Chapter 2

Fifteen minutes later, X’s Trending Topics were on fire.

#NatalieBrooksPlagiarism

#RomanceStarFallsFromGrace

#NatalieApologizes

I leaned back on the couch, scrolling down line by line. The comment section was instantly flooded.

Old readers who had followed me for five years unfollowed and left comments.

"Liked you for five years, only to realize I was wrong about you. Disgusting."

Randoms piled on.

"Always thought her writing was pretentious, turns out it was stolen."

"Plagiarists don’t belong in publishing."

Occasionally someone would ask if there was a misunderstanding, but they were quickly mobbed into deleting their accounts.

Right on cue, Megan posted a lengthy statement accompanied by a selfie with red, tear-stained eyes.

"As a debut author, I never imagined someone I looked up to would do this... Seeing my words in her book, I cried all night. But I choose to forgive. Thank you for standing by me."

In the comment section, the bot accounts were terrifyingly synchronized.

"Megan, don’t cry. We stand with you."

"Stand up for original creators."

The narrative completely spiraled out of control.

Someone started doxxing me.

"She never shows her face, definitely because she's ugly and insecure, so she hides behind a screen."

Someone else impersonated my former assistant and posted.

"Natalie has a terrible temper, is a total diva, and uses ghostwriters. Everyone in the industry knows."

My career, in this moment, completely collapsed.

Two production companies terminated their film option agreements. Serial reading platforms pulled my books, froze my accounts, and suspended my royalties.

The secretary of the Romance Writers of America sent me an email:

"Natalie, your membership and award nominations will be suspended pending review. Megan’s promotional features are already moving forward. We hope you understand."

Those debut authors I had personally brought into the association, the ones whose drafts I had helped edit, the ones I had introduced to editors and resources, also started posting Instagram Stories.

"Firmly supporting original creators, drawing a line with plagiarists."

I stared at the screen, remembering what Gavin used to say.

"You write clean, and your heart is soft. Don't look at what they say online, I'll protect you."

"From now on, you just write. I'll block the outside world for you."

But now, the one pushing the storm onto me was him.

I gripped my phone and dialed Gavin's number.

"I already posted the statement," I said. "Where are my father's materials?"

His tone was light. "What’s the rush? Let the storm pass a bit. Stay off the internet recently, read fewer comments."

"You said once I signed, you'd let me access the materials."

"I said after the execution of the agreement. Right now you only posted a statement, the documents haven't been mailed back. Besides, with your current reputation, what can you even do with the materials? Just wait."

"Gavin."

"Enough." His voice hardened. "I'll give them to you, but not now. Don’t turn this into a public war. If you keep posting, you'll only face more lawsuits, and you'll drag everyone into a media circus and a disciplinary review."

He hung up.

I sat in the dark for a long time. The light from the phone screen reflected on my face as I scrolled through those comments one by one.

The anger slowly receded, leaving only coldness.

I finally understood that as long as I kept listening to him, I would never be able to turn my life around. My father's case, my reputation, would all be used as leverage by Gavin, bleeding me dry bit by bit.

I couldn't sit and wait anymore.

I opened my call history, found a number that had been gathering dust for years, and sent a very short text.

Then, I turned off my phone and started organizing the evidence. Manuscript drafts, modification timestamps, voice recordings, iMessage logs.

One by one, saved and categorized.