Chapter 1: The Fall

After the whole internet turned against me for plagiarism, I publicly announced my retirement from writing.

As I stood at the center of the stage, facing the sea of cameras and the electric buzz of the press, the hum of the air conditioning barely covered the frantic clicking of camera shutters. My palms tingled with sweat, but I kept my grip on the mic steady. My announcement echoed through the auditorium, and you could almost hear the collective gasp ripple through the crowd. My boyfriend, who had just been loudly accusing me, was left speechless.

He stared at me from the sidelines, jaw slack, eyes darting nervously as if looking for a cue card that wasn’t there. The air practically vibrated with anticipation and confusion from the audience. Some folks in the back row exchanged glances, unsure if this was some kind of publicity stunt or a genuine breakdown.

"What are you doing? Didn’t you say you still have a mountain of debt to pay off?"

His so-called white knight—the supposed victim of the plagiarism scandal—Rachel Summers, also panicked.

Rachel’s perfectly rehearsed sympathy fell apart in an instant. Her voice wavered as she reached for the mic, mascara threatening to run. "Natalie, please—don’t do this to yourself. Everyone deserves a second chance, okay? I’ll vouch for you. I swear."

I looked out at the flashing camera lights below the stage, my expression unwavering.

The blinding glare from the reporters’ bulbs made the whole scene feel surreal, like I was watching myself from the outside. My heart hammered, but my face stayed perfectly still. There was a stillness in my chest—a sense that I’d finally, finally stepped out of their shadow.

In my previous life, the two of them publicly humiliated me while secretly teaming up to steal my creative work.

The memory washed over me in sharp flashes: Derek’s arm slung over Rachel’s shoulders for the cameras, her fake-weepy interviews, the way they’d grin in private when they thought no one was looking. Betrayal never felt so cold as when it wore a mask of concern.

In the end, the words I poured my soul into made Rachel Summers famous as a literary prodigy.

It was surreal to see my own turns of phrase and heartfelt scenes praised by critics, only with her name on the cover. The ache of recognition—knowing every character beat, every metaphor—was a kind of torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

This time, I simply deleted the pen name I’d used for six years.

With a single click, I let go of the identity that had both built and broken me. The hush in the auditorium was almost reverent, like they were witnessing the death of something sacred. A young intern fumbled with his phone, a blogger whispered, "Did she really just do that?", and a flashbulb popped as someone yelled, "Wait—what does this mean for the series?" I half expected someone to stand and protest, but no one did.

I’ve had enough of this cramped rental life. It’s time to go home and inherit my family’s fortune.

The thought of going back to the Porter estate—the sprawling lawn, the taste of real espresso in the sunlit kitchen, the security of a front gate—brought a sudden, unexpected wave of relief. I didn’t owe anyone my art, not anymore.

As for Rachel Summers—let’s see how you manage to finish the rest of the story.

Let’s see how you handle the plot twists, the callbacks, the subtle character arcs. The truth has a way of surfacing, even when you bury it under a mountain of lies.