Rise of the Zillionaire Star

Chapter 61: The Snake Behind the Smiles

The spotlights of the music world shifted again. And this time, Trevin Vale appeared.

He walked onto the glossy stage. His was framed by wide holographic screens that projected his smug grin across every feed. At his side was Delilah Knox. She wore glittering silk and diamonds. Her expression was as sharp as a blade. Jaylen knew she masked her true behaviour behind the velvet.

They didn’t announce their comeback as individuals. They announced it in the form of a movement.

Trevin raised his hand with his voice dripping with practiced sorrow.

“Tonight, we begin a new era. We are here not for glory, but for the truth, for the art and for culture. Most importantly, we are here to shine light on the toxic frauds who rot the soul of this industry.”

Every camera captured the deliberate pause in his lips. The way his eyes narrowed just enough to let the implication sink in. Everyone knew who he meant, Jaylen Cruz.

Delilah leaned into the mic, her voice was silky and full of hate.

“We have watched too many people rise on cheap movements, on lies and on manipulation. That era ends now. Trevin and I are here to bring the cleansing fire. To save what’s left.”

The crowd of influencers, critics, and livestream viewers applauded as though salvation had finally arrived.

But Jaylen, watching from the dressing room of his Z-Arena rehearsal, clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. He recognized the performance for what it was, ‘a snake wrapping itself in holy robes.’ He muttered in aggression.

The next morning, something so strong hit.

Zee’s urgent buzz woke him from restless sleep. “Alert. Catastrophic anomaly. Your unreleased track ‘Iron Pulse’ has been leaked to every major platform.”

Jaylen shot upright. “What? That was locked inside studio drives!”

“That’s not all,” Zee continued sharply. “Attached to the drop is a digital letter. The contents are disturbing.”

Jaylen scanned the message. His heart plummeted. “I can’t take it anymore. The lies, the weight and the eyes on me. Fame is a poison, and I’m choking. If anyone asks why, tell them this industry built me up just to watch me fall. I’m sorry. – Jaylen Cruz.”

It was a suicide note that was forged in his name.

Within an hour, hashtags spread like wildfire across the whole internet. #JaylenLost, #CruzCollapse, #FraudOfTheYear.

Candlelit vigils appeared outside clubs and arenas where his posters still hung. Commentators wept on livestreams about the tragedy of “another artist destroyed by fame.” Brands began sending automated emails freezing contracts “out of respect.”

Everywhere Jaylen looked, the world was already writing his obituary.

By afternoon, Trevin took to the air. His face was framed by solemn lighting, his voice perfectly measured like a pastor who was about delivering an eulogy.

“Jaylen Cruz was brilliant,” Trevin intoned. His eyes were glassy as if he had been crying. “But brilliance burns hot, and sometimes it burns too fast. He wanted to tell his truth… and now we must honor that.”

Delilah nodded gravely at his side, adding her words, “Let this be a lesson. The industry must stop rewarding spectacle. Stop enabling self-destruction. Stop cheering for the flames that only consume the artist behind them.”

Social feeds lit up with sympathy for Trevin. For his supposed compassion. The “Vale-Knox Initiative” was trending worldwide, hailed as guardians of “truth and healing.”

Watching it unfold on the massive rehearsal hall screen, Jaylen felt something snap inside him.

Marcus slammed his fist on the console. “They’re burying you alive, Jay. This is checkmate if we don’t act now!”

Toni cursed under her breath. “Those snakes knew exactly how to twist the knife. They don’t just want your career, they want your name erased.”

Jaylen walked like a caged panther as sweat beaded his brow. His chest heaved, anger mixing with a gnawing, icy fear. It wasn’t just about music anymore. This was about identity theft. Trevin stealing his story, his pain, and twisting it into something to be used against him.

Zee pulsed urgently. “Crisis Level: Catastrophic. Standard PR countermeasures insufficient. Recommend direct confrontation or narrative reversal.”

Jaylen stopped pacing. His voice was low, almost turning into a growl.

“He thinks he can kill me with a fake death. He thinks compassion is his shield. Fine. I won’t fight with numbers or lawyers. I’ll fight with what he can’t fake.”

Marcus frowned. “What are you saying?”

Jaylen turned to face them. Anger lit up in his eyes. “I’m going to answer with raw emotion, with the truth. Not just a press statement. Not just a rebuttal. I want it to be a redemption stream that happened one night on Live. I will slam every rhythmic word of my reality, powered by my people’s voices.”

Silence fell in the room. Then Toni smirked.

“That’s dangerous although Bold. And exactly what the bastard won’t see coming.”

But Trevin wasn’t done tightening the noose. That night, his team of bots flooded every platform with staged “memorials” for Jaylen. Clips of him mid-performance, slowed down and cut with melancholic piano, spread like wildfire. Edited interviews from his past were spliced to make him seem “broken, exhausted, and suicidal.”

Delilah posted a tearful video, whispering into the camera, “I just wish we could have saved him before it was too late.”

Each word was another dagger. Fans were confused. As the time went by, fans started grieving as they demanded answers to what could have happened. Some believed the letter. Others began accusing Jaylen of faking death for publicity.

By midnight, Marcus read the feeds and muttered, “They are not just trying to kill your career. They are trying to make you dead or toxic. If you show up again, they will call you a fraud who faked suicide.”

Jaylen sat silent. His hands clasped and his head bowed. His whole body trembled not with defeat, but with a touch of fire barely restrained.

“Then I will show them what survival looks like,” he whispered.

Zee projected statistics in cold blue light,

“Projected reputation collapse in 72 hours without counteraction. Sponsor retention probability: 15%. Fan trust index: unstable.”

Jaylen stared at the numbers, then dismissed them with a swipe of his hand. “Let the math say what it wants. This isn’t about probabilities anymore. It’s about the truth.”

He stood, squaring his shoulders, and looked Marcus and Toni in the eye.

“I will go live. But not in this studio. I don't need it pre-recorded. I want every flaw and every crack in my voice. I want to bleed onstage if I have to. If Trevin wants to fake compassion, then I will drown him with the real thing.”

Marcus exhaled, shaking his head. “You are insane.” Then he grinned. “But maybe insanity is exactly what wins.”

Toni’s hands were moving very fast over the console as he began pulling up venue options, “If we are doing this, we have to do it right. We will hijack his sermon with your truth.”

Zee chimed in a steady voice, “Redemption Stream initialized. Live prototype format: Spoken Word Fusion. Integration with crowd input: feasible. Warning: backlash risk remains extreme.”

Jaylen clenched his fists. “Good. Let them come.”

Trevin’s face appeared once more time on every major stream that night. His crocodile tears were still flowing and his voice was still dripping false compassion.

“Fame broke him,” he said softly, staring into the lens like a prophet of sorrow. “Let his story be a warning to us all.”

Millions watched and Millions nodded. The industry’s gaze turned fully on Jaylen, waiting for either a ghost or a fraud who faked his death for fame.

But Jaylen wasn’t dead. He wasn’t broken either and he wasn’t backing down.

He sat alone on the edge of the rehearsal stage. He wrote saw words into a notebook. Every line was as sharp as the blade. His chest rose and fell like a furnace. His pen kept moving across paper with anger in his eyes.

This wasn’t just a rebuttal. It was war through a performance so raw it would either save him or annihilate him.

Zee’s soft but unwavering voice broke the silence, “Redemption Stream scheduled. T-minus 24 hours.”

Jaylen didn’t look up. His final words before the feed cut were a promise - a declaration to the world and to Trevin Vale himself,

“You wanted me buried. You wanted me erased. Tomorrow night… you will all hear my voice again.”