~Aria's POV
Wendy's heels clicked first, echoing across the hall, commanding attention with every step. She adjusted the microphone with that infuriating casual elegance, the kind that made me want to scream.
And then she did it. She looked directly at me. "My book was stolen," she said, calm, polished, venom hidden beneath that perfect smile. "By my stepsister. Aria Miller." I froze, the words slicing through me sharper than any blade.
Camera flashes exploded around me, reporters shouting questions I couldn't even hear over the pounding of my own heartbeat. My hands clutched the edges of my clutch so tightly I thought I might crush it.
What…? Wendy's eyes didn't waver. They locked onto mine, smug, practiced, certain. The hall seemed to shrink, the chatter and applause fading into a suffocating silence around me. The words hung in the air like smoke, choking, impossible to ignore.
"Ms. Miller! Is this true?!" one reporter shouted, pen poised, recorder clicking. Another pressed closer. "Did you steal her book? What do you have to say?" Before I could even form a response, Wendy lifted a perfectly manicured hand, a small, practiced smile on her face.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt," she said, her voice honeyed, smooth, almost sincere. "But I think it's important everyone knows who I am." She paused dramatically. "I'm Wendy Miller… Aria Miller's stepsister." The words hit me like ice. The chatter in the room seemed to fade for a second, the reporters' questions suspended mid-air. I blinked, unsure if I'd heard her right.
"I just want to say," she continued, placing one hand on her chest in that overly earnest way that made me want to scream, "that Margaret has always been my greatest inspiration. Her success, her talent… It's what pushed me to finally believe I could write something of my own."
She paused, letting the room absorb it. Letting it soften her.
"Margaret encouraged me," Wendy went on, voice trembling in a way that felt rehearsed. "She told me to write my first book. To be brave. To put my heart on the page." She swallowed, eyes glistening now. "I never imagined that someone so close to me would… take that courage and turn it into this."
Her gaze slid to me. It was bief and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk.
"Which is why it hurts me so much to say," she continued, drawing out every word, "that my first book, the one I worked so hard on, was stolen. By Aria."
The room shifted with a collective intake of breath.
Then Bethany's voice cut through it, loud and commanding, the kind that demanded attention whether it deserved it or not. "She trusted her," she said, stepping forward, fury etched into every line of her face.
"She shared her ideas, her drafts. And Aria took them. Packaged them as her own. Can you imagine the betrayal?" Her hand flew to her chest. "My daughter, humiliated like this. By her own stepsister."
Cameras went wild. Flash after flash, reporters shouting questions and scrambling for position, every lens now aimed at me. My heart hammered, and my mind raced, trying to understand what was happening, how they'd even gotten access to my work.
Wendy gestured toward the projector behind her. "We have proof," she said, and the screen lit up with images, pages, documents, timelines. "This," she pointed, "is my new book. And this," she said, tapping another slide, "was modified… submitted, and registered under my name by Aria Miller."
All eyes swung to me. My mouth opened, then closed again, words sticking in my throat. I was dumbfounded. How did she even get my manuscript? I thought frantically, panic creeping up my spine. I hadn't sent it to anyone but my publisher, had been careful, meticulous… and yet here they were, spinning this story as if it were fact.
Wendy's tears were carefully timed, shining under the bright lights as she dabbed at her cheeks.
"I will submit a petition against Aria Miller," she said, voice cracking just enough to sound sincere, "and I will be pursuing legal action. I will not let this injustice stand."
Something inside me snapped. I couldn't stand there anymore. I couldn't listen to their lies, their manipulations, their performance. My voice erupted, louder than I meant it to be, shaking with anger.
"No!" I yelled.
"I will not stand by while you smear me like this! This is my work! My life! And I will fight every word of this!" The room froze, the flashes of cameras blinding me, reporters murmuring, not knowing what to do with the eruption of my fury. I could feel the heat of rage coursing through me, a mix of betrayal, humiliation, and fear twisting together.
I spun on my heels and stormed toward the exit, ignoring the calls, the questions, the desperate attempts of reporters to grab my attention.
Wendy and Bethany's voices followed me, taunting, accusing, but I didn't care.
I needed air. I needed space. I needed to breathe. I walked faster once I spotted my car. My heels felt heavier now, less like power, more like dead weight, but I didn't stop. I unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed it shut like I could seal the whole world out with that sound alone.
My hands were shaking when I turned the key. The engine came alive, steady, indifferent. I pulled out of the parking lot without looking back. No mirrors. No glances. If I did, I might lose whatever was holding me upright. The drive to my father's house blurred.
Traffic lights passed. My phone buzzed endlessly in the passenger seat. I didn't check it. I already knew what it would say. Headlines forming in real time. My name is turning toxic even before it made waves.
By the time I parked in front of the house, my jaw hurt from how tightly I'd been clenching it. I walked in without knocking. The living room smelled like alcohol and stale air. My father was stretched out on the couch, glass in hand, eyes fixed on the television.
The news was on. Of course it was. My face froze on the screen, a still taken from the press conference.
Under it, bold words crawled across the bottom of the screen.
PLAGIARISM SCANDAL ROCKS LITERARY WORLD.
The anchor's voice droned on, almost clinical, as if they were discussing weather patterns and not my life. A smaller line of text appeared beneath the headline, updating in real time, cruel and efficient.
Sources claim the new writer's actions even caused acclaimed author Celeste Harrington to storm off the stage without explanation, leaving the event in chaos.
The footage replayed behind the words. Celeste's face was tight with shock. Her abrupt turn away from the podium. The way she disappeared backstage while cameras chased her retreat, commentators speculating wildly about what she knew, what she'd missed, what she'd been "tricked into supporting."
My stomach sank.
They were saying I'd embarrassed her, that I had tarnished her name. Dragged a respected author into my mess.
The screen froze on my face again, mid-blink, eyes wide and glassy. The kind of still that becomes a meme. The kind people dissect.
My dad didn't turn at first. Just stared, blinking slowly, like he was watching a stranger's life fall apart. I didn't greet him. I didn't ask how he was. I stood there, my body buzzing with anger and disbelief, and said, "You need to warn your wife and your daughter."