1 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?” 2 And I was a rat, scuttling through the filth of the gutter. Every drop of sweat, every ounce of effort I had ever put in, was now worthless. When I didn’t reply, Nathaniel made a show of it at his party, his face a mask of feigned concern. “Jayce hasn’t texted me back. Do you think he’s still mad at me?” Clarissa’s expression was unreadable. “If he doesn't want to come, forget him.” Nathaniel and I are fraternal twins. From the day we were born, he was better than me at everything. I used to wonder if my genes were defective. Compared to my ordinary existence, his life was like playing with cheat codes enabled. Our parents groomed him to be the heir. I was the invisible one, a role that, for a time, I was happy to play. The one area where I, the good-for-nothing son, had a flicker of talent was music. It was Clarissa who approached me first, back in my sophomore year of high school. I’d just won the campus singing competition, and as the student council president, she was the one to present my award. Under the spotlights, for the first time, I felt like I had finally stepped out of Nathaniel’s long shadow. I even found a sliver of confidence. As the heiress to Clarity Entertainment, she took a keen interest in me. We started spending more time together. I knew how Nathaniel looked at her, the undisguised adoration in his eyes. So, when he suddenly developed an interest in music—a passion he’d always sneered at—I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. Soon enough, they became the couple everyone on campus envied. After graduation, Clarissa sent me an official invitation to join Clarity Entertainment. That same year, Nathaniel abruptly rejected the gilded path my parents had paved for him and vanished. He spent the next six years abroad, alone. His disappearance threw our family into chaos. Even Clarissa, who was always so composed, was a mess, completely lost. When Nathaniel finally returned six years later, he had a Master’s degree from Berklee College of Music. A single, well-timed tear was all it took. Our relieved parents couldn’t bring themselves to say a single word of reproach. My fiancée, Clarissa, began to waver, her guilt over his absence twisting into something else. That one tear effortlessly stole everything I had. Now, Nathaniel was basking in the admiration of millions on every news headline, while I was holed up in a company-owned apartment, teaching myself to write songs. [They twist your words with malicious intent / They dismiss your struggle with a careless hand.] My official account, with its ten million followers, had long been banned. I started over, using my real name, Jayce, to upload my original work. Within half a day, every track was taken down, buried under a flood of malicious reports. The second year of Clarissa’s blacklist. I had no songs to sing, no shows to book. The company gave me zero resources. My manager and assistant were reassigned. The clauses in my contract were a cage, preventing me from even taking on small commercial gigs. My stage performances were reported and removed, my appearances in variety shows were blurred out. As a "disgraced artist," all my accounts were silenced. Even my burner account on TikTok was swarmed by haters until it was locked. Meanwhile, Nathaniel, with Clarissa clearing his path, won "Best New Artist" at the Vanguard Music Awards. The third year of Clarissa’s blacklist. Nathaniel competed on Soundwave, the country's top music reality show, and was crowned "King of Singers." And my five-year contract with Clarity Entertainment finally expired. I had no intention of renewing. My former manager, Anna, heard the news and rushed over to talk me out of it. “Clarissa’s on a business trip in Paris. Why don’t you wait for her to get back before you decide anything?” Of course, I knew she was in Paris. In the family group chat I had muted, Nathaniel, who was "on vacation," was posting daily photos of his romantic trip with her. Seeing my resolve, Anna’s voice grew anxious. “Jayce, I heard from the higher-ups… before Clarissa left, she told them to start prepping for your comeback next year. You’ve toughed it out for three years. Don't throw it all away now when we're so close, right?” 3 Clarity Entertainment was a titan in the industry, a behemoth of power, connections, and resources. It was the dream destination for countless musicians. But after three years of being crushed under its heel, how could I possibly stay? I continued to pack up my lyric sheets and compositions. Anna pleaded, “Jayce, you need to think this through. Once you leave Clarity, your stage name, your songs… they’re all gone. Are you really willing to give all that up?” My hands froze. It was a question I had asked myself a thousand times during a thousand sleepless nights. I didn’t even dare to hum the melodies of the songs I had sung millions of times during the day. If my fingers so much as brushed against the piano keys and the intro began to play, I would break down completely. The moment they became leverage to be used against me, they were no longer mine. I walked out the door and didn’t look back. Anna ran after me, her voice laced with desperation. “Jayce, if Clarissa doesn’t give the green light, who in this industry will dare to sign you?” I didn't turn around. There was nothing left there for me to look back on. That night, my phone vibrated. A message from Clarissa: [Have you made up your mind?] I didn’t reply. I became a blur of motion, a frantic spinning top whipping itself into exhaustion, running from one meeting to the next. I knew it would be hard. Even though three years had passed, no company in the country would risk signing an artist with my kind of baggage. Even without the active pressure from Clarity Entertainment, the hashtag #ZaynGetOutOfTheIndustry was still a permanent fixture on Twitter. “Zayn, you’re still singing?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans, but this market is all about fan engagement. We’re just not willing to take the risk.” “Jayce, we recognize your talent, but you have to understand, so many of our partners have ties to Clarity…” As I walked out of the last agency, the heavens opened up. A torrential downpour blurred the world in front of me. I opened my umbrella, a lone black boat adrift in a storm, swept along with the tide of commuters at a busy intersection. I knew starting over would be difficult. I just didn't realize it would be impossible. To scrounge up a gig, I drank glass after glass with a wealthy producer, enduring her cloying hands on my shoulder, her brazen lips on my cheek. I drank until I was heaving over a toilet, the bitter taste of bile burning my throat. “Don’t be an idiot. They’re just messing with you. Who would actually dare to use you now?” The producer’s assistant, her own makeup perfectly intact, glanced at my pathetic, slumped form in the mirror. I hung my head, my hair a tangled mess, the world a blurry wreck. I don’t know what’s been wrong with me these past few years. The tears are always there, right behind my eyes, ready to fall the second I look down. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the hot, stinging tears pooled and overflowed, tracing desperate paths down to the hopeless ground. The assistant, who I’d only just met, hesitated for a long moment before sighing, pinching her nose, and helping me to my feet. “You should go,” she muttered. “If you stay any longer, it won’t just be about drinking.” The next day, my name was a trending topic on Twitter. SHOCKING! Former Pop Star Zayn Sings for His Supper at Private Party to Fund Comeback! The video showed me standing before a crowd of drunk socialites, singing an a cappella version of my breakout hit, “Radiant Days,” at the producer's request. Everyone else’s face was blurred. Except for mine. I knew what these women were about, their cruel little games. I could even see the sickening desire in some of their eyes. But I still stood up and sang. What if this was a chance? I just hadn't expected that my leaving early would piss someone off enough to send the video to a gossip blog. “So Zayn has officially become a rich cougar’s plaything?” “Gotta say, though, his three-octave high notes are still unmatched.” “Hate to admit it, but the person above is right.” “Why is this jinx still trying to crawl back? Can’t he just stay buried with his dead career instead of coming out and disgusting everyone?” 4 “Once a homewrecker, always a homewrecker. He’ll do anything for fame.” When the tide of public opinion decides to drown someone, they see your very existence as a mistake. My father’s call was the first in three years. He didn't waste any time. “Jayce, are you determined to drag the Evans family name through the mud until you’re satisfied?” I hung up. I couldn't listen to any more of it. I drew the heavy curtains in my rented apartment, blocking out every ray of sunlight that dared to mock me, and buried myself completely under the covers. Five hours after the scandal broke, I got a call from Clarissa. “Jayce, you really know how to piss me off.” Her voice was devoid of any warmth, a blade of ice in the darkness. I heard a rumor that the ever-composed CEO of Clarity Entertainment had been in a foul mood during a financial report meeting today, her face an unprecedented mask of fury. In my room, the only source of light was the name on my screen: [Clarissa]. It was so bright it stung my eyes. “I’m asking you one last time. Are you coming back or not?” Her voice was the same as I remembered—cold, steady, and demanding nothing less than total submission. “Clarissa,” I asked, my voice raspy, “do you still think I was the one who drugged him?” My hand gripping the phone was white-knuckled. “Does it matter?” she countered. I bit my lip until I tasted blood. A profound sense of powerlessness washed over me. She was right. It didn’t matter. To her, nothing I did, nothing I was, mattered more than a single one of his tears. So my efforts, my explanations… none of it mattered. I ended the call, feeling as if I'd been plunged into an icy abyss. Only now did I realize the truth.
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