Chapter 3: Aftermath and Escape

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2

After I finished speaking, I took my laptop and turned to leave. Derek rushed to block my way.

He planted himself in the aisle, arms crossed, trying to look authoritative. His face was red with anger—or was it panic?

"What are you doing? Didn’t you say you still have a mountain of debt to pay off?"

He sounded more desperate than I expected, like his own future depended on my answer.

"You think you can just quit writing like that? Wasn’t writing your biggest dream?"

For someone who’d never supported my dream, he sure seemed invested now. The irony almost made me laugh.

Rachel was flustered too. She hurried over, eyes brimming with tears.

Her hands shook as she tried to play the part of the wounded friend. The act was slipping.

"Natalie, please—don’t do this to yourself. Everyone deserves a second chance, okay? I’ll vouch for you. I swear."

She squeezed my hand as if we were lifelong friends, her voice breaking for the cameras. I could see the flashes reflecting in her watery eyes.

I sneered, watching the two of them put on their act.

A bitter laugh escaped me, just loud enough for Derek to hear. They really thought this performance would sway me—or the public. Some people will do anything for sympathy points.

The next second, Rachel suddenly bit her lip and dropped to her knees in front of me.

Gasps echoed from the audience. She sank to the carpet, tears streaming, as if this was the finale of a daytime soap.

"Natalie, I beg you, please don’t quit over something so trivial. Your readers will never forgive me."

She clung to my sleeve, sobbing harder now, her voice trembling. It was melodrama at its finest.

"I can delete everything and pretend none of this ever happened. If you quit, I’ll feel guilty forever. I won’t write anymore either..."

Camera shutters exploded, capturing every angle. Somewhere, a social media intern was already crafting the perfect viral tweet.

The sound of camera shutters instantly focused on her.

In the space of a few seconds, Rachel had gone from victim to martyr. The audience ate it up, some dabbing at their eyes.

The senior editor who once managed me couldn’t help but rush over to pull her up.

Lisa Fields, the woman who’d rejected my last three manuscripts, all but sprinted to Rachel’s side.

"Rachel, what are you saying? Why are you kneeling to a plagiarist?"

Her voice was sharp, scolding Rachel but loud enough for the microphones to catch. She shot me a glare that could’ve curdled milk.

"She brought this on herself. You just signed a top author contract with the company. Don’t forget, you still have projects to finish."

She helped Rachel up, smoothing her hair and straightening her blazer for the cameras. For a moment, the whole press conference seemed to orbit around Rachel’s fragile dignity.

I couldn’t be bothered to endure any more attacks, so I simply left the scene.

I kept my eyes forward, chin up, tuning out the jeers and questions. My steps echoed through the marble hallway, every stride a little lighter as I got farther from them.

To avoid being blocked by reporters, I deliberately took a detour and caught a Lyft home from the back entrance.

The hallway smelled like takeout and old carpet cleaner, the kind of scent you only notice when you’re leaving for good. The alley behind the venue smelled like rain and car exhaust, but at least it was quiet. My Lyft driver—a young guy with a Yankees cap and a playlist full of old-school hip-hop—didn’t recognize me. The driver shot me a sympathetic glance in the rearview, but didn’t ask questions. Big city, big problems, right?

On the way back, my Twitter notifications wouldn’t stop popping up.

My phone vibrated constantly, the screen lighting up with each new mention. I tried to mute it, but the avalanche was relentless.

I opened them to see that four of the top ten trending searches were about me:

#NataliePorterPlagiarism

#NataliePorterRachelSummers

#RachelSummersForcedToKneel

#RachelSummersGhostwriter

The rabid PR accounts denied all my previous creative work.

Bots and sock puppets spun wild theories. Someone had even made a meme of my press conference, complete with crying emojis and dramatic music overlays.

They claimed I plagiarized Rachel’s ideas and even forced her to be my ghostwriter.

The narrative changed every hour. Suddenly I was the villain in every version, while Rachel’s halo grew brighter.

My Twitter was flooded with insults.

[Ugh, disgusting. I actually stanned a plagiarist.]

[I watched the live press conference. Natalie Porter was so scared she couldn’t speak, and in the end even forced Rachel Summers to kneel.]

[At least she knows to retire. Otherwise, I’d ruin her myself.]

[Even her own boyfriend stood up to accuse her. Natalie Porter, what have you done?]

[She probably made enough money and is running away. Support Rachel Summers in suing her until she pays every cent.]

My DMs were all vile abuse.

Threats, slurs, even a few poorly photoshopped images of me behind bars. I blocked as fast as I could, but it felt endless.

Meanwhile, Rachel’s Twitter followers skyrocketed, and her comments section was filled with warm encouragement.

People called her brave, inspirational. Hashtags like #WeLoveYouRachel and #StayStrong trended for hours. She ate it up, replying with prayer hands and heart emojis.

I left a single comment:

[Then I hope you can keep updating daily and finish the second half. Don’t let the readers down.]

It was just enough to get under her skin, and I knew it. The subtext would haunt her every time she tried to write.

I knew I hadn’t left her much of a stockpile.

Her panic must’ve been delicious—trying to cobble together plot points she barely understood, knowing there was no backup plan.

Rachel was too impatient—afraid I hadn’t finished, she rushed to act first.

She wanted the glory, but didn’t realize the work wasn’t done. Some stories just aren’t meant for thieves.

But the foreshadowing and Easter eggs I’d buried, she could never complete.

It was all in the details—the callbacks, the subtle hints. She’d never find them all, no matter how hard she tried.

It was only a matter of time before she was exposed.

Truth has a funny way of coming out, especially when it’s hidden in plain sight.