Reborn With a Winning Ticket I Exposed the Copycat Who Ruined Me

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 mea 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 camebreach 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 itthousands 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 ribscome 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. Worsethey 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 explodeddragging 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 prizeI 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 lipsthe 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 sitebag 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.

That last thread inside me snapped, and I had nothing left.

Late one night, I climbed to the hospital rooftop and stepped off the edge.

I never expected to open my eyes againdays before the writing contest, back in a life I'd already lost.

Even now, there were things I still couldn't make sense of.

Clementine was my own sister. How could she have set me up?

Clara had grown up alongside me. She had a sharp tongue, sure, but she'd always had my back.

Once, when someone talked trash about me, she nearly got into a fistfight over it.

So what changed? What made them turn on me like that?

Where did it all go wrong?

I'd won first place in a children's writing competition when I was a kid.

In college, I published regularly in literary magazines.

My mentor said it straight: first place in this contest was mine to lose.

So when the plagiarism accusation broke, most people believed me.

On top of that, I'd already serialized a novel and published it as a book. Sales were solid.

I had no reason to plagiarize anyone.

But then Geoffrey released screenshots showing the exact timestamps of our submissions.

His was an hour earlier than mine.

And a full week before the contest, he'd posted his inspiration and outline on his social media account.

His contest entry followed that outline to the letter.

The organizers moved fast. They sent people to check every piece of evidence Geoffrey hadthe surveillance footage, the social media posts. All of it came back clean. Nothing altered, nothing faked.

And then they said it: I was the one who'd plagiarized Geoffrey Harrington.

My mind went blank.

That story was mine. I wrote every word. How could I have plagiarized it?

But I had no evidence to prove otherwise.

What I couldn't understand was why Geoffrey's contest entry was identical to mine.

Had Clementine shared her material with him too?

The questions kept piling up, and not a single one had an answer I could reach.

For now, though, Clementine and Clara weren't acting any differently than usual.

The only lead I could follow was Geoffrey's social media account.

By my count, he should have already posted the inspiration and outline.

But Clementine and Clara wouldn't leave my side, so I scribbled out a rough outline just to keep them satisfied.

Then I faked a stomachache and said I needed the bathroom.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Clara's eyes.

"God, you're so high-maintenance. Clem handed you everythingthe inspiration, the materialand you're *still* trying to slack off!"

Clementine quickly signed to smooth things over.

"There's still a week before the contest. Don't rush him. There's plenty of time."

"As long as he follows my plan, he's taking first. Guaranteed."

But time to find the truth was running out.

I locked the bathroom door behind me and pulled up Geoffrey's social media account.

Just as I expected, he'd posted something new.

He said he wanted to share his inspiration and novel outline with everyone.

One look, and I went rigid.

This was Clementine's material. The exact same material she'd given me.

And his outlineit was identical to the one I'd just dashed off minutes ago. Word for word.

Maybe the inspiration and source material overlapping was coincidence. Fine.

But Geoffrey's outline matching something I'd only just written? How?

A chill crawled up my spine.

I walked out of the bathroom. Clementine and Clara were still in the room, waitingand the second she saw me, Clara was already pushing me back toward the desk to write.

I faked a yawn. Told them I was wiped, wanted to call it a night.

Clara started to whine, but Clementine cut her off with a single look, then smiled and signed to me,

"If you're tired, get some rest."

Then she pulled Clara out of the room.

I didn't sleep at all that night.

Geoffrey's outline was identical to mine. If someone had leaked it, the only people who'd ever been in my study were Clementine and Clara. It had to be them.

I couldn't figure out why they'd do it.

My own sisterblood family. Clarathe girl I'd grown up next to since we were kids. And all of that counted for less than six months of knowing Geoffrey Harrington?

After a full night of thinking, I made a bold decision.

In my previous life, my contest entry had been fantasy, the genre I was best at.

It won first place, but it was old wine in a new bottle. Nothing groundbreaking.

This time, I'd write a mystery.

If my last life ended with plagiarism accusations, then I'd write something entirely new.

Win or lose, at the very least I'd shake the plagiarism label off my back. That was enough.

I went to the library study room, where I could look up reference material and rebuild the novel from scratch.

Halfway through, I stretched and decided to take a short break.

I was curious what Geoffrey was up to.

While my mind wandered, Clementine and Clara showed up.

I was puzzled. How did they even know I was here?

A second later, Clementine set a steaming lunch box on my desk and signed,

"You know you'll forget to eat once you start writing. So I brought you something."

Clara held out a thermos.

"Chicken soup. Simmered it all afternoon, just for you."

All that warmth, all that fussing. If I hadn't already lived through what comes nextif I hadn't seen exactly who they really wereI never would have believed these two were the ones feeding me to the wolves.

I forced a smile.

"Perfect timing. I was just getting hungry."

"Let me wash my hands first, then I'll dig in."

I grabbed my phone and left the library.

I never went to the restroom. I ducked around the corner and held still. Through the gap in the doorwaythere it was. The second Clara thought I was gone, her phone was out, aimed straight at my outline on the desk. Click.

I'd braced myself for it. Told myself I already knew. But watching her hands move, watching the screen flashsomething still cracked open in my chest that I couldn't quite swallow back down.

Huh. My dear sister. My precious childhood sweetheart.

I got back to the dorm at ten-thirty.

The second I walked in, my roommates were talking about Geoffrey.

I leaned over for a look. It was a photo.

Three hands raising cans of Coke in a toast.

Caption: *Fed and taken care of by the big sisters~*

I recognized Clementine's hand and Clara's hand immediately.

When did they get that close? I'd had no idea.

I didn't feel much of anything anymore.

I made up my mind on the spot: I wouldn't go home until the contest was over. If they couldn't even find me, they'd have nothing left to feed Geoffrey.

I could finally write in peace.

At last, just before the deadline, I finished the novel.

All I had to do now was submit the file.

I exhaled, long and slowand Geoffrey's social media account updated.

*My contest entry is officially submitted! Thanks, everyone, for the support these past few weeks.*

Attached was a screenshot of the document. Most of it was blurred out.

But I recognized the first few lines.

Word for word. Every single word identical to the novel I'd just finished.

And the timestamp on his post was ten minutes *before* I'd even completed mine.

I lost it. I was clawing at my scalp, going in circles, and none of it made sense.

I'd already cut myself off from Clementine and Clara.

No matter how many times they tried to reach me during that stretch, I never went back.

So how the hell was Geoffrey Harrington still getting every detail of my contest submission?

Part of me just wanted to lie down and rot. Let it all burn.

That was when a notification popped up on my phone.

The state lottery ticket I'd bought two days ago had hit. Eighty million dollars.

I almost jumped off my feet.

My family had never had money. I'd been paying my college tuition with manuscript fees and student loans.

The only reason I'd entered this contest in the first place was for the three-hundred-thousand-dollar prize.

Now that I had money, the contest result didn't matter anymore.

And just like that, a plan hit mea way to make Geoffrey Harrington, that shameless habitual thief, pay the price.

I didn't tell a soul about the win.

Instead, I revised my contest submission and uploaded it.

Geoffrey liked to copy?

Then I'd give him something to copy.

The second the contest closed, Geoffrey rushed to go live, bragging about his contest experience.

Comments flooded the chat:

"Bro you're way too confident lol, top three for sure right??"

Geoffrey hadn't even opened his mouth before Clara jumped into the comments:

"Top three?? Geoff's getting first, obviously. Not even a question!"

The chat erupted, everyone congratulating him.

But Geoffrey's gloating didn't last long. The color drained from his face.

Viewers were still confused when several police officers walked into the frame.