One Night Only

The Resentment

Warning: mentions of overdosing and suicidal thoughts.

Nothing can prepare you for screwing up this badly. After everything is said and done, when the world is quiet, and the atmosphere is tolerable, I still manage to ruin the moment with my relentless need to be in control.

I never thought it would come to this. Sitting alone in my dimly lit office, nursing a glass of whiskey that burns on the way down, I stare at the mess I've made. The Bratz—Cloe, Yasmin, Sasha, and Jade. They trusted me once. Maybe they even saw me as some kind of mentor. And what did I do? I sold them out.

I don't even know when it started, this downward spiral into bad decisions and greed. Was it when Burdine Maxwell started whispering in my ear, filling my head with promises? Or was it when the money got too good, and I stopped questioning where it was coming from?

Doesn't matter. The point is, I crossed lines that can't be uncrossed.

I told myself it was just business. The industry is cutthroat, and if you're not the one swinging the axe, you're the one getting chopped down. But that's not an excuse. Those girls—hell, they were kids—had something real. Passion, drive, loyalty. Things I threw away the second it was convenient.

I still remember the way Jade looked at me when she found out. Like I was something she scraped off her shoe. Sasha didn't even bother speaking—just turned her back and walked away. Cloe had tears in her eyes, but she fought them back, refusing to let me see her break. And Yasmin... Yasmin just looked disappointed. And that was the worst of all.

I tell myself I had my reasons. That the world isn't kind, and sometimes you have to be cruel to survive. But now, sitting here with nothing but my own goddamn reflection staring back at me, I realize something: I'm the villain of this story.

No amount of whiskey can drown out that fact. No amount of excuses can change what I did.

I don't expect forgiveness. Don't even know if I deserve it. But if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I owe them more than just regret. Maybe I can make things right. Maybe I can fix what I broke. And if I can't...

Then I'll live with it. Every goddamn day.

But life isn't a fairytale. There's no happy ending waiting for me, no redemption arc where I find love and everything I ever wanted. There are no happy endings for those who abuse the system. My memory may be failing me, but I know I did what I did. Why? Because I had no choice. The details are blurred, but I know I was forced into it.

The truth is, I absolutely and positively hate myself. Wasn't it obvious enough in that letter I wrote? Sometimes, I just want to disappear—to ignore my fame, my legacy, my so-called success.

My mind often drifts to my mother, a woman of burning anger and a cold touch. No love, just orders. Her husband, my father, was a high-ranking CIA official. They were a perfect match in all the worst ways.

And my little brother? The boy I lost to my own ignorance and greed. I wanted the love and affection I felt I deserved, even if it cost me my bond with Liam. Not that he cared much. He told me once that without my fame, I had nothing to offer. That my job was my entire personality, and the real me never shined through. He even said bricks had more character than I did.

I never wanted to be a TV host. I never wanted to manage people, make music, or own a club. I ran away searching for someone who would understand my sarcasm and still stick around. In the end, I convinced myself that I thrive on people hating me—that it fuels me.

But that's a lie. I hate being hated. I just want to feel loved. I just want attention. I want someone to see past the persona—to know that I don't want control.

My mind is racing again. Jesus Christ, my heart is pounding. My hands are shaking so badly I can't even grip my shirt. Is this another panic attack? My vision is blurring. What the hell is happening? I can't rely on strangers for help. I need to stand up. I need to fight. I need to be in control.

Fuck, it hurts. Am I overdosing on alcohol again? Seriously? Is this how I go out? Fine. I'll go.

Fuck you all. Fuck you, Bratz. Fuck you, Burdine. Fuck you, Steel. Fuck you, Pinz. I don't need anyone. I have myself, and that's all that matters. Leave me the fuck alone. I am going to die alone.

I screamed. God, it hurts so bad. The nearest object is my whiskey glass. My fingers wrap around it, and I hurl it across the room. I've always had anger issues, anyway.

My knees hit the carpet, my body collapsing with them. My breathing is erratic. I scream again, but my throat is raw from the alcohol. There's a knock at the door.

And then everything fades to black.