When the results dropped, I didn't just lose the prize—I got buried under a crippling penalty instead. And Geoffrey Harrington, who had never written a single thing in his life, walked away with first place. His entry was praised as the best short novel in years. A film studio snapped up the rights. An adaptation was already greenlit. Overnight, he was the name on everyone's lips—the brilliant new voice in fiction. And I was the plagiarist everyone loved to spit on.
The scandal was severe enough that the school expelled me and demanded full payment of the penalty.
Without a degree, all I could do was deliver food.
Customers dumped their orders over my head and left one-star reviews for fun.
My mother ran from office to office trying to get someone to listen, to clear my name.
The mobs found her instead. By morning she couldn't stand, and they rushed her to the ICU.
To cover those bills, I hauled cement at a construction site—bag after bag, until my hands bled and the debt barely moved.
I barely lasted a few days before the foreman kicked me off the site and kept every cent of my pay.
Then the hospital called.
My mother was dying. They told me to prepare myself.