’d be on my knees thanking God every day."

Within ten minutes, the hashtag #JusticeForChloe was trending.

Damn it. As a self-made businesswoman, the thing I hate most is being pitied.

And this idiot just caused the entire internet to pity me into the spotlight.

The public was still eating it up, placing bets: "I bet $100 he’s currently typing up a manic, desperate apology text to her right now."

"$200 says agreed."

They were right.

My phone was currently blowing up with over a dozen missed calls, all from Tyler.

Then came the texts:

"Chloe, babe, I swear this is a huge misunderstanding. That girl is just a stalker. Those photos are photoshopped. They mean nothing."

"Chloe, please let me explain. You’re truly the only one I care about."

"Chloe, send me your location. I'm canceling everything to come see you right now."

Canceling everything.

I was the one who curated his schedule; I knew exactly how few gigs he actually had.

Eventually, I got bored of the notifications and just blocked his number.

I had sponsored Tyler for two years. I knew his real character better than anyone. He hadn't learned a single ounce of professional craft, but he had mastered the arts of lying and flirting with impressionable girls.

Initially, I would have lectured him.

Later, I stopped caring. He wasn't my son, so who gives a damn?

To me, he was just a disposable stress-relief toy that happened to look good.

While I was thinking, my phone buzzed again.

It was my producer friend.

"Hey, the marketing team at Peroni finally got back to us. The celebrity endorsement deal is on the table. How do you want to handle it? Do we still give the contract to your little boy toy?"

Give it to him?

For what? To help him promote the 'naive, innocent victim' brand in front of the public after he made me look like a fool?

I was annoyed. I was about to tell my friend to just apologize to the brand and cancel the pitch.

Suddenly, a digital ad popped up on my laptop for a high-end streetwear brand.

The male model looked vaguely familiar.

I realized he was with the same talent agency as Tyler—one of those indies with zero resources and terrible management.

I only knew about him because Tyler had bitched about him to me several times, calling him 'brooding' and 'uncooperative.'

Out of curiosity, I had looked him up a few times. His look wasn't my usual type—he wasn't the sweet 'golden retriever' kind—so I hadn't paid him much attention.

I thought about it. Tyler hated this guy.

"Don't give it to Tyler," I told my friend over the phone. "Peroni wants a model? I have someone else."

"Who?"

I switched to tabs on my computer, quickly Googling the kid's name again.

"Ethan. Ethan Reed."

"Who the hell is that?"

"Tyler’s rival at the agency."

My friend was silent for a few seconds before responding.

"Classic. That is so you."