TO HATE IS DIVINE

The night of the gala was supposed to be a celebration—a moment of joy shared among colleagues, a chance to unwind after a grueling quarter. But for me, it was a turning point.

I hadn't wanted to go, not really. Social events weren't my forte, and the thought of standing in a room full of people who would inevitably gravitate toward Dorian felt exhausting. Still, I told myself I needed to make an appearance. Networking was important, after all, and maybe—just maybe—this could be the night I proved I could hold my own.

The ballroom was stunning, adorned with glittering chandeliers and the soft glow of candlelight. Waiters moved seamlessly through the crowd, balancing trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The air buzzed with the hum of laughter and conversation.

And there he was.

Dorian stood at the center of it all, as if the entire event had been arranged in his honor. His perfectly tailored suit fit him like a glove, and his easy smile lit up the room. People gathered around him in clusters, hanging on his every word, their laughter punctuating his stories.

I lingered near the edge of the room, nursing a glass of champagne and trying not to feel invisible.

My moment of clarity?

It happened halfway through the evening.

I had been speaking to a colleague, a senior partner named Mr. Anderson. I was mid-sentence, explaining a concept I had developed for a recent project, when his eyes suddenly shifted. His expression brightened, and he stepped past me.

"Dorian!" he exclaimed, his voice warm with excitement.

My words trailed off as I turned to see my brother approaching.

"Anderson, how's it going?" Dorian said, shaking the man's hand with that firm, confident grip he had perfected.

The conversation I had been having evaporated. Without so much as an apology, Mr. Anderson turned his full attention to Dorian.

I stood there for a moment, feeling the sting of rejection settle into my chest. Then, as if I wasn't even there, they walked off together, their laughter fading into the crowd.

Later, I found myself at the bar, where I overheard two women chatting about Dorian.

"Isn't he just incredible?" one of them gushed. "I don't know how someone can be so talented and so charming."

"I know, right? He's like… perfect," the other replied with a dreamy sigh.

I clenched my jaw, the glass in my hand trembling slightly. Perfect. Of course, he was perfect. That word seemed to follow him everywhere he went, a halo of praise that never dimmed.

But what about me?

That night, as I stood in the corner watching Dorian accept yet another accolade—a spontaneous toast from the CEO for his "exceptional contributions" to the company—I felt something shift inside me.

It wasn't anger, not exactly. Anger was fleeting, a spark that fizzled out as quickly as it ignited. This was something deeper, something colder.

I realized, with startling clarity, that the world would never acknowledge me unless I made them.

But how?

As I left the gala, the question churned in my mind. Should I work harder, push myself to outshine Dorian on my own merit? That was the noble path, the path that aligned with the values our parents had always preached—integrity, perseverance, hard work.

But as I thought about all the times I had already tried—only to be overshadowed, dismissed, or outright ignored—another idea took root.

What if, instead of trying to rise above Dorian, I focused on tearing him down?

The thought was bitterly satisfying, like taking a sip of poison and imagining it would harm someone else. For the first time, I considered the possibility that sabotaging Dorian's perfect image might be more achievable than surpassing him.

It wasn't fair, I told myself. Life wasn't fair.

That night, lying in bed, I couldn't stop replaying the evening's events. I thought about how everyone saw Dorian—as this golden figure, untouchable and flawless. But was he really?

From the outside, his success seemed effortless. He walked into rooms and commanded attention, solved problems with ease, and charmed everyone he met.

But what if it wasn't as effortless as it seemed?

I found myself wondering if Dorian ever felt the weight of the pedestal he stood on. Did he worry about slipping, about falling short of everyone's impossibly high expectations? Did he ever feel… human?

It was a fleeting thought, quickly pushed aside by the memory of Mr. Anderson brushing past me without a second glance.

No. Dorian didn't struggle the way I did. He didn't have to. The world bent to his will, while I had to fight for every inch.

As the hours dragged on, sleep remained elusive. I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.

When I looked up, my reflection stared back at me—tired, frustrated, and weighed down by years of neglect.

I leaned closer, gripping the edges of the sink. My voice was barely a whisper, but the words felt heavy, like they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.

"I'll make them see me," I said. "One way or another."

The reflection in the mirror didn't flinch. It didn't argue or offer reassurance. It simply stared back, its resolve hardening with each passing second.

For the first time in my life, I felt something close to power—not the kind that came from admiration or applause, but the kind that came from a decision.

This was the beginning of something new. Something darker.

And I wasn't sure if I could turn back.

In that moment, staring at my reflection, I understood something fundamental about myself.

My resentment wasn't just about Dorian's success—it was about my invisibility. About the years I had spent fading into the background, waiting for someone to notice me.

But no one ever would.

Unless I forced them to.

The room was silent, save for the steady drip of water from the faucet. I straightened, wiping my face with a towel, and turned off the light.

As I walked back to bed, a strange calm settled over me.

I didn't know exactly how I would do it, but I knew one thing for certain:

Things were going to change.

Even if it meant tearing Dorian down brick by brick, I would make the world see me.