Chapter 2: The Fallout

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1

'Ms. Ananya, you keep saying you have evidence to prove you didn’t plagiarise. So where is it?'

A lady journalist in a crisp cotton saree pushed her mic forward, her gold OM pendant glinting in the light. In her eyes, breaking a story was like getting prasad at a temple fair.

'As your former reader, I really don’t want to believe you’d do something like this. Were your previous works really written by you?'

A boy no older than twenty, with a fake American accent and an oversized press badge, piped up. The crowd behind him murmured, faces a blend of skepticism and morbid curiosity. The faint aroma of samosas and instant coffee drifted in as the caterer shuffled by.

Staring at a sea of microphones, I froze. Then my heart pounded, wild and loud.

It was déjà vu—the worst moment of my life replaying, except now I knew the ending. My palms grew clammy, and the harsh lights seemed to pulse with every beat. Panic fluttered, but I steeled myself.

I had been reborn—returned to the day I held a press conference to prove my innocence.

A second chance, whether by fate or karma. I’d lived this humiliation before. Not again.

In my past life, my boyfriend’s white moonlight plagiarised my novel, which was based on my own secret crush.

I remembered how Priya had gently coaxed details about my college infatuation, pretending to be a confidante. Late-night chai sessions, her notebook filling up as I bared my heart.

On release day, the book shot to the top of the gold list, a campus romance legend overnight.

My phone blew up—editors, fan art, tweets. But my name was nowhere. Every banner, every tag praised Priya.

After being reposted by major Instagram meme pages, netizens called it deeply moving.

My DMs exploded with tags, but each one praised Priya’s 'raw emotion.' Even my old tuition teacher forwarded a meme, not knowing it was mine.

I had intended to show my original drafts as evidence.

I’d saved every version—scanned sketches, WhatsApp chat backups, even that yellowed notebook with faded ink. I’d rehearsed my speech, line by line.

But on the day of the conference, someone had wiped my files clean—nothing left.

I remembered the sickening drop in my stomach, folder after folder empty. The IT guy just shrugged, muttering 'system error,' as if it was a missing courier, not my life’s work.

I endured unprecedented online abuse, receiving funeral wreaths, black-and-white photos, and threatening packages from all over India every day.

Every morning, the building watchman would hand me a parcel with pity. Once, a coconut with red tikka and a note: 'Rest in peace, Chor.' Delivery boys left things outside my door. Neighbours who once borrowed milk now looked away. TV debates raged—'Should plagiarists be banned?'—with my face flashing below.

I gritted my teeth and kept writing, but in the end, an obsessed anti-fan stabbed me at my own door.

I still remembered the sharp pain, the metallic taste of blood mixing with incense from the temple below. The city moved on. I never got another chance—until now.

Now, after just a moment’s hesitation, Kabir couldn’t hold back. 'Ananya, if you say Priya is slandering you, then show your evidence! Don’t make baseless accusations and drag others down with you!' His glare was sharp, but there was a smug glint in his eyes.

He put on his most righteous voice, like a serial hero, but I saw the relish in his look—he enjoyed my downfall.

Of course he knew what was in my folder.

He was the one who’d urged me to use his 'old laptop' for my drafts. All this time, playing the perfect partner. I burned with rage.

He wanted my reputation destroyed so Priya could become the top author.

It was all a set-up—a drama with only one villain: me.

I lowered my eyes, picked up my laptop, and walked to the projection booth.

As I stepped away, the room hushed. My heels echoed on the old tiles like drumbeats in my ears.

I turned it on and cast the screen.

The login page flickered, the ancient projector’s whirring like a conch at pooja. The air was thick with expectation, every face glued to the screen.

In the next moment, in full view, I deleted the pen name I’d used for six years.

My hand trembled as I hovered over the final button, then steadied as my mother’s advice rang in my mind. I pressed enter. The gasp from the room was instant.

Kabir and Priya both jumped to their feet.

Kabir nearly knocked over a bottle, Priya’s hands flew to her mouth. The uproar drowned out the sound of chairs scraping.

I spoke coldly: 'Everyone, I’ve been wronged today, and all evidence has been destroyed by someone with ill intent, making it impossible for me to defend myself.

From today, this pen name is gone. I am officially retiring from writing and will never set foot in the online literature world again.'

My voice was like ice, and the stunned silence that followed was broken only by the whir of camera shutters and low gossip among the journalists. I didn’t let my voice shake, not even once.