A Lyin’ Liar Who Lies | J.U
Images are not mine, credit to the owners.
Pairings: Jey Uso / OC (Suki) / Jaida Parker / OC (Nisha Fatu)
Warnings: RPF and strong language. Minors DNI!
A/N: Sooo… I have been binge watching JACK TV on YouTube and I saw this one episode that made me think of this story idea, which has brought me out of hibernation.
The house was too quiet. It always was when the road claimed him, but tonight, the silence pressed down on Nisha’s chest, heavy and suffocating like a forgotten championship belt. She was forty-three years old, and twenty of those years had been intertwined, publicly and brutally, with Joshua Fatu—the man the world roared for as Jey Uso. Their life was a paradox: a meticulously stable private world built around a wildly unstable, public career. They had two beautiful boys, teenagers now, who navigated high school and fame with a practiced ease that made Nisha fiercely proud. She had spent two decades being the anchor, the safe harbour where Joshua could shed the sweat, the adrenaline, and the persona.
Lately, though, he wasn’t shedding the persona quickly enough.
The signs had started subtly, like faint static on a perfect television broadcast. A sudden, deep paranoia about his phone that went beyond the usual need for privacy mandated by their life. New colognes, expensive and sharp, that smelled less like their home and more like airport duty-free shops. The way his eyes, usually so honest and tired when they met hers, now held a flicker of practiced distance—a slight hesitation, as if he were cycling through an alibi before answering a simple question like, "How was the flight?"
She remembered the man who used to call her from dingy motel rooms at 3am just to hear her breathe. Now, the calls were brief, scheduled, and often interrupted by muffled background noises he claimed were just the crew. Nisha didn't want to be the cliché—the wrestling wife whose husband found a newer, brighter distraction on the endless, glamorous tour bus circuit. She had built her identity not just around her marriage, but around the longevity of it. Twenty years wasn’t just time; it was a fortress, fortified by loyalty, shared tragedy, and the exhaustion of raising children alone during WrestleMania season.
But suspicion was a cancer. It started small, gnawing at the edges of sleep, until it consumed every moment of clarity. She couldn't live like this, watching him on screen, roaring "Yeet!" to millions, wondering if the passion in his eyes was reserved for the ring, or if someone else was getting the raw, real portion of Joshua that she no longer saw.
She needed to know. The truth, no matter how catastrophic, was preferable to this corrosive doubt.
Nisha was not a woman who frequented the sensationalist fringes of the internet, but desperation had made her a voyeur. Over the last month, tucked in bed while Joshua was supposedly in catering after a show in Tampa, she had silently watched the most effective, most brutal dispenser of marital justice online: JACK TV.
Jack was a young man with sharp eyes, a microphone, and an unnerving efficiency in using bait—a strategically attractive person—to catch men and women in the act, filming the full fallout for millions of clicks. It was crass, horrifying, and undeniably effective. It felt like walking into a slaughterhouse, but Nisha knew her marriage was already bleeding out.
She had fought the urge for weeks. To hire Jack was to admit that twenty years of trust was worth less than a few minutes of cold, objective digital evidence. It meant submitting her deepest, most private pain to the judgment of strangers.
Tonight, sitting at the mahogany desk in Joshua’s home office—a room usually dedicated to tax returns and WWE contract renewals—Nisha opened the JACK TV website. The submission form was simple, almost sterile: Tell us who you suspect, where they travel, and why you can’t trust them. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She looked at the background image on the screen saver: a photo of her and Josh, tanned and grinning, taken on their honeymoon in Fiji, before the fame became monstrous, before the doubt became inevitable. She took a deep, shaky breath, the air cold inside her lungs. She started typing, the name of her husband, Joshua Fatu, appearing in the cold, black font of the screen.
‘My husband is a professional wrestler. He travels year-round. I need to know if he is using the road to cheat.’
It was the hardest truth she had ever written. With one finalised, agonising click on the 'Submit' button, Nisha detached the anchor of her life and set her twenty-year marriage adrift toward the inevitable, public shipwreck of JACK TV. She leaned back, the silence of the large house now absolutely deafening.
The afternoon sun, usually a welcome visitor in Suki’s small, meticulously organised living room, felt oppressive, spotlighting the dust motes dancing over her laptop screen. For four years, she had lived inside a comfortable illusion, built brick by careful brick by a man she knew only as Josh.
Josh. He was dependable, funny, entirely devoted to her when he wasn't "on the road." He worked in sports entertainment—a travel-heavy gig Suki rarely questioned because Josh was adamant about separating his professional life from his personal one. It was a strategy that made sense, particularly because of the messy, drawn-out situation with his wife, Nisha.
“It’s just paperwork now, ma,” he’d promised Suki just last week during a late-night call from Seattle. “The lawyers are finalising the division of assets. We’re done. Trust me.”
Suki, at twenty-five, had invested everything in that trust. Four years of weekends, shared holidays, and the quiet contentment of being the primary partner. She had endured the shadow of Nisha because she believed the end was imminent. But lately, the shadow didn't feel like a past relationship; it felt like a spotlight turned onto a lie.
Suki swallowed, the act dry and scratchy in her throat, as she navigated away from her usual timeline and dove deep into the treacherous world of wrestling fan accounts—the specific digital landscape Josh occupied but rarely discussed. She typed the dreaded name: Jey Uso. That was the name on the promotional posters, the persona that earned him a living, but to Suki, it always sounded like a stranger.
She found the account a fan had tagged. It wasn't about him, not directly. It was a short video clip posted by a NXT performer named Jaida Parker. The video was innocuous enough on the surface: a chaotic, laughing scene backstage after a stadium show. Jaida, vibrant and loud, was recounting a road mishap. But the camera kept panning back to Josh—no, Jey. He wasn't just standing near Jaida; his arm was slung casually around her shoulders, his face turned toward hers, a deep, unguarded smile creasing his eyes.
The caption, however, was the shard of glass that tore through Suki's composure:
@Jaida_Parkerwwe: That’s my ride or die, always keeping the road family together. Wouldn't trade my twin for the world! #Yeet #MainEventJeyUso
Suki knew the jargon of the wrestling business—it was a traveling circus, and close bonds formed quickly. But the intimacy in the gesture, combined with the familiarity in Jaida’s tone, was a jarring contrast to the careful distance Josh often maintained with "work friends" on public platforms.
A sickening heat rose in Suki’s stomach. This wasn't the first time. The comments section under Jaida’s posts was peppered with heart emojis and speculation from fans asking if they were 'a thing.' Josh had dismissed those posts before as just "internet idiots starting rumours."
But what if they weren’t rumours? What if the reason the divorce papers with Nisha had stalled repeatedly wasn't just lawyers, but a convenient smokescreen designed to keep Suki pacified while Josh pursued a new life on the road?
Suki slammed her laptop shut, then instantly reopened it. She needed proof. She couldn't confront him based on a fan clip and a catchy hashtag. If she was wrong, she risked ruining the best relationship she’d ever had. If she was right, four years of her life had been a professionally managed lie.
Jack had spent three days confirming the overlapping timelines. Joshua Fatu wasn't just cheating; he was running two separate, long-term relationships, maintained through dizzying travel schedules and professional paranoia. He was a champion of deception.
Jack connected the two women via an encrypted chat, acting as the moderator of their mutual pain. The initial conversation was icy, then dissolved into a shared, cathartic rage. They developed the plan quickly. It needed to be fast, definitive, and public enough—at least to the players involved—that Joshua couldn't spin it away.
"We need him on a neutral playing field," Jack typed. "My house," Nisha replied instantly. "It’s not neutral. It's the scene of the crime. I want him trapped in the house he paid for but abandoned." "Agreed," Suki added. "But he’s with the current flavour of the month, Jaida Parker. We have to separate the package or bring her with him."
"The lure," Jack typed, leaning back in his chair. "He needs to think he’s headed somewhere private and official."
The decoy was simple but effective, utilising Joshua's own paranoia about the tabloids. A burner phone, set up in advance, sent a series of encrypted texts to Joshua's personal mobile, impersonating a panicked WWE legal source.
The text hit Joshua's phone at 1:17am. Joshua, tucked into the leather backseat of a black sedan with Jaida curled against his shoulder, felt the familiar surge of adrenaline and fear. Leak? Of what? He quickly deleted the message chain.
"Everything okay, babe?" Jaida yawned, her eyes still heavy from the late flight and a celebratory dinner.
"Yeah, just a last-minute change," Joshua lied smoothly, slipping his game face on. He was used to juggling emergencies. "The promotion decided the Four Seasons isn't private enough. We're heading to a secluded boutique place instead. Manager needs to brief me on some liability stuff before we check in."
Jaida sat up, adjusting her crop top. "Oh, security theatre. Fun."
The official driver, who had been waiting, was paid off and dismissed. Within five minutes, the decoy vehicle—a black Ford Edge registered to a third-party logistics company Jack had used before—pulled up silently. The driver, a large man named Leo who looked like he’d seen things, simply nodded.
"Destination changed," Joshua instructed, giving the address provided in the text. "Private use only. No stops."
"Understood, Mr. Fatu," Leo confirmed, pulling away from the arena district and heading toward the quiet, established residential neighbourhoods of the inner suburbs. Joshua settled back, his mind already spinning defence strategies. He needed to get ahead of this "leak." He stroked Jaida's hair, a performative gesture of comfort that mostly served to calm himself.
"It’s totally unfair the way they stalk you," Jaida muttered, convinced they were battling paparazzi.
"Comes with the territory," Joshua sighed, watching the streetlights bleed across the window. "But trust me, this new place is going to be 'ight. We’ll be completely disconnected for a few days."
The drive took twenty minutes. The silence in the car was dense, punctuated only by the low growl of the engine and the faint, unsettling smell of clean leather. Joshua was so focused on the hypothetical security briefing that he failed to pay attention to the street names until the car slowed. They weren't on a main road leading to a high-end hotel district. They were turning onto a cul-de-sac lined with well-maintained brick colonials.
A cold knot formed in Joshua’s stomach. This area was too familiar. The specific shade of the streetlights, the perfect, slightly too-large oak tree in the front yard of the corner house.
"Wait, driver," Joshua said, his tone shifting from relaxed celebrity to coiled predator. "Where are we?"
Leo didn't turn around. "This is the address provided for the meeting, sir."
The Ford Edge idled precisely in front of Number 48. A two-story colonial—the precise house where Joshua had spent his early twenties, where he had hammered out marriage vows, where he kept his tax records, and where his oldest memories resided. This wasn't a confidential security meeting. This was a grave.
"What the hell, Josh?" Jaida asked, confused by the sudden tension radiating from him. "Is this a private residence? Whose house is this?"
Joshua didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the front window. The whole place was dark, but a single, focused beam of light spilled from the doorway, illuminating a precise, small square of the immaculate porch. He felt the metallic click of the door locks disengaging. "Stay in the car, Jaida," he ordered, his voice low and guttural.
"No, I’m coming with you. If this is a legal thing, you need someone..."
But Joshua was already out, slamming the door shut. He didn't walk to the porch; he stalked, his posture shifting into the defensive stance he used when ambushed by fans or opponents. He reached the illuminated doorway, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
"Yo?" he called out, the sound swallowed by the silent street.
The light source wasn't coming from inside the house, but from a strong flashlight placed on a small side table just past the threshold, aimed directly at the porch. And then, two figures stepped out of the shadows of the living room.
She hadn't changed into a dramatic dress or done her hair up. She wore the familiar, worn flannel pajamas he’d bought her three Christmases ago. Her face was devoid of color, and her eyes held a chilling emptiness he had never seen before—a space where twenty years of love used to reside. She wasn't crying. She was presiding over a funeral.
"Hello, Joshua," Nisha said, her voice flat, emotionless, and terrifyingly calm. "Welcome home."
Joshua froze, the blood draining from his face. "Nisha, what... what are you doing? How—"
Then, Suki stepped out beside her. She looked electric, wearing a sharp, almost aggressive black sheath dress. Her anger was a palpable heat compared to Nisha's paralysing cold.
"She’s doing what you should have done four years ago, Josh," Suki spat, crossing her arms tightly. "She's cleaning up your mess."
The realisation hit Joshua with the force of a superkick. He wasn't trapped by the tabloids; he was trapped by his own victims. His mind scrambled for an exit, a lie, a distraction.
"Suki. Nisha. Look, this isn’t what it looks like. This is insane. You two need to slow down and talk to me."
The sound of a car door opening ripped the tension. Jaida, sensing the escalating danger, had ignored Joshua and was approaching the steps, clutching her small purse.
"Josh, who are these women?" Jaida demanded, her voice rising in panic. "What is going on? We were supposed to go to a hotel!"
This was the moment Joshua often excelled at—the swift, tactical lie. But now, under the twin gaze of his past and present, the words failed him. He found himself unable to address Jaida, unable to validate her presence with a single glance. He simply looked straight ahead at the two women who shared his betrayal. Jaida stepped up onto the porch, her presence a desperate plea for inclusion. "Wait, are you talking about him? Joshua, tell them that we are together, that this is our future. Tell them we've been planning—"
Joshua cut her off without speaking, his silence a brutal form of dismissal. He kept his eyes locked on Nisha, the twenty-year legacy overshadowing the four-year fling and the on and off hookup.
"You wasted my twenties," Suki hissed, stepping forward slightly. Her voice broke the controlled silence. "Four years. Four years of missed opportunities, of hiding, of believing you’d leave her. I gave you the best years of my life, the ones I’ll never get back, and you stood here, in her house, and lied to me on the phone while she was upstairs sleeping."
Nisha put a steadying hand on Suki’s shoulder, not to silence her, but to ground her. Nisha’s pain was deeper, slower, and poisoned by time.
"Four years is a lot, Suki," Nisha murmured, finally meeting Joshua's gaze. "But twenty years, Joshua? Twenty years is a lifetime. It’s decisions. It’s retirement plans, it's choosing not to have more children because we agreed we had time. It’s the entire architecture of a future, built on the shifting sand of your lies."
She walked toward the living room entrance, gesturing toward the interior.
"Did you know, Joshua, that every single object in this living room, I picked out? That I chose the paint colour because you said you liked it? That this whole life was designed around your comfort?"
Her eyes were glossy now, but still dry. She moved with dreadful purpose to a small, built-in shelving unit. She picked up the framed wedding photo and examined it, not with nostalgia, but with clinical detachment.
"I don't know who you are, Joshua," she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time. "I don’t know if the man in this photo was a lie, or if he died slowly while you were on the road. But this," she raised the frame high, "this life, it's over."
With a sudden, violent motion that shocked Suki and Jaida, Nisha pivoted and hurled the framed photo against the fireplace mantel. The glass shattered, echoing like a gunshot in the silent house. Joshua flinched, not from the sound, but from the realisation that this was irreversible. He had lost control completely. His career could weather bad matches and minor scandals, but this level of personal destruction was toxic.
"Nisha, I need you to understand," he started, his voice thick with a mixture of fear and forced sincerity. "It was complicated. The travel, the pressure—"
"Stop," Suki interjected, moving closer, her anger overriding the fear. "The pressure doesn't force your thumb to text 'I love you' to two different women in two different cities on the same day. That’s just being a lying bastard, Josh."
Jaida, completely ignored by Joshua and confused by the sheer magnitude of the history surrounding them, desperately stepped into the fray. "Who are you to judge him? You don't know the pressures of this life! We are in love, we have a connection and—"
"Jaida, shut up," Joshua finally spoke, but his tone was harsh, dismissive, and entirely aimed at silencing the nuisance, not protecting the partner.
Jaida recoiled as if slapped. The lack of protection, the sudden realisation that she was just as disposable as the shattered glass, was a shock. Nisha watched this brief, brutal interaction with a cold satisfaction. It validated everything Jack had compiled and now she could be free.
