The Alum They Betrayed Is The Chief Judge

Scrolling through the Westlake University student forum, I saw someone asking for help with a Startup Challenge assignment. Out of habit, and frankly, a bout of professional curiosity, I logged in with my old student account and offered some guidance, tweaking a few financial models and market strategies.

The group was ecstatic. They hailed me as a “super-alum” and a “guru,” constantly chasing me for feedback and urging me to polish the smallest details.

Two months later, with the project nearing perfection, the group chat went dead silent.

Curious, I scrolled back through the messages and discovered they’d created a new, private chat—

“She’s not even on the official roster. Let’s keep the competition win quiet and not loop her in on the presentation.”

“Exactly. The final team list only has our names. She better not show up at the finals tomorrow trying to take credit.”

“Fewer people means an extra fifty grand split between us!”

I leaned back from my screen and smiled, a cold, almost cruel expression.

So, this was never just an assignment.

The irony? Tomorrow, I happened to be the one sitting in the center of the judging panel.

1

They created a private chat but forgot that one of the accounts belonged to the University’s shared system.

As soon as I logged in, the new group messages started flashing:

“Some guru. We were just stroking her ego. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Right? She just moved a few numbers around. We’re the ones who pulled the all-nighters writing the pitch, doing the PPT, and running the errands. Why should she get a cut?”

“Yeah. We stick to the story that this was just a term paper. Nobody speaks up in the old group. Just let it fizzle out.”

A term paper?

They lured me in with a lie and now they were going to double down on it. A sharp annoyance sparked in my chest. I opened the old group and posted a message from my personal account:

“After spending all this time guiding you, I need to remind you: the core financial models and market projection data in that report are far too granular. The sourcing and depth mimic a real-world commercial pitch.”

“They are suitable for a regular class assignment, but they are absolutely inappropriate for a serious business competition. The judges will immediately question your data provenance.”

In the two months I’d spent with them, I had rarely spoken with such professional gravity.

If they stopped now, if they pulled the plug and went back to collecting open-source data, I would pretend this never happened. I wouldn’t make things difficult for them tomorrow.

But the new chat immediately exploded.

Mia Jenkins, the youngest of the group, sent a terrified emoji.

“Does she know we’re competing?!”

Trent Harrison, the captain, scoffed:

“Don’t panic. ‘Remind us’? She’s trying to play the high-and-mighty professor. Who is she showing off for?”

“She’s just mad she’s getting cut out of the money. She’s trying to scare us.”

Another male team member, Luke Keller, quickly chimed in:

“Trent’s right. She just can’t stand to see us succeed using her stuff. She wants all the glory.”

I rested my chin on my hand, a weary smile spreading across my face in my quiet office.

So they knew. They knew this was my stuff.

When I first joined, their proposal was a hot mess. I constantly walked them through theory and practice, but they still handed in error-ridden drafts. I had no choice but to take over and fix them myself.

In the end, I had sacrificed my own sleep to write almost every word of the final submission.

Their so-called all-nighters, their “PPTs,” and their “market research errands” were little more than Googling free templates, slapping them together, and forwarding them to me as genuine effort.

Now, they had made it to the finals with my work, and they were trying to erase me completely.

Ten minutes later, Trent replied in the old group:

“Fine. Since you want to be direct, I won’t hold back. All your ‘guidance’ was just basic theory anyone can Google. We already knew it. What was the point of your help?”

“Now you hear we made it to the finals, and you pop up with threats, trying to strong-arm your way into a prize money split.”

Luke rolled his eyes—the emoji practically oozed condescension:

“Couldn’t pull a team together yourself, so you crash-landed into our group to mooch off our hard work. Now you want a cut? Talk about audacity.”

The insults grew more personal.

I frowned, replying bluntly:

“I joined because you asked for help with an assignment on the forum. It had nothing to do with the competition or the prize money.”

As soon as I sent it, Luke sent a middle-finger emoji:

“Still playing dumb? Why else would you volunteer to help us?”

“Unless… you saw one of the cute guys in the team photo and got a little crush?”

Skylar Dean, the other girl on the team, jumped in: “The Captain’s the best-looking guy on the team, right?”

Trent’s response was a full-out smirk:

“Oh, Professor? Was it me you were after?”

“Well, let me burst your bubble. I’m picky. With you? Tsk. I’d have to be blind to hook up with you.”

He then posted the only selfie I had on my social media profile into the group chat.

We had only communicated in the forum group, but Trent had my personal cell number and knew my accounts.

In the early stages, when they had zero seed money, I personally Venmo’d Trent $5,000 to get them started.

Last month, when his mother was diagnosed with cancer, I saw him soliciting help in the group. I pulled strings to get her a specialist appointment and sponsored over $10,000 toward her medical bills.

I remembered what it was like to be a struggling student.

Trent had sent me tearful voice messages thanking me, saying the chemotherapy was working wonders thanks to the specialist.

Now, he had forgotten every favor I’d ever done for him and was insulting my appearance and slinging vile, sexually suggestive words.

In that moment, I truly regretted joining the group.

Two months of hard work wasted on a bunch of ingrates.

“I’ve said my piece. If you insist on going through with the competition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Right after I hit send, Trent removed me from the group.

2

I didn’t dwell on it. I went back to my own pressing work.

When I finally took a break, I found a new, viral post on the university forum. It tagged my old student account.

“WARNING: Scammer Alert—Do NOT Fall for This ‘Alum’!”

“This student, posing as an alum mentor, manipulated her way into our Startup group. Her advice and models were stolen from other people’s successful projects.”

“Out of respect, we didn’t call her out. We busted our butts and made it to the finals on our own merit. Now she’s demanding a $20,000 ‘consulting fee’ and 90% of the prize money. She threatened to make us regret it if we didn’t pay up!”

My body went instantly numb.

In forty short minutes, the thread had hundreds of replies.

The student comments were a storm of outrage.

“She gave you stolen work? That’s blatant plagiarism!”

“The audacity. Trying to demand a $20K fee for stolen work. The Challenge rules clearly forbid using outside professional advisors, let alone paying them.”

“She’s just a student! Not a real advisor. She must be loving this attention.”

One comment asked for clarification:

“Wait, I read ‘Anya Rossi’s’ comments on other threads. Her advice was actually sound.”

Luke immediately jumped in:

“We have proof! Check the screenshots! Also, just so everyone knows, Anya pursued our captain. He rejected her, and she’s been harassing him nonstop. It’s disgusting.”

I felt faint.

Our two months of innocuous professional dialogue had been maliciously screen-capped, cropped, and pasted together with vicious black captions.

Dozens of images painted me as a serial plagiarist who aggressively demanded money and prize shares.

Worse, they manufactured evidence that I had sent Trent vile, inappropriate messages, outright soliciting a sexual relationship with him.

The final, sickening blow was the transferred funds. The receipt for the $5,000 I had sent Trent had been mirror-image Photoshopped. Now, it looked like he had transferred the money to me—a “go-away payment” because he couldn’t stand the harassment.

I immediately tried to respond.

My account had been restricted. All posting and commenting functions were blocked. I remembered Trent bragging that his roommate was a forum administrator.

My personal cell buzzed. Trent sent a laughing-crying emoji.

“See, Professor? This is all your fault.”

“From the start, you kept saying ‘This is rough,’ and ‘That won’t fly.’ You forced us to refine the financials until Mia was crying from stress. Luke wanted a 50% market growth projection, and you forced that conservative 15% on us—he literally smashed his mouse in the dorm.”

“You’re a student, too! We called you ‘Professor’ out of courtesy, but you actually started believing your own hype.”

“Truth is, we were sick of your micromanaging. If you hadn’t interfered, our project would be even better!”

Before I could process it, he deleted all the messages.

The post was a preemptive strike, a shield against me reporting them. The retracted messages were to erase evidence.

I had underestimated them. They had orchestrated this entire play, right down to my expulsion.

“Trent, aren’t you worried about what happens at the finals tomorrow?”

“Still trying to scare me?”

His next message was instantly retracted, too, but then he sent:

“But thanks for the reminder, Anya. You better not show up at the Westlake Hall tomorrow. If you do… we’ll release everything we have. You wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation and be ostracized, would you?”

My reputation?

I saved the screen-recorded video to my cloud, then re-read their viral post.

The entire team—Trent, Luke, Mia, Skylar, and the two others—were all playing the victims, complaining that I was autocratic, demanding money from them, and screaming at them when they refused.

They wanted to destroy my reputation?

As a judge for tomorrow’s competition, why on earth would I not show up?

3

The moment I stepped into the Westlake Hall lobby, a hand shot out and shoved me against the wall, pulling me into a secluded corner.

“You’ve got a death wish, don’t you? I told you not to come.”

It was Luke who had pushed me.

Beside him, Trent—immaculate in a sharp suit, ready for his presentation—looked me over, his eyes lingering.

He made a lecherous, clicking sound with his tongue.

“Tsk. The photos don’t do you justice. You have a great figure.”

“I’ll catch you later, Professor, but you need to get out of here right now.”

“If you don’t, we’re adding a lot more dirt to that forum post.”

I took them all in. The difference between these six aggressive, panicked faces and the sunny smiles in the team photos was jarring. It was a sharp reminder: never judge a person by a picture again. This mistake had brought me nothing but trouble.

“Trent, we can discuss the forum post later.”

“Now, step aside. The final round is about to start.”

The six of them glared, none willing to move.

Only Mia timidly whispered:

“But the finals are invitation-only. Her name isn’t on our team roster. How did she get in?”

They suddenly realized something was wrong, glancing back at the security guard checking invitations.

The competition was about to begin, and I didn’t have time to argue.

Just as I was about to state the truth, Trent’s expression warped into one of grotesque understanding. His smile grew even more sickening.

“Oh, I get it. Did you sleep with a judge or one of the angel investors?”

“Look at that hourglass figure. Exactly the type those old guys go for.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Trent, watch your mouth! That’s slander. I can call the police!”

They all burst into laughter.

“Go ahead, call them! We have all the proof.”

Luke smugly pulled out his phone, holding it high for me to see.

The sight made my blood run cold.

They had taken my selfie and used AI to generate dozens of obscene, large-scale deepfakes. Every image showed “me” completely naked, with my name written underneath. The man opposite “me” in the photos was blurred, a placeholder for anyone they wanted to suggest.

“You’re insane! This is a serious felony!”

“What felony? That’s your face, isn’t it? Anya Rossi is your name, isn’t it? How can the facts be a crime?”

The situation was escalating terrifyingly fast. I grabbed my phone, intending to dial 911, but Luke snatched it away with lightning speed.

“Give that back!”

“Try and take it.”

Luke swaggered, stuffing my phone deep into his pocket. My heart sank.

A few male students walked past and greeted them:

“Trent, I thought your team had six people. Who’s this… oh, the plagiarist alum! Did you guys cave? Are you giving her the fee and the prize money?”

Trent adopted a solemn, pained expression:

“No way. She got in here using… some underhanded methods.”

Luke deliberately shook his phone, letting the screen flash the images. Students within ten feet gasped.

“Holy cow! She’s got no bottom line! She actually used the casting couch to get to the finals!”

Luke winked cheekily: “The top prize is $1.5 million. If you’re a hack who only knows how to plagiarize, but can sleep with an old guy and walk away rich, what good is a ‘bottom line’?”

Skylar poked his arm:

“Are you sure it was only one time?”

The whole group, even Mia who was usually quiet, erupted into knowing laughter.

A shiver of horror ran down my spine.

There were two other women on this team, yet they were all—for the sake of a larger split of the prize money—insulting me with the most despicable means possible.

The passersby were clamoring for the photos.

“I’m sending this to the College group chat! It’s never been this exciting!”

“Which college are you in, Professor? We’ll make sure not to post this to your department’s fishing-for-a-sugar-daddy chat.”

I’m not a tall woman, and I was now completely encircled by a dozen people, with no escape.

I paused. My fists clenched. Then, a cold, almost cruel smile touched my lips.

“When did I ever say I was a student?”