Part 1If Love Is a Lie

The year my career hit its peak was the year my long-lost brother returned to the country.

To champion him, my own fiancée, Clarissa, didn’t hesitate to sever every lifeline to my career, diverting every project and every opportunity his way.

The day I was framed and subsequently canceled by the entire world, Clarissa stood by, allowing him to publicly announce their rekindled romance.

That first year of being blacklisted by Clarissa was the darkest of my life. I was 24, standing on the summit of a mountain I had climbed myself, only to be kicked into the abyss by my own brother, Nathaniel.

The world was convinced I was the one who had drugged him, causing his voice to fail him in the middle of the New Year’s Eve live broadcast. I can still see the panic on Clarissa’s face, the first crack I’d ever seen in her icy composure.

“You’d better pray to God he’s okay, Jayce!”

And just like that, the glory I had spent three years bleeding for was snatched away by her own hands.

My stage name, “Zayn,” was trademarked by her company. Without her permission, I couldn’t use it commercially. My songs, the ones I had poured my soul into, were seized by the label. Without her signature, I no longer had the right to sing them.

Even our five-year love story was now reframed for the world to see: I was nothing but a placeholder.

While I was being torn to shreds by an endless storm of online hate, Nathaniel posted from his hospital bed, the picture of innocence.

“Sorry to have worried everyone,” he wrote, looking frail and makeup-free. “The doctor says my voice will be fine after half a month of rest. Also, a little update for you all: we’re back together!”

In the photo, the famously private CEO, a woman who had never before appeared in a candid photo, was there by his side, her head bowed as she carefully peeled an apple for him.

That woman was my fiancée, Clarissa.

My parents rushed to the hospital the moment they heard the news. Over the phone, they refused to listen to a single word of my defense. My mother, blinded by rage, screamed at me, “Jayce, how could I have raised such a monster! If you have a shred of decency left, you’ll get over to that hospital and apologize to your brother!”

A paparazzo recorded the call and leaked it online.

Now, the world had its “irrefutable proof.” The villain who sabotaged Nathaniel’s New Year’s performance was me, his own brother, Zayn, supposedly terrified of being overshadowed on stage. The homewrecker who broke up Nathaniel and the Clarity Entertainment CEO six years ago was also me, his brother, the five-year stand-in.

“Having a brother like that, Nathaniel really drew the short straw.”

“I used to like Zayn, but I had no idea he was such a piece of shit.”

“He’s a snake who drugged his own brother and stole his girl. Why hasn't he been kicked out of the industry yet? Everyone, report him!”

I was defenseless. The desperate attempts of one man to prove his innocence were a flickering candle against the hurricane of manufactured outrage.

Every brand deal I had secured was terminated. Every endorsement I had signed now demanded I pay crippling penalties. Three years of earnings were wiped out in an instant, leaving me buried under a mountain of debt.

Perhaps she saw how truly pathetic my situation was, or perhaps she just wanted to cut ties cleanly and completely. In the end, it was Clarissa who stepped in and settled my remaining debts.

When Nathaniel found out, he wasn't angry. On the contrary, he was the picture of magnanimity. He handed Clarissa a bank card loaded with a hundred thousand dollars.

“It’s not much, but it’s a gesture,” he’d said, his words dripping with false sincerity. “Clarissa, please tell Jayce for me that I don’t hold a grudge. In fact, I’m grateful to him for bringing you back to me. That’s more important than anything.”

He even added, “And tell him to come home soon, after Mom and Dad have cooled off.”

The victor, standing alone on his pedestal, basking in the glow of our parents’ favoritism and his lover’s devotion.

And me? After years of swallowing my pain, I was still just a stray dog kicked to the curb.

A text message lit up my phone. It was from Nathaniel. He’s always been good at this—showing off his perfect life with a subtle, cutting grace.

[It’s a shame you can’t be here to share in my joy. Clarissa is throwing me a victory party. Care to come?]

His perfect life: the heir to a family fortune, the cherished love of a powerful CEO, the triumphant hero of his own story.

Even strangers on the street couldn’t help but sigh, “Nathaniel is living the dream, isn’t he?”