Eighty million dollars. The moment I won the state lottery, I dropped out of the National Web Novel Contest.
Geoffrey Harrington heard about it within the hour and came to find me—a whole crowd in tow, grinning like it was a show.
"Running away before the battle even starts? Is this how you repay your professors and everyone who believed in you?"
"Or maybe there's something wrong with your entry, and you're scared the judges will find out?"
In my last life, Geoffrey Harrington submitted a contest entry identical to mine.
I racked my brain and still couldn't figure out how it happened.
I asked my editor, Clementine Simmons, who'd been feeding me story inspiration, and Clara Dickerson, my childhood sweetheart who was with me every day, to help clear my name.
Instead, they sided with Geoffrey and framed me.
With no way to prove my innocence, I was branded a plagiarist.
The school expelled me. Then the penalty bills came—breach of contract, damages, numbers I couldn't even process.
My mother went door to door trying to clear my name, and the internet turned on her for it—thousands of strangers tearing her apart until she collapsed overnight.
Every blow landed on the last one's bruise, and somewhere in the middle I stopped feeling any of it.
To stop dragging my family down with me, I climbed to the rooftop and stepped off the edge.
I never expected heaven to give me a second chance.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the eve of the contest.
……
Right now I was sitting at my desk, staring at the writing materials Clementine had gotten through her connections at the publishing house.
She'd signed to me with total confidence: just follow this outline, and I could take first place.
"Doug, you working on that material I brought you? I made your favorite braised ribs—come eat something first, then you can get back to it."
"You haven't had a single thing all day."
Clementine signed the words at me, her whole face soft with concern.
That was when Clara pushed the door open.
She handed me a box, her voice warm with concern.
"I heard your shoulder's been bothering you lately. This massager should help you relax a little."
Right. Of course. Exactly the same scene as last time.
In my previous life, the contest entry I submitted turned out to be identical to Geoffrey Harrington's, word for word.
The judges flagged it immediately.
As an author who'd already won multiple awards, I had a real shot at first place.
But the moment the duplicate surfaced, I was dragged into a firestorm.
I went to Clementine, the editor who'd given me the story inspiration, and to Clara, the childhood sweetheart I spent every day with, begging them to speak up for me.
They refused. Worse—they went public, told everyone they were ashamed to even know me.
Clara took it further. She posted online announcing she was cutting all ties with me, and the post exploded—dragging me and my parents into a harassment campaign that never stopped.
The reason I'd entered the contest in the first place was the three-hundred-thousand-dollar first-place prize.
An illness had taken Clementine's voice. She would never speak again.
I wanted that money to pay for surgery to bring it back.
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.
