I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 02

I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 02

“The publisher’s sunk half a million into this launch. Billboards in Times Square, ads in The New Yorker—they’re all in.”

“I’ll investigate the leak. You figure out how you want to play this.”

After Wendy left, I sat at my desk and retraced every step of the past month.

Ivy was Rowan’s childhood sweetheart. They’d grown up in the same Connecticut suburb, thick as thieves.

When she’d returned from grad school in Paris, she’d drifted, aimless, for nearly a year.

Rowan dragged her into his YouTube videos, boosted her follower count, and fed her introductions—manufacturing her into a mid-tier influencer overnight.

Because Rowan was glued to Ivy’s side twenty-four seven, we fought constantly.

But Rowan insisted they were signed to the same MCN, and promoting her was “non-negotiable company policy.”

So I swallowed my pride to keep the peace.

Turns out, Ivy was the one he’d wanted all along.

I spent the afternoon scrolling through both their social media archives, frame by frame.

Finally, in a vlog Rowan had posted two months earlier, I caught it.

In the background, Ivy sat with her back to the camera, typing furiously, ignoring Rowan’s chatter.

I zoomed in until my eyes burned. Studied every pixel.

Then my breath caught in my throat.

The notes scattered on the desk in front of her matched my creative outline exactly.

Even the scenes I’d cut—verbatim.

Coincidence?

No. Not a chance.

This story was adapted from a marginal note in my family’s private collection of medieval codices.

How could Ivy possibly know about it?

Even if she’d somehow stumbled across the source—how did she have my handwritten edits?

I racked my brain until my temples throbbed. Nothing.

Then Wendy called.

No leads on the leak. Dead end.

I was caught between a deadline and a disaster.

Wendy was right. The publisher had dumped a fortune into this launch. Canceling now would waste hundreds of thousands of dollars and devastate my readership.

To cut my losses, I had to write a new book from scratch.

I sat down at my desk, cleared my head, and gripped my pen.

Nothing was more suspenseful than the nightmare I was living.

So I poured my past-life trauma into the page.

There was no way Ivy could copy this—she couldn’t have been reborn too.

In seven days, I’d written a brand-new novel.

I called Wendy over and handed her the printed manuscript myself.

After she finished reading, she was quiet for so long I thought the room had gone silent.

“Maeve. Be honest with me. Did you leak that first draft on purpose?”

I laughed, bitter and raw. “In real life, no one’s that calculating. I have no idea how she got my work.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then Wendy cleared her throat, forcing a lighter tone. “Ivy doesn’t have one-tenth of your talent! What if we post this tonight? She’s been running her mouth for weeks—let’s knock her off her pedestal!”

I was about to agree—then a flicker of hesitation stopped me cold.

“What’s Ivy been up to lately?”

“No clue. She hasn’t posted any videos. A few editors I know have been trying to reach her, but she’s vanished off the grid.”

Normally, with a web novel topping the charts, she’d be everywhere—podcasts, book tours, TikTok promotions. Radio silence was a red flag.

I didn’t want to risk it. I convinced Wendy to hold off for a few days, went home, and collapsed into bed.

The next thing I knew, Wendy was pounding on my door.

“Maeve! It happened again!”

“Ivy just dropped another new story. Identical to the one you wrote yesterday.”

Wendy’s words hit me like a splash of ice water, dousing the fragile hope.

Why couldn’t I change anything, even with a second chance?

Was I cursed never to write again? Doomed to live forever in Ivy’s shadow?

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