I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 06

I Quit, and the Plagiarist Fell Apart Chapter 06

But it wasn’t a total loss.

To test my theory, I’d deliberately stuffed the version I gave Wendy with plot holes and nonsense that wouldn’t survive a beta read.

The version I actually liked—the one that worked—was only in my head.

Somehow, Ivy could read my mind.

That’s why she hadn’t used my submitted draft. She’d taken the phantom version that existed in my thoughts.

And that’s also why she’d gone silent after I retired—she had nothing to copy.

My throat closed up. A wave of helplessness swallowed me whole.

I knew the truth. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“Mind-reading plagiarism”? I’d sound like a lunatic.

Worst case—I’d get branded a copycat all over again, just like last time.

Twitter was on fire over Ivy’s new work.

“Oh my god, Ivy is a gift to the literary world!”

“My queen finally getting the recognition she deserves! Write more, we’re starving!”

“When’s the next update?! I’m wearing out my F5 key!”

Buried under the covers, I racked my brain until my skull ached.
Nothing.

After that disaster, Wendy didn’t bring up screenwriting again.

I gave up for good and threw myself into tailoring with my dad.

Over the next few months, Ivy dropped three more stories. Every single one was a hit.

Her books hit the shelves en masse. Limited-edition merch sold out in seconds.

Rowan went public with their relationship via a glossy Instagram photoshoot.

Digital billboards around Manhattan lit up with Ivy’s book promos. I pulled my coat tighter and walked past without looking.

When I got home, my mom was watching BBC News.

On screen, Ivy was doing a live press interview at the London Book Fair.

She saw me and flinched, reaching for the remote to turn it off.

I knew she was trying to protect me. But I was curious what Ivy had to say.

I stopped her, sat down, and watched with her.

The interview was live, with a panel of literary critics.

After the usual praise, the host got to the point.

“Ivy, everyone’s raving about your latest novel. Any unique insights you’d like to share?”

A middle-aged female scholar took the mic. “At first, I was blown away by the narrative structure. From the family trust power plays to the boardroom maneuvering to the federal courtroom showdown—it paints a vivid picture of power games inside a Wall Street dynasty. I really admire Ivy’s writing and look forward to her future work.”

Ivy smiled graciously and thanked her.

“Hold on.”

The host was about to take the mic when a professor from NYU adjusted his glasses and spoke slowly.

“I actually have a question for our young author.”

“In your novel, when the male and female leads first meet, the male lead recites a poem: ‘That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.’ Why did you put those words in an original character’s mouth?”

Ivy smiled confidently. “I thought quoting Shakespeare’s sonnet would set the right romantic mood.”

The professor’s face went stone cold.

The live chat exploded.

“Wait—what did she just say?!”

“That’s NOT a sonnet! It’s from Romeo and Juliet, and the line’s been debated for centuries—tons of scholars think Shakespeare lifted it from Christopher Marlowe’s unpublished drafts!”

“Marlowe was famous before Shakespeare! Marlowe died the same year Shakespeare started writing his major works. You can find Marlowe’s echoes all over several Shakespeare plays!”

“So she quoted an academically disputed passage in her own novel—and called it ‘Shakespeare’?! She has no clue what she’s copying!”

I smirked at the TV.

Ivy could read my mind, but she couldn’t understand the deeper layers.

She knew 1+1=2, but had no idea what “2” actually meant. I’d hidden that academic landmine in the lovers’ first meeting scene. She copied it blindly—without realizing it was a bomb.

The comments were pulled onto the side screen. Ivy glanced at them—and her smile froze solid. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.

The panelists started re-evaluating Ivy’s work. The female scholar frowned, flipping through the hardcover proof. She stopped near the end, looked up at the host:

“Wait. These chapter titles…”

The host leaned in, read them—and his expression shifted.

That was the second landmine.

The first letters of each chapter, strung together, spelled:

“I AM A FRAUD”