Chapter 2: The Press Conference Rewind

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1

"Ms. Porter, you keep saying you have evidence to prove you didn’t plagiarize. So where is it?"

The question came from a reporter at the front, voice sharp as a razor. His suit was rumpled, and I could see the judgment in his eyes—he wanted a scandal.

"As your former reader, I really don’t want to believe you’d do something like this. Were your previous works really written by you?"

Another reporter, a woman in a bold red blazer, leaned forward with a look of almost pleading disbelief. She clutched her press badge like a lifeline, maybe remembering a story of mine that once meant something to her.

Facing a sea of microphones, I was stunned at first. Then my heart started pounding wildly.

The lights were blinding, the room too hot, and for a split second I wondered if I’d faint. But then muscle memory took over; I remembered how to hold myself—back straight, chin up—the way my mom always taught me for piano recitals. The adrenaline was almost sweet.

I had been reborn—back to the day I held a press conference to prove my innocence.

The sensation was eerie, like déjà vu layered with dread. I could taste the bitter tang of nerves in my mouth, the same as before. But this time, I knew the script—and how it all went wrong.

In my past life, my boyfriend’s white knight plagiarized my novel, which was based on my own secret crush.

That story had been my confession, my hope, the piece of me I’d never dared to say out loud. And they twisted it—Rachel stole it and Derek cheered her on, not even caring who got hurt as long as he could bask in the spotlight.

On the day it was released, it shot to the top of Amazon’s bestseller list, becoming a campus romance legend.

I remember sitting in my cramped apartment, watching the sales numbers climb. Every refresh brought a new wave of heartbreak. My words, my world, in someone else’s hands. Bookstores across the country put up displays. The New York Times reviewed it. It was everywhere.

After being reposted by major bookstagram accounts, countless people online called it deeply moving.

People sent Rachel flowers. She got invited to festivals, panels, podcasts. Everyone called her a genius. Meanwhile, I got hate mail and silence.

I had intended to show my original drafts as evidence.

My laptop was my lifeline—every scene, every outline, dated and backed up. I thought the truth would set me free. Naïve.

But on the day of the press conference, someone wiped all my files clean—there wasn’t a single trace left.

The panic I’d felt in that moment still haunted me. My heart stopped as I watched my life’s work vanish, file by file, right before my eyes. I knew who’d done it, but proving it was impossible.

I endured unprecedented online abuse, receiving funeral wreaths, black-and-white photos, and threatening packages from all over the country every day.

It started with Twitter threads, then escalated. My mailbox overflowed with hate. Someone even sent a dead rat in a shoebox, postage paid. The police said to keep a low profile. Friends stopped answering my calls.

I gritted my teeth and kept writing, but in the end, I was stabbed to death by an obsessed anti-fan who showed up at my door.

The memory of that final night—rain beating on the window, a knock I didn’t expect, pain and confusion and then darkness—was burned into me. I’d died alone, unloved, and misunderstood.

Now, after just a moment’s hesitation, my boyfriend of three years, Derek Evans, couldn’t hold back and lashed out. "Natalie Porter, if you say Rachel is slandering you, then show your evidence! Don’t make baseless accusations and drag others down with you!" He glared at me, but there was a flicker of smugness in his eyes.

His voice was just loud enough for the cameras to catch. He shifted his weight, shoulders squared, playing the indignant partner. I caught the tiniest smirk when he thought no one was watching.

Of course he knew what was in my folder.

He’d gone through my laptop a hundred times—always under the pretense of helping me, always with an eye for what he could steal.

He wanted my reputation destroyed so Rachel Summers could become the new top author.

Derek always loved winners. He saw Rachel’s rising star and figured hitching his wagon to hers would get him farther than standing by me. Loyalty had never been his thing.

I lowered my eyes, picked up my laptop, and walked to the projection booth.

The crowd buzzed with speculation. Reporters jostled each other, trying to catch every angle. I steadied my hands—refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me shake.

I turned it on and cast the screen.

The room dimmed as the screen flickered to life. A hush fell, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. All eyes were on me, waiting for a revelation or a meltdown.

The next second, as everyone watched in shock, I deleted the pen name I’d used for six years.

A single click. My name, my legacy, erased in real time. Gasps rose from the crowd, someone’s coffee sloshed onto the floor. Derek and Rachel looked like they’d seen a ghost. A young intern in the back 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?"

Derek Evans and Rachel Summers both jumped to their feet.

Derek’s chair crashed back, Rachel’s hand flew to her mouth. The world’s worst amateur theater, and somehow I was still the villain.

I spoke coldly: "Everyone, I’ve been wronged today, and all evidence has been destroyed by someone with ill intent, making it impossible for me to defend myself."

My voice was ice—steady and clear. I didn’t let it tremble, not this time. The truth was out there, whether or not they believed me.

"From today on, this pen name is gone. I am officially retiring from writing and will never set foot in the online literature world again."

For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then the questions started again, but I’d already turned away, done with explanations. The life they wanted to tear apart was no longer on the table.