Chapter 1: The Press Conference

After the entire internet turned against me for plagiarism, I publicly announced my retirement from writing.

As my words echoed through the Mumbai Press Club auditorium, a heavy silence settled. The sharp click of cameras and the low murmur of reporters faded into the background. The harsh tube-lights flickered above, throwing jittery shadows across the fraying red carpet. Sweat trickled down my neck, but I kept my chin high. For a moment, the scent of old newspapers flashed in my memory, and I heard my father’s voice: 'Beta, when the world is watching, you must stand tall. Himmat mat khona.' That memory anchored me. I gripped the podium tighter, refusing to let my resolve waver.

My boyfriend, who had been loudly accusing me moments ago, suddenly fell silent.

Kabir, with his sleeves rolled up like some wannabe TV anchor, now stood frozen beside the podium. His jaw tightened, eyes flickering nervously to the sea of journalists. His usual clever lines deserted him—he looked less like a debater, more like a schoolboy caught cheating in class.

'Arre, what about all those loans you have to pay? You think you can just walk away like this?' he hissed, voice barely above a whisper, desperation leaking through. I caught the uncertainty in his eyes for the first time. A few reporters craned their necks, eager for a show. Kabir’s face, usually so smooth and charming, now looked as if he’d bitten into a raw karela.

His so-called 'white moonlight'—the supposed victim of the plagiarism scandal—Priya, was just as shaken.

Priya, in her soft pastel salwar with her hair neatly braided, twisted the end of her dupatta between her fingers, the gold border catching on her ring. Her eyes darted to the TV cameras as she tried to maintain her gentle, aggrieved look. Her kohl-lined eyes glistened as she struggled to squeeze out tears.

'Ananya, you don’t have to punish yourself like this. I’m willing to give you a chance to start over.'

Her voice trembled, attempting to sound magnanimous but faltering. She glanced sideways at Kabir, silently begging for his support.

I stared out at the blinding camera lights, my face set.

The lights lined up like Diwali diyas, dazzling me for a moment. I let the brightness wash over me, my hands gripping the podium’s edge so tightly my knuckles whitened. I made sure my face betrayed nothing, even as a WhatsApp notification pinged loudly from the press row. A reporter whispered, 'Beta, this is going viral already.'

In my last life, these two had humiliated me in public while secretly plotting to steal my work.

They put on their innocence for social media, feeding netizens a story no one ever questioned. Like a bad saas-bahu serial, only this time, I was cast as the vamp.

The words I’d poured my soul into had made Priya famous—a literary prodigy, everyone said.

My words, my feelings, twisted and paraded as hers, won her glowing editorials in The Times, viral Reels, and a book deal with a glossy cover. Even my childhood diary entries became her 'genius.'

This time, I moved to delete the pen name I’d used for six years.

My hand hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. I remembered my mother’s voice: 'Never let them see you weak, Anu.' The trembling stilled. I pressed the final command, feeling as if I was peeling off a suffocating skin.

I’ve had enough of this cramped rented flat. It’s time to go home and inherit my family’s fortune.

That poky apartment—with its leaking tap and peeling paint—felt like another world now. 'Home' wasn’t just a word, but the memory of sprawling lawns, my mother’s bangles chiming in the kitchen, and the cool marble floors where I’d nap as a child.

As for Priya—let’s see how you manage to finish the rest of the story.

I nearly laughed, picturing her struggling to fill the gaps, to connect plot threads and arcs only I could tie together. The world would soon see her truth.