My Birthday, His Cruel Betrayal

Gavin

Modern | Completed

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On my 28th birthday, my superstar boyfriend, Jarrett, stood me up. He had to comfort his co-star, Kisha. A few hours later, I saw the paparazzi photo that ended our seven-year relationship. Jarrett was in a dimly lit bar, his arm wrapped around a tear-streaked Kisha, her head on his shoulder. The next morning, I confronted him. He insisted it was just "method acting." "She was just drunk," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Confessing her feelings for her character." He called me dramatic and paranoid for questioning him. He said I was throwing away seven years over a "stupid photo." It was the same gaslighting he'd used for years, wrapping his emotional infidelity in a pretty little "method acting" bow. But this time, I didn't cry. I felt a sudden, chilling calm. "I regret every second I wasted loving you," I told him. "We are over."

Betrayal Love triangle Celebrities Drama Personal growth

Chapter 22

Today 14:54

Chapter 1

On my 28th birthday, my superstar boyfriend, Jarrett, stood me up. He had to comfort his co-star, Kisha. A few hours later, I saw the paparazzi photo that ended our seven-year relationship.

Jarrett was in a dimly lit bar, his arm wrapped around a tear-streaked Kisha, her head on his shoulder.

The next morning, I confronted him. He insisted it was just "method acting."

"She was just drunk," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Confessing her feelings for her character."

He called me dramatic and paranoid for questioning him. He said I was throwing away seven years over a "stupid photo." It was the same gaslighting he'd used for years, wrapping his emotional infidelity in a pretty little "method acting" bow.

But this time, I didn't cry. I felt a sudden, chilling calm.

"I regret every second I wasted loving you," I told him. "We are over."

Chapter 1

Alayna POV:

The silence in the grand, empty house was a painful echo. It was a silence I used to crave, a respite from the constant buzz of Los Angeles, from the relentless notifications on my phone, from the dizzying, draining demands of Jarrett' s rapidly expanding universe. Now, it was just heavy. It pressed down on me, a physical weight I carried on my chest every single day. I scrolled through my phone, my thumb hovering over the Instagram icon. Another notification. Another flood of comments. My stomach clenched. It always did.

His new streaming series had exploded. Overnight. One moment, Jarrett was that struggling actor I' d loved for seven years, the one who' d charm casting directors and wait tables just to chase a dream. The next, he was everywhere. His face was on billboards, his voice was in every podcast. And his on-screen chemistry with Kisha Prince, his co-star, was the talk of the internet. They called them 'JarSha' – a portmanteau that felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

The comments under my last post, a perfectly innocent photo of a bouquet I' d arranged, were brutal. "JarSha forever!" one read. "Get out of the way, old hag," another spewed. "You're just holding him back." I felt my face grow hot. Old hag? I was twenty-eight. It wasn't the words themselves, not really. It was the sheer volume, the venom, the relentless tide of public opinion that was slowly but surely drowning me. It was like I was watching my life, my relationship, being dissected and judged by millions of strangers, and I was powerless to stop it.

My finger twitched. I wanted to delete the app. I wanted to smash the phone. I wanted to disappear. This wasn't the life I signed up for. This wasn't the man I fell in love with. He was supposed to be mine. He was supposed to protect me. But all he did was dismiss my pain, wave away my anxiety like an annoying fly.

Jarrett had just walked in, his face still flushed from the red carpet event. He barely glanced at me, tossing his jacket onto the sofa before heading to the fridge. "What's wrong now, Alayna?" he asked, his voice laced with an exhaustion that felt more like irritation. "Another internet troll bothering you?" He didn't even turn around. He was already so far away, even when he was right here.

"They're calling me names, Jarrett," I said, my voice thin, almost a whisper. "They're saying terrible things. They want me gone."

He finally turned, a half-eaten apple in his hand. He looked at me, but his eyes were distant, already planning his next move, his next press conference. "It's just fans, babe," he said, his tone dismissive. "They're just invested in the show. It' s method acting. Kisha and I are just really good at our jobs. They can't separate fiction from reality, that's all." He took another bite of his apple, as if this conversation was beneath him.

I felt a cold dread settle deep in my stomach. Method acting. That was his shield. That was his excuse for everything. For the lingering touches, the intense gazes, the way he' d laugh with her, a genuine, unburdened laugh I hadn't heard from him in months.

Just last week, at the show's big press junket, Kisha had broken down in tears, talking about the "emotional toll" of her role. Jarrett, my Jarrett, had immediately pulled her into a hug, stroking her hair, whispering comforting words. The cameras had flashed, the journalists had scribbled. He' d defended her from "online hate," his voice booming with righteous anger. But when I was being torn apart online, he told me I was "overreacting." The contrast was a slap in the face. It was loud. It was clear.

"Timing is everything, isn't it?" Kisha had purred into a microphone that day, her eyes, suspiciously dry, darting towards Jarrett. The subtext hung in the air, thick and suffocating. _If only we'd met at a different time._ It was a performance, I knew it. But Jarrett, caught in her orbit, played his part perfectly.

That night, my birthday, was the final, crushing blow. I had waited for him, a quiet dinner for two, a cake I' d painstakingly baked. He called, his voice rushed, saying he had to "comfort Kisha" who was "going through something really tough." He promised to make it up to me. I clung to that promise, foolishly. But then, a few hours later, I saw the photo. A blurry paparazzi shot, but unmistakable. Jarrett, in a dimly lit bar, his arm around a tear-streaked Kisha, her head on his shoulder. Her mouth was moving, a desperate confession, I was sure. His eyes, though, were fixed on her, filled with a tenderness I hadn't seen directed at me in too long. My cake sat on the counter, its cream frosting slowly melting, collapsing into itself, just like my heart.

The next morning, I confronted him, the photo glaring from my phone screen. He looked genuinely surprised, then quickly defensive. "It's not what you think, Alayna! She was just... drunk. Confessing her feelings for her character."

"Her character?" My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. I knew better. I felt it in my bones.

"Yes! She's having trouble separating," he insisted, running a hand through his hair, a typical Jarrett move when he was cornered. "I was just being a good co-star, trying to help her through it. You know, method acting."

"Method acting?" I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "Or just an excuse?"

He started to argue, to rationalize, to use all his usual tricks. But I wasn't listening anymore. It was over. The love, the trust, the future we' d built. All of it, dissolved into a bitter, theatrical lie.

"I'm done," I said, my voice calm, almost detached. It was a strange feeling, this sudden lightness after so much weight. "We're over, Jarrett." The words were out, simple and true.

He stared at me, his mouth slightly open, as if I'd spoken in a foreign language. "Done? What are you talking about? Are you seriously throwing away seven years because of some stupid photo and fan drama? You're being dramatic, Alayna."

"Dramatic?" I laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You want to know why I'm done? Because I'm tired. I'm tired of feeling like I'm constantly competing with a ghost, with a character, with an entire fandom. I'm tired of your excuses, your gaslighting, and your emotional infidelity wrapped up in a pretty little 'method acting' bow."

He scoffed, his eyes hardening. "Emotional infidelity? Alayna, you're being ridiculous. We're actors. We blur lines. That's what we do. You've always been so insecure, so clingy. This is just another one of your episodes."

He threw a word at me, a word he' d used countless times to control me, to shrink me down: "Paranoid."

"Yes," I admitted, a strange calm washing over me. "I was paranoid. I was insecure. Because you made me that way. Because you nurtured every single one of my abandonment issues until they became a monster that swallowed me whole. And you stood by and watched it happen, or worse, you fed it."

He looked genuinely confused, his actor's mask finally slipping a little. "What are you even saying? I love you. I always have."

"No," I countered, shaking my head. "You love the idea of me. You love the comfort of having me here, waiting in the wings while you chase your dreams. But you don't actually see me, Jarrett. You haven't seen me in a very long time."

He opened his mouth to protest, but I just looked at him, my gaze unwavering. The silence stretched between us again, but this time, it was different. This time, it was the sound of a door closing.

"I regret every second I wasted loving you," I said, the words cutting through the air. "We are over."