Darell said I owed him, and this was how he wanted me to pay him back. I had no choice. I owed him too much.
I returned to the States alone, bundled up in a hat and mask, but it didn’t stop the press from swarming me the moment I stepped off the plane.
They surrounded me instantly, microphones in my face, questions coming rapid-fire. I kept my head down, just trying to leave, but I was outnumbered and shoved all the way to the corner of the terminal.
“Miss Macy, by staying silent, are you admitting to the plagiarism scandal?”
“If your final piece was plagiarized, what about your previous work? Were those copied too?”
“Miss Macy, do you have anything to say to the fans who’ve supported you for years? Have you apologized to the rookie artist you allegedly stole from?”
I couldn’t answer any of them. Their sharp questions pierced through me like knives.
Everything blurred. The reporters, their flashing cameras, the aggressive shoving—it all felt like a public execution.
And in the chaos, I felt something eerily familiar.
I’d been pushed into a corner like this before—back when I was a child, forced to speak under pressure, scared and overwhelmed. That same sickening feeling crept in.