The Plagiarism Scandal That Destroyed My Life

I sacrificed my hard-earned qualification to stay in school and set off for Arizona, seeking peace. But then, my supervisor called, accusing me of using a plagiarized paper to frame Felicity Morgan.

In my previous life, Felicity and I had both vied for the coveted spot to remain in school. Our supervisor made it clear: whoever published their research first would secure it. So I practically lived in the lab, pouring my heart and soul into my work, day and night.

But Felicity submitted her paper first—and to my shock, it was identical to mine. I was branded the plagiarist. I tried to explain, but my supervisor declared me guilty without a second thought, siding with her. The betrayal was devastating.

Even my own roommate turned against me, whispering rumors that I had been using plagiarism to snatch scholarships ever since I started my doctorate. Then, she went even further—poisoning me with paraquat.

When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer dying. I returned to the day I won the qualification to stay in school.

"The current job market is tough, and this qualification to stay in school is a rare opportunity," the tutor said with a stern look, holding his freshly brewed coffee. "Since both you and Felicity are graduating this year, it's only fair for you to compete. Whoever publishes a paper in a top journal first will earn the right to stay."

His words were sharp, but his tone was calm. He patted my shoulder, pulling me from the storm of painful memories. With a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he looked at me expectantly, silently asking for my agreement.

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, he cut me off. "Since neither of you object, we’ll move forward with this plan. To ensure fairness, I’ll personally oversee the process," he added, his voice firm, as though everything had already been decided.

In my previous life, the tutor had been nothing but kind to me. He guided me through my research, helped me navigate personal challenges, and treated me with the care of both a brother and a father. I never imagined that in the end, he would be the one to push me into the abyss.

I adjusted the heavy glasses on my nose, their weight grounding me in the reality that this wasn’t a dream—I had lived again.

Without a word, the tutor turned and called Felicity over, saying he needed to guide her on her thesis.

In my previous life, I had thought Felicity was distant from him. They rarely interacted about research, and their relationship seemed purely professional. I never suspected there was more beneath the surface.

But now I knew the truth: Felicity wasn’t just another student—she was his illegitimate daughter, secretly raised in his hometown.

When I returned to the dormitory, my roommate Nancy was already aware of the situation. While nibbling on some buffalo wings, she casually said, “Felicity is no match for you. What kind of academic work can a third-year graduate student even produce? You’ve been working toward your master’s and doctorate for eight years and have published countless papers.”

Her dining partner, Athena, chimed in, “Your supervisor dotes on you. You’re his only doctoral student, after all. He probably just wants to avoid any gossip by making this competition look fair. Don’t worry—when you win, remember to treat us to dinner!”

Their confidence was palpable, but it only deepened my inner conflict.

My family owns a business, so staying in school wasn’t a necessity for me. Yet, my parents didn’t want me to take on the challenges of the corporate world. They encouraged me to pursue academia and stay in school instead.

In my previous life, when the plagiarism accusations surfaced, I desperately tried to explain my innocence—but no one listened.

But the crushing blow came when my supervisor himself publicly declared that I had plagiarized Felicity. His words sealed my fate, leaving me to bear the shame. My academic accomplishments over the past eight years were erased, my master’s degree was revoked, and soon after, I faced something even worse.

Nancy, believing I had stolen her scholarships with plagiarized work, forced me to drink paraquat. I can still recall the unbearable, heart-wrenching pain of dying—chills run through me just thinking about it.

Felicity, a third-year graduate student under my supervisor, was quiet and reserved. Yet, she was well-liked and surrounded by friends, rarely finding herself in competition with others. In contrast, I was seen as the proud "golden girl"—born into a good family, highly capable, and determined to excel in everything I did.

Back then, I believed the supervisor’s insistence on a fair competition between us was merely to silence rumors and formalize the process. I never suspected the dark truth that lay beneath.

I threw myself into the lab, conducting experiments day and night, spending countless hours measuring data, and pulling all-nighters to finalize every detail. When I finally typed the last word and sent the completed draft of my paper to the editor, I felt a surge of relief—only for it to be crushed minutes later.

I received a rejection email. Worse, the editorial team had sent a formal statement to the school accusing me of plagiarism.

How could that be? No one in the entire JSTOR or even in the academic community had researched this specific area—there was no one I could have plagiarized.

Frantic, I wrote to the editorial department for clarification, only to discover that Felicity had submitted a paper two hours before mine—an exact copy of my work.

All the results of my sleepless nights and painstaking effort were credited to her. Yet during that time, she hadn’t even been in the lab; she was busy with graduation trips, nowhere near her research.

Before I could confront her, she publicly complained on social media, sarcastically lamenting, "I never thought someone like me, academic trash, would have this moment."

When people commented, she slyly added, "There’s a certain doctoral student who’s like the academic Lady Macbeth."

Soon enough, everyone who knew me believed I had stolen her work. The shame spread quickly, and my reputation was in tatters.

As the only doctoral student in my class, I was still locked in competition for the coveted spot to stay in school. But now, with the accusations of plagiarism, everything I had worked for was unraveling.

Students despised plagiarism, especially in academic research, and the backlash came fast and brutal. I was bombarded with insults and threats.

"Investigate her thoroughly. Maybe all her previous work was plagiarized too."

"So that's how easy it is to get a doctorate—just copy more."

"If she stays, will she teach students how to plagiarize?"

In a few harsh words, they dismissed my eight years of relentless effort and sacrifice.

I looked around at the lab—the bottles, the jars, the instruments I had operated day and night. Could the issue have been with the cameras installed in the lab? Had my work been stolen because it was monitored?

If that was the case, avoiding the school lab seemed like the best solution. I quickly called my dad and asked him to rent a lab at another university. This time, I would distance myself from campus.

Let’s see how Felicity manages to plagiarize my work now.