I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 03

I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 03

To eliminate any variables, I’d left my usual phone on the balcony and hadn’t touched a computer in three days.

How the hell did Ivy get my original work?!

On Twitter, Ivy was exploding. Two back-to-back novel drops in a week.

Every bookish account was singing her praises. Fans were begging streaming platforms to snap up the adaptation rights.

When a reader asked where she’d found her inspiration, she replied with a thread:

“Can’t believe my very first work in this industry was plagiarized. Thank God I posted first, or I’d never be able to prove it. This new story is a warning to all you copycats: karma’s a bitch. You can’t steal talent or ideas. Hope you learn your lesson.”

That self-righteous manifesto set the internet ablaze.

People traced the publisher’s earlier teasers back to my Twitter and flooded my mentions.

“Ivy’s talking about you, right? Weren’t you supposed to drop a new book? Where is it?”

“Your old stuff was ghostwritten too, wasn’t it? Can’t believe I ever liked you!”

This time, I hadn’t published a single word—but Ivy had still labeled me a thief.

Still, without hard proof, my fans weren’t about to let me get dragged.

They clashed with trolls in the replies, the argument spiraling into thousands of comments.

Ivy was a newcomer, her following mostly casual scrollers—barely any real loyalists.

The backlash actually hurt Ivy’s reputation more than mine.

That’s when my influencer boyfriend finally stepped in.

“Ivy’s going live tomorrow. You’re joining her.”

Rowan’s tone was steel. I laughed, incredulous. “And why the hell would I do that?”

“You have the nerve to ask?! Your fans are ripping Ivy apart. She can’t eat, can’t sleep, her skin’s breaking out—you’re responsible!”

“Maeve, if you want to stay my girlfriend, you will apologize to Ivy tomorrow. On stream.”

Ivy stole my book, and I had to apologize? Every bone in my body screamed no, but I bit my tongue.

Because I still needed to uncover Ivy’s secret.

When the livestream started, Rowan and Ivy were sickeningly cozy, leaning into each other like they were the only two people in the room.

Comments flew across the screen like bullets.

“Ivy’s new book is mind-blowing! When’s the hardcover release? I’m preordering ten copies!”

“You could tell she had writing talent from her video scripts, but her fictional worlds are next-level!”

The stream hit one hundred thousand viewers. I figured it was time and hit the join request.

Rowan accepted immediately, his opening salvo aggressive as hell.

“Some people can’t write decent work, so they resort to dirty tricks. Sound familiar?”

I smiled into the camera, saccharine sweet. “Ivy is undoubtedly a rare talent. Since we’re all here, let me ask a question from the readers—in Inheritance, after the female lead sends her stepmother to federal prison, why does she go out of her way to split half the family assets she just won… with the half-sister who betrayed her?”

Ivy froze for a beat. Her eyes darted to Rowan—and his jaw tightened almost instantly.

“Maeve, are you here to apologize or start a fight?”

He ground out the words, his voice dripping with warning.

And in that moment, I knew. Rowan was covering for her—he was in on it.

“I’m asking for the readers,” I said, my smile never wavering. “An author explaining her own plot logic is standard practice, isn’t it?”

The comments exploded. Replies flew past too fast to read, most demanding Ivy answer.

Ivy squeezed Rowan’s hand, signaling him to back down. She cleared her throat, unhurried.

“That’s actually a very sharp question. Attentive readers might’ve noticed—the half-sister, on the surface, works for the stepmother. But every time she ‘succeeds,’ she makes a careless mistake. Wrong passwords. Outdated files. ‘Accidentally’ missing key meetings.”

“Readers assume she’s just incompetent, right?” She gave a tiny, smug smile. “But the truth is—she did it on purpose. For five years, she played dumb, played timid, played loyal right under the stepmother’s nose. And every piece of intel she passed to the stepmother was altered, delayed, or laced with misinformation.”

“The money the female lead gives her in the end isn’t forgiveness. It’s repayment.”

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack one.

Ivy had just described details I’d never even written into the book.

How did she know that?

My vision tunneled and went black at the edges.

The livestream ended abruptly. Not long after, Rowan showed up at my door.

“What the hell was that?! You wanted to put Ivy on the spot, make her look stupid!”

Whatever love I’d once had for Rowan was long dead. In this life, I wanted nothing to do with him.

“We’re done. I’m retiring. Moving home. Hope you and Ivy have a lovely life together.”

“Maeve, don’t think I’ll always come crawling back to you!”

“What are you gonna do at home, anyway? Go back to sewing buttons for your daddy’s tailor shop?”

Rowan sneered. “You think your dad can afford the breach-of-contract fees for your new book?”

I just shrugged and shut the door in his face.

Rowan had no idea.

I was a bona fide heiress.

Sure, my dad was a couturier—but our family ran one of the oldest haute couture houses in Paris. Getting a custom gown from Callahan & Co.? You’d wait three years and pay six figures.

Publisher penalties? Breach-of-contract fees? Pocket change. The cost of a single evening dress.

If I couldn’t write, I’d run the family business.

Let’s see how Ivy updates her novels when I’m no longer creating.

I told Wendy I was putting down my pen for good.

She looked torn. “You’ve still got two books under contract, and five years left on your platform exclusivity deal. You’re their golden goose—they’re not letting you walk easy.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to think this through?”

I shook my head.

Writing was a dead end for me. Better to pivot than relive last life’s tragedy.

Seeing my mind was made up, Wendy stopped pushing.

“Alright. I won’t hold you back, and I can’t hold you back. Hope we get to work together again someday.”

I shook her hand, and the weight I’d carried for two lifetimes lifted off my shoulders.

A few days later, I posted my retirement announcement. My haters celebrated like it was Christmas.

“Ivy was definitely talking about her—why else would she quit out of guilt?”

“Tried to embarrass Ivy on stream? Now she’s running away. Pathetic.”

“So jealous of Ivy’s success she can’t stand it? Can’t write anything good herself—boohoo.”

“At least she’s saving us the trouble of chasing her off. Smart move.”

I was out of the game. Let the trolls have their fun.

I packed my bags and took a cab to JFK.

Scrolling through my phone, I saw Ivy’s latest TikTok.

She looked genuinely distraught, eyes red-rimmed.

“It was all a misunderstanding. I never meant Maeve when I talked about plagiarists.”

“I absolutely adore Maeve’s work. I hope she’ll pick up her pen again, for all her devoted fans.”

She bowed deeply to the camera. “Maeve, I’m sorry! If I did anything wrong, I hope you’ll be generous and not hold it against me.”

“If you quit because of me, I’ll be the villain of the entire literary world!”

She was laying it on so thick even the commenters felt sorry for her.

I didn’t get it.

With me retired, the plagiarism drama was over. Wasn’t that a win-win?

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