Group projects are supposed to teach teamwork, right?
That’s what they tell you.
But what no one warns you about is how quickly trust can be shattered when you’re paired with the wrong person.
Jane had all the charm and confidence in the world, the kind that could win over a professor or dazzle a room.
I had the work ethic—the focus to get things done.
Together, we should’ve been a perfect team.
But I never saw it coming.
The Group Project Pact
I knew from the moment Professor Hargrove announced the project that this was going to be a big deal.
“This assignment,” she said, pacing at the front of the lecture hall, “will count for thirty percent of your final grade. You’ll be creating a full-scale marketing strategy for a real-world client. Think of it as your chance to show me—and the industry—what you’ve got.”
The words hung in the air as everyone scrambled to pair off. The room buzzed with energy, people calling out to their friends or scanning for someone they thought could help carry them to an A.
I sat quietly, clutching my notebook and making mental notes of my options. I wasn’t the most social person in class, but I worked hard, and I wasn’t about to let this project sink me.
Then Jane slid into the seat next to me, all bright smiles and effortless confidence.
“Hey, Lily,” she said, leaning in like we’d been best friends forever. “You don’t have a partner yet, do you?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
Her grin widened. “Perfect. You’re, like, crazy good with research, right? And I’m great at presenting. We’ll make a killer team.”
Her words were so sure, so self-assured, that I didn’t even question it. I nodded, and just like that, we were partners.
Jane had this natural charisma about her, the kind that made people want to say yes. I figured her confidence would help us nail the presentation, and I could focus on what I did best: the work behind the scenes.
Over coffee in the campus library, we made a plan.
Jane would handle the presenting and any communication with Professor Hargrove. I would do the research, data analysis, and slide creation.
“You’re so detail-oriented,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’d just get in your way if I tried to help with that stuff. Trust me—when I present it, I’ll make us look amazing.”
It sounded fair. More than fair, honestly.
I didn’t like being the center of attention, and Jane clearly thrived on it. She was the kind of person who could charm her way out of any situation.
And for a while, it seemed like we had this project under control.
The Perfect Team (Or So I Thought)
The first week went smoothly enough.
I spent hours at my desk pouring over market research, compiling customer demographics, analyzing trends, and crafting a strategy I was genuinely proud of. I created clear, concise slides with detailed graphs and visuals that tied the whole narrative together.
When I sent Jane my first round of findings, she responded almost immediately: “You’re amazing, Lily! This is perfect. Keep it up!”
At first, her praise felt good. Encouraging. But over time, I started to notice something: Jane wasn’t doing much on her end.
She missed our second meeting entirely, texting me two hours later with a casual, “Sorry! Got caught up with my roommate—totally forgot. My bad!”
During the next meeting, she showed up fifteen minutes late, sat scrolling through her phone for half the time, and brushed off my questions about the presentation with vague responses like, “I’ll figure it out when the time comes. You’re killing it, though!”
I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I was good at what I did, and I liked having control over the details.
Besides, Jane promised she’d handle the presentation. She’d assured me she’d “bring it all together” when it mattered.
But as the weeks went on, it became clear that “we’ll split the work” actually meant “I’ll do the work, and Jane will take credit for showing up.”
When I asked her to help design the slides, she shrugged it off.
“You’re so much better with visuals than I am,” she said, smiling like it was a compliment. “I’ll just mess them up. You should do it.”
One night, after spending six hours revising the report, I asked her if she’d at least review it before I sent it off to Professor Hargrove for feedback.
“Sure,” she replied, but I never heard back.
When I finally asked her about it, she waved it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “You’re overthinking it, Lily. Your stuff is always great. Don’t stress.”
By the time the project deadline rolled around, I felt like I’d carried the entire thing on my back.
Jane was full of enthusiasm and reassurances, but she rarely delivered anything concrete.
Still, I held onto the hope that she’d pull through during the presentation. That was her role, after all.
The night before the presentation, I emailed Jane the final version of the slides, neatly organized and polished to perfection.
“Here’s everything,” I wrote. “Let me know if you need anything else before tomorrow.”
Her reply came an hour later. “Got it! I’ll make a few tweaks tonight, but it’s all good. We’re gonna kill it tomorrow!”
Something about her tone made me uneasy, but I didn’t have the energy to overthink it.
I’d done my part. Tomorrow, we’d step up together and show the class what we’d accomplished.
At least, that’s what I thought.
What I didn’t know was that Jane’s idea of “tweaks” had nothing to do with improving the slides—and everything to do with erasing me from the picture.
Credit Where It Isn’t Due
I wasn’t supposed to miss the presentation.
I’d stayed up all night finalizing the slides, checking and re-checking every detail to make sure they were perfect.
By the time I finally went to bed, my laptop was still glowing on my desk, the last email I sent to Jane open on the screen.
I didn’t wake up to my alarm. I woke up to the sound of my roommate knocking on my door.
“Lily? You okay? You’ve been in there all morning.”
My body felt heavy, my skin clammy and cold. When I finally sat up, the room spun. “I think I’m sick,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible.
My roommate poked her head in and frowned. “You look awful. What time’s your class?”
I glanced at the clock and my stomach dropped. It was already 9:45. The presentation was scheduled for 10.
There was no way I was making it.
“Can you call or email your professor?” she asked.
I nodded weakly, grabbing my phone. My hands were shaking as I typed out an email to Professor Hargrove.
“Hi Professor, I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve come down with something and won’t be able to make it to class for the presentation. My partner Jane has all the materials, so she can handle it on her own. Again, I deeply apologize.”
I hit send, my head pounding. A part of me felt guilty for leaving it all on Jane, but I reassured myself that it was fine.
We’d worked on this together, and Jane was fully capable of presenting our project. She’d mentioned just last week how excited she was to show off our work.
Still, a small knot of unease twisted in my stomach as I collapsed back onto my bed, my phone still clutched in my hand.
The next morning, I was feeling a little better, just enough to get out of bed and scroll through my messages.
My inbox was flooded with emails from classmates and announcements from the department, but one in particular caught my eye.
“Congratulations to Jane Saunders! Winner of the departmental award for her outstanding marketing project presentation!”
I stared at the email, my chest tightening. Jane… won?
I quickly pulled up my class group chat. Someone had posted a video of her presentation—a polished, confident delivery that had everyone in the room nodding along.
The slides were familiar, but something about them looked… different.
The title slide read: “Marketing Strategy: Developed and Presented by Jane Saunders.”
I blinked, feeling a wave of heat rise to my face. I scrubbed through the video, looking for any mention of me, but it wasn’t there.
Not once. Not in her introduction. Not in the body of her speech.
Not even in the “Acknowledgments” slide at the end.
She’d erased me. Completely.
I felt my stomach twist as I watched Jane wrap up her presentation with a bright smile, thanking the class for their attention and answering questions about “her” strategy.
She spoke so confidently, so effortlessly, as if the work was truly hers.
The worst part? No one questioned her.
My heart pounded as I stared at the screen, unsure of what to do. Part of me wanted to storm into Professor Hargrove’s office with the emails, drafts, and research I’d worked so hard on.
But I hesitated. What if Jane spun it? What if she said, “Lily didn’t even show up for the presentation—how involved could she have been?”
It felt like my absence had handed her the perfect excuse.
Justice Catches Up
The email congratulating Jane on her award and internship stayed pinned at the top of my inbox, taunting me every time I opened my laptop.
For days, I tried to ignore it, convincing myself it wasn’t worth it to dwell on what had happened.
But the sting of betrayal didn’t fade—it just simmered beneath the surface, waiting to boil over.
I had tried to push it out of my mind, focusing on other assignments and reminding myself that hard work eventually pays off.
That’s what I told myself anyway, though I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it.
But then, a text popped up on my phone one afternoon, completely out of the blue.
“Guess what?” Claire wrote. “Jane’s already blowing it at Pinnacle.”
I blinked at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I tried to process what I’d just read.
“What do you mean?” I finally typed back.
Claire’s response came quickly.
“She had her first presentation yesterday and totally froze. Her boss asked her a basic question about market research, and she had no idea what to say. It was so awkward. My friend works there and said the whole team was cringing.”
I stared at her message, an unexpected flicker of satisfaction bubbling up inside me. I’d been trying to let it go, but knowing Jane was finally being held accountable felt… validating.
She hadn’t stolen just my credit—she’d stolen my work. And now, it seemed like her lies were starting to catch up to her.
“She’s recycling stuff from your project,” Claire texted again. “But it’s obvious she doesn’t actually understand it. My friend said her boss was not impressed.”
I leaned back in my chair, rereading Claire’s messages. I hadn’t said anything to Jane since the presentation, and part of me had worried she’d get away with it completely.
But now? She was floundering, and everyone around her was starting to notice.
A few days later, Claire sent me another update.
“She bombed a client pitch today,” she wrote. “It was bad. The team had to step in to fix it, and apparently her boss is ready to cut her loose.”
I couldn’t stop the smile that crept across my face.
This wasn’t revenge. I hadn’t lifted a finger to sabotage her. Jane had done this to herself, and it was all because she hadn’t done the work to back up her claims.
A week later, Claire texted me again. “She’s gone,” the message read. “They fired her.”
It felt like the air in my lungs finally loosened.
All this time, I’d carried around this heavy knot of frustration, wondering if Jane would ever face the consequences of her actions. And now I had my answer.
I didn’t expect what came next.
Finally Getting Credit
Two days after Claire’s message, I opened my email to find a message from Professor Hargrove.
“Hi Lily, I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been impressed with your recent work in class, and I wanted to let you know about an opportunity at Pinnacle Marketing. They’re looking for a new intern, and I’d be happy to recommend you if you’re interested. Let me know!”
I froze, rereading the email to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. Pinnacle. The same company where Jane had just been fired.
For a moment, I hesitated. The idea of stepping into the space Jane had just vacated felt strange, almost surreal.
But then I thought about the hours I’d spent on that project, the effort I’d poured into it, and how Jane had stolen something that was mine.
This was my chance to set things right—not out of spite, but because I knew I belonged there.
“Thank you, Professor!” I wrote back. “I’d love to be considered for the position.”
A week later, I was sitting in the sleek, modern lobby of Pinnacle Marketing, clutching a folder of my best work.
The interview felt almost too easy after everything I’d been through. When they asked about my experience with market research, I had no trouble explaining the methodologies I’d used.
When they asked about strategy, I gave clear, detailed answers that drew nods of approval from the panel.
By the end of the interview, I could tell they were impressed. And when I got the job offer later that afternoon, I felt a rush of validation unlike anything I’d felt in weeks.
On my first day, I walked into the office with a mix of nerves and quiet confidence. I wanted to focus on the work ahead, not the events that had led me here.
But as I passed by the corner of the room, I spotted a familiar figure packing up a cardboard box.
Jane.
She was wearing her usual polished outfit, but there was a strain behind her smile that hadn’t been there before. She looked up as I passed, her eyes widening in recognition.
For a moment, we just stared at each other.
“Oh,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Lily. I didn’t know you were… here.”
“I just started,” I said simply.
She let out another strained laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Well, good luck. Pinnacle’s a tough place, you know? But I guess they just couldn’t handle my creativity.”
I smiled faintly, meeting her gaze. “Or maybe they just wanted someone who could handle the work.”
Her forced smile faltered, just for a moment, before she quickly turned back to her box, pretending she hadn’t heard me.
I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t need to.
Jane had learned the hard way that you can only fake it for so long before everything falls apart.