The Crack

The tipping point came at a company mixer. Dorian was, as usual, the star of the evening. He floated from group to group, laughing and chatting like he'd known everyone for years. People gravitated toward him like moths to a flame.

I stayed on the edges of the crowd, nursing a drink and watching from a distance. No one noticed me. No one ever did when Dorian was around.

At one point, a colleague approached me. "Your brother's something else, huh?" he said, grinning. "The way he commands a room—it's impressive."

I forced a smile, nodding as bitterness clawed at my chest.

The rest of the evening was a blur. I couldn't shake the feeling of invisibility, the overwhelming sense that I would always be second best.

When I finally left the party, I was more determined than ever to change things.

The next day, a colleague stopped by my desk to chat. She mentioned Dorian's recent success, praising his ability to close deals and build relationships.

"He's got this natural charm," she said, her tone admiring. "It's hard not to like him."

I nodded along, but her words only fueled my frustration. Before she left, I casually mentioned that Dorian had been struggling with the workload lately. "He's great, but even he has his limits," I said with a faint smile.

It was a small comment, but it hit its mark. She hesitated for a moment before nodding thoughtfully.

The ripple effects of my actions were small at first—so small that only someone as attuned to Dorian's world as I was would notice. I had spent my entire life watching him, studying the way he moved through the world, effortlessly collecting admiration and trust. So when the cracks began to form, even faint ones, I saw them right away.

It started in meetings. Dorian was the golden boy in the office, the one everyone naturally gravitated toward, the one whose ideas were met with instant nods of approval. But lately, there was a hesitation in the air. When he presented a new concept, a few colleagues exchanged uncertain glances. Some asked pointed questions that, while professional on the surface, carried an edge of doubt.

At first, Dorian brushed it off. He had always been confident, self-assured in a way I could only envy. But the subtle shift in tone didn't escape him for long. I saw it in the way his smile faltered for a split second after a half-hearted response. I saw it in the way he tapped his pen against the table, a nervous habit he hadn't displayed since college.

Outside of work, the ripples spread further. At networking events, where Dorian was usually the center of every conversation, I started hearing a different tone when people spoke about him. Instead of the usual glowing admiration, there were murmurs of cautious skepticism.

"Dorian's done well for himself," someone said at one event, their voice neutral in a way that felt deliberate. "But I wonder if he's overextending."

Another person chimed in, "Yeah, I heard he's juggling a lot right now. Hope he doesn't burn out."

These weren't direct attacks, but they were enough to plant seeds of doubt. And I had been the one to sow those seeds, carefully and deliberately. A comment here, a subtle nudge there—it didn't take much to guide the narrative.

For the first time, Dorian seemed... unsure. It wasn't anything dramatic. There were no grand moments of failure, no public embarrassments. But there were flickers, tiny cracks in his otherwise flawless exterior. During one presentation, he paused a beat too long, as though second-guessing himself. At a dinner with colleagues, his usual easy charm felt just a little strained, his laughter a fraction too forced.

I noticed all of it. I couldn't help it. I had spent so much of my life overshadowed by him that seeing him falter, even slightly, felt like vindication.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I had the upper hand.

It wasn't a dramatic victory—it wasn't even visible to anyone else. But for me, it was monumental. I had always been the one trailing behind, the one trying and failing to live up to the impossible standard Dorian set. Now, for once, I was the one influencing the narrative, the one steering the course of events.

I found myself watching him more closely, searching for more signs of the impact I was having. I paid attention to the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly when someone questioned him, the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes in certain conversations. These were subtle changes, but to me, they were significant.

And yet, even as I reveled in this newfound sense of control, a part of me couldn't shake the nagging voice in the back of my mind. Was this what I had been reduced to? Gaining satisfaction not from my own achievements, but from quietly tearing down someone else's?

I pushed the thought aside. This wasn't about malice—it was about balance. It was about finally tipping the scales that had always been weighted against me.

But as I stood on the sidelines, watching Dorian navigate his world with a little less certainty than before, I couldn't deny the spark of something I hadn't felt in a long time: power. For once, I wasn't the forgotten brother, the invisible one. I was the one pulling the strings, even if no one else could see it.

And for now, that was enough.

Back in my room that night, I stared at the old photo of Dorian and me. The boys in the picture were unrecognizable now—one carefree and confident, the other quietly yearning for his own light.

I didn't feel guilty for what I'd done. Not yet. All I felt was a grim satisfaction, a sense that I was finally leveling the playing field.

I didn't know how far I was willing to go, but one thing was certain: I wasn't done. Not by a long shot.