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My fingers work on autopilot, mechanically resetting all my information. I log into my checking account.
$68,920.07.
The balance jolts me out of my river of panic.
There’s no way that’s real.
I scan through the recent deposits, all from Ever Printing.
A little over two weeks ago, my balance was a fraction of what I’m looking at now.
If I’ve made this much, what is the person plagiarizing my work making?
For fuck’s sake. I probably need a lawyer or something.
What does that even cost? Would I have to come clean about being the real Zoe Mona?
How did I not catch this sooner?
“You were right, look at this.” Nico slides his laptop across the counter. “Villa Printers is the only non-traditional publishing house that prints books in the UK.”
I stare at the company’s unfamiliar logo. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Nico dials their helpline number and sets his phone on speaker in front of me.
“Welcome to Villa Printers,” says a robotic voice.
I rapidly smash down the zero. The universal hack for when I need to speak to a breathing human being, not an automated machine.
The line flattens. A few breaths later, a voice fills the room. “Hello, you’ve reached Villa Printers. This is Samantha speaking. You are on a recorded—”
“My book was plagiarized,” I interrupt the terms-and-conditions rundown.
“I am so sorry. We take claims like this very seriously, and I would be ecstatic to connect you with our legal department.”
The line clicks, and a tune plays before I have a second to say anything else.
My teeth snap one of my nails in half from my nervous chewing. The familiar wash of a tension headache creeps up the edges of my ears.
I haven’t had one of these in a month.
“How could this even happen?” Nico paces around the living room of our suite.
I expel a tight breath. “I’m trying to figure that out right now.”
“Would someone at Villa Printers need the original manuscript, or can anyone just download a copy of your book online?”
“Ever Printing distributes exclusively in the US. I would’ve had to upload the original manuscript to a different country’s printer for it to be available there.”
“Could your publisher have done it?”
The gears of my mind spin. “I’ve never signed away my copyright. I own all my work.”
“Maybe it’s an angry fan?” His foot taps against the ground.
My teeth grit tighter. Doesn’t he understand I don’t have the answer to any of these questions?
“I don’t know. Can you just—” The tension around my head reaches a breaking point, blurring my vision.
