I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 04

I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 04

Since I couldn’t solve the mystery, I stopped torturing myself.

I powered off my phone, rolled down the window, and let the crisp October wind whip through my hair.

Three hours in the air. I’d barely finished half my book when we touched down at Charles de Gaulle.

Outside the terminal, my dad’s Rolls-Royce Phantom was waiting curbside.

The driver took my bags. My mom swept me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe, while my dad beamed nearby.

Feeling that warmth, my eyes stung.

“Big girl now, and you’re still crying over your parents!”

My mom scolded me gently, rubbing circles on my back.

“Those literary types are meaner than rattlesnakes. That’s why us craftspeople are the real deal!”

My dad patted my shoulder. “Sweetheart, forget those jokers. Come home, and I’ll teach you the trade.”

I laughed through my tears. “I didn’t even tell you anything—how do you know I got played?”

He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your old man’s eyes? Sharper than a seamstress’s needle.”

Once we got home and I’d settled in, my mom hesitated, then spoke up.

“Maeve, tell us the truth. What really happened?”

I sighed and laid it all out—both lifetimes.

My mom wrapped her arms around me, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My poor baby. You’ve been through so much.”

My dad’s brow was furrowed for a long time before he spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

“Those bastards. Hurting my daughter comes with a price.”

“Maeve, you rest up now. Your mom’s always complaining I never take her anywhere—you take her on a trip for a few months.”

“Leave this to your old man.”

Three days later, my mom and I hit the road.

Everywhere we went, inspiration sparked in my head—but I was too scared to write a single word.

At a café in Venice, watching the gondolas glide past, my mom took my hand.

“Life isn’t just about one thing. A simple cup of espresso, a bite of tiramisu—that’s happiness too.”

“Maeve, remember: your parents will always have your back.”

Four months on the road, and I was finally ready. I started apprenticing under my dad, learning the tailoring trade from the ground up.

I was so busy I barely had time to breathe, but my dad was grinning
ear to ear every time I looked up.

One evening, at a charity gala my dad dragged me to, my phone rang.

Rowan.

“Maeve, you’ve had your fun. Come back now, or I’ll start posting expose videos.”

Rowan had two million followers, and he knew exactly how to spin a narrative. The guy was a master of internet manipulation.

He thought threatening me would make me cave—since writing was my whole world. But this time, he was dead wrong.

When I stayed silent, his tone softened, syrupy sweet.

“Ivy already apologized. Can’t you let it go? Maeve, I miss you. Come home.”

“I’m so bored without your stories. Have you written anything lately? Send it to me!”

Rowan’s two-faced act just confirmed what I already knew—he and Ivy were two peas in a pod.

I hung up and blocked him on every platform.

Without them in my life, I threw myself into the art of tailoring. It was peaceful. Quiet.

Just when I thought things would stay calm, Wendy showed up at my door.

“Look at you, living the high life! Little heiress now!”

“If I’d known you were loaded, I wouldn’t have wasted time negotiating with the publisher—I’d have let you pay the full penalties!”

“Anyway! Dinner, drinks, spa—you’re treating me to all of it tonight!”

I laughed and agreed, then gave her a tour of our private gallery, walls lined with vintage gowns.

“By the way, Ivy’s also saying she’s taking a hiatus from writing.”

“What happened to her?”

“Something about health issues. No new work for the foreseeable future.”

What?!

She’d always been fine—partying with Rowan until dawn, sleeping three hours, then playing tennis with friends.

“Before you left, she bragged she’d have a full-length novel out by winter. Now… nothing.”

Wendy’s words set off alarm bells in my head.

She stopped writing right after I left? Because of me?

If I didn’t write… she couldn’t either?

“Hey Maeve, ever thought about screenwriting?”

“Screenwriting?”

The second Wendy said it, my guard went up.

That was still creative writing, wasn’t it?

Something was off.