I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 08

I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 08

The engineer was quiet for a moment.

“It’s been too long. Your brain has formed a conditioned reflex—whenever you enter a writing state, your neural signals automatically output at that frequency. Even if we destroy the bracelet now, if you start writing again, your thoughts will still transmit on that frequency. All they’d need is a new capture device, and they’d still read everything.”

“What we need to do is sever the pairing between your neural signal and their receiver.” He opened the lower compartment of his case and pulled out a small silver transmitter. “Using reverse-frequency pulses, we recalibrate your neural conduction pattern. This process requires fifteen consecutive days. During that time, you cannot write. You cannot outline any story. You cannot consume any narrative content—no books, no films, no shows. Otherwise, that pairing will never break.”

On the flight home, my mom held my hand so tight her knuckles went white.

I tossed the bracelet into an airport trash can.

The next fifteen days were like forced detox.

No laptop. No novels. No scripts. Even scrolling short videos, I’d automatically analyze story structure—so my dad locked every book in his study. My mom set parental controls on every streaming service.

There was only one thing I could do: work with my hands.

My dad taught me tailoring from the ground up. Stitch by stitch, fabric, scissors. No thinking required—just focus on the feel of silk under my fingertips, the weight of the shears. For the first time in my life, I realized: not thinking is its own kind of freedom.

On day ten, Rowan posted an Instagram video claiming all my previous work was ghostwritten, complete with screenshot “evidence.”

The comments ripped him apart:

“You’re saying a Fifth Avenue heiress paid someone to write web novels? She could sell one of her family’s townhouses and fund your entire career.”

“Screenshots as evidence? Did you just discover the internet yesterday?”

“Go ahead and sue her. Stop posting videos—take it to court.”

Because my dad had our company account post a statement:

“We believe in the law and in creative freedom. Any allegations should follow proper legal channels. Our company reserves all rights to legal recourse.”

Rowan called from different numbers every day—starting with screaming rants, then begging me to meet him. I blocked every single one.

On the evening of day fourteen, I was hemming a silk skirt when a blood-curdling scream came from outside.

I ran to the window—Rowan was standing past the garden gate, his face hidden under a beanie and surgical mask, but the skin peeking through his gloves was red, blistered, swollen.

“Maeve! Come out! I need to talk to you!” His voice was garbled, like his mouth was full of cotton.

My mom blocked the door, her voice shaking. “One more day! You can’t go out there!”

I laughed helplessly, went back to my worktable, and kept hemming that skirt.

On the morning of day fifteen, the engineer used the transmitter to pulse-neutralize my wrist three times. There was no sensation whatsoever—but on his screen, the dense jagged waveform gradually flattened into a straight line.

“It’s done.” He said. “Your signal frequency has been recalibrated. She can’t read anything now.”

My dad asked, “What does it feel like?”

I thought about it. “Hard to describe… that constant taut wire in my skull—it just… let go.”

That night, Wendy called.

“Maeve, you know what happened to Ivy?”

My heart jumped. “What?”

“She went mute. Two days ago—completely lost her voice. They did a brain scan at the hospital. Her language center showed severe abnormal electrical activity, like something burned through it. Also—” Wendy dropped her voice. “Rowan posted last night. Beanie and masked. Said he had facial nerve paralysis. People online are speculating he had a botched facelift.”

I held the phone, my fingertips cold.

The engineer had said: “The reverse pulse cuts off your output. But if their receiving device is still open during the backflow, the current will burn straight through their collection nodes.”

Rowan’s face. Ivy’s language center.

The moment that signal broke, the feedback surge had burned out the neural pathways they’d been using to “receive.”

The way stolen things always return with interest than the way they were taken.

Wendy sighed on the phone. “Enough about them. Maeve, have you thought about coming back to writing?”

I was about to answer when my dad’s voice came from behind, booming with laughter.

“Go! Go! Go! Get back to your writing!”

I turned around—my dad and mom were standing there. My dad grinned, his eyes bright.

“I’ve got decades left in me. You write your heart out.”

In that moment, I laughed like spring had finally arrived.

One year later, I stood on the stage at the Penfield Awards.

“Let’s congratulate this year’s Penfield Award winner for Best Novelist —Maeve Callahan!”

Golden confetti rained down, catching the light like stars.

Everything that should have been mine—finally—came back home.