Chapter 3: The Last Straw

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2

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

His hand grabbed my elbow, the scent of his aftershave mixing with the musty carpet. Some reporters leaned in, hungry for more drama.

'Arre, what about all those loans you have to pay? You think you can just walk away like this?' Kabir’s voice rose, scanning the room for an audience. He looked as if he couldn’t believe I was leaving his carefully planned trap.

'Tu kya samajhti hai apne aap ko? Wasn’t writing your biggest sapna?' His tone was sharp, the fake concern that used to fool me now grating on my nerves.

Priya hurried over, her eyes brimming with tears.

She tripped on her dupatta, clutching my kurta. I caught the whiff of her sickly sweet perfume.

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

Her lower lip trembled, blinking furiously as she checked if the cameras caught her suffering.

I sneered, watching their performance—like a bad Hindi serial where the villains cry louder than the real victim.

The next second, Priya twisted the end of her dupatta, the gold border catching on her ring. She grabbed my hands. 'Ananya, please, I’ll touch your feet if you want, just don’t leave like this.' She hesitated, glancing at the door, embarrassed as the crowd gasped and the cameras clicked.

The star editor Meera rushed onto the stage, trying to save face.

Meera, in her signature Fabindia kurta and thick glasses, hissed under her breath, 'Priya, what are you saying? Why are you begging to a plagiarist?' She tried to pull Priya up, but Priya clung stubbornly, her performance flawless for the cameras.

'You just signed a top author contract. Don’t forget, you still have projects to finish,' Meera reminded her, her eyes darting to the press.

I couldn’t be bothered anymore, so I left the scene.

With a cold glance, I walked briskly toward the side exit, my laptop hugged to my chest.

To dodge the crowd, I took a detour and caught an auto-rickshaw from the back gate.

The rickshaw driver, a kindly uncle in a faded Nehru cap, checked me out in the mirror but said nothing. Mumbai’s humid air rushed in, carrying the smell of vada pav, diesel, and distant temple bells. For the first time in ages, I felt calm.

On the way back, my WhatsApp wouldn’t stop buzzing.

The phone vibrated so much, I put it on silent. Still, the notification count kept rising. City lights streaked by as we zipped through traffic.

I checked the top trending hashtags:

#AnanyaPlagiarism

#AnanyaPriya

#PriyaForcedToKneel

#PriyaGhostwriter

Meme pages denied all my work, calling me 'copycat queen.' Even those who once praised me now mocked me. I scrolled, numb.

They accused me of stealing Priya’s ideas and forcing her to ghostwrite.

Every fact twisted, every memory rewritten by strangers hiding behind cartoon DP’s.

My Instagram DMs overflowed with abuse:

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

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

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

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

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

Some sent crying emojis and villain memes from old Hindi films. My phone felt heavier by the minute.

Voice notes poured in, accents from every state—some threatening, some demanding apologies, others full of creative gaalis in Hindi, Tamil, Malayalam.

Meanwhile, Priya’s Instagram soared. Her latest selfie—smudged kajal, fake tears—got hundreds of 'stay strong didi' comments and fan-edits.

I left a single comment:

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

Short, but I knew Priya would fume. She hated being challenged.

I hadn’t left her much material.

Priya would have to spin gold from thin air. I smiled, picturing her sweating at the keyboard.

She was always too impatient, always rushing to claim credit but never ready for the hard work.

But the clues and foreshadowing in my stories? She’d never find them.

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

I leaned back in the auto, the city lights and chaos finally on my side.