I did 5 rounds, 4 projects, endless “tests” for a job. I was exhausted but hopeful. Later, HR told me they’d postponed hiring. No pay. Months later, I saw my campaign live on their LinkedIn – word for word. I commented, “Looks familiar.” A day later, they erased the post. But I took screenshots.

The job had seemed like a dream. It was with a mid-sized marketing firm in London, one that handled eco-friendly brands. As a copywriter with a passion for sustainable living, I poured everything into their challenges. They weren’t just writing prompts—they were real campaigns. And I gave them gold.

The final task was the hardest. They called it a “comprehensive scenario test.” Basically, I had to plan an entire campaign for a fake product—a reusable skincare container line called PureNest. From slogans to social captions, blog posts, influencer strategy, even mock ad scripts. I worked all weekend. Slept five hours total.

After I submitted it, they said they were impressed. But then silence. For two weeks. I emailed, waited, then finally got a cold reply from HR: “Unfortunately, we’ve decided to postpone hiring for this role. We’ll keep your application on file.”

I felt gutted. Not just because I didn’t get the job, but because I’d given them real work. Work I knew they could use. I told myself to let it go. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been used.

Three months later, I was on LinkedIn, half-heartedly scrolling, when something made my stomach drop. There it was—PureNest’s campaign. Live. Launched. Almost every word matched mine. Down to the tagline: “Refill. Reuse. Radiate.”

I stared at the screen for a full minute. Then I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was disgusting. They didn’t even change the font on the ad mockups. Just swapped out the placeholder image with real product shots.

I commented under the post: “Looks familiar. Must be popular, since I wrote this during your hiring process.”

The next day, the post was gone. No reply. No apology. Nothing.

But I had screenshots. Every step. Every file. Time-stamped emails. Drafts. I’d shared my campaign deck using a Google link—they’d never even downloaded it, just viewed it while logged in. I had their email address tied to the view history. Idiots.

I didn’t post again. I didn’t need to. Instead, I decided to do something I’d never done before: fight back.

I wasn’t rich. I didn’t have a lawyer on speed dial. But I knew a friend—Alma—who’d gone through something similar. She was now working at a nonprofit that helped freelancers and job applicants fight intellectual theft.

I called her. Told her everything.

By the time I finished, she was already digging through her files. “You’ve got a case,” she said. “Big one. It’s work-for-hire under false pretense. Especially since you weren’t compensated and they used your material commercially.”

It took a few weeks, but she helped me file a formal complaint. The nonprofit connected me with a pro bono legal advisor. We sent the company a cease and desist letter, with evidence attached. Quietly, respectfully. At first.

Two days later, their HR director replied—finally. She said they were “sorry for the misunderstanding” and insisted the similarities were coincidental. Right. Coincidental down to the caption hashtags?

I gave them one polite chance to settle. Pay me for the campaign and issue a correction. They declined.

So I escalated. My legal advisor posted an open letter on her blog, highlighting the case (without naming the company). The post went mildly viral in marketing circles. Dozens of freelancers commented with similar stories. People were furious. Turns out, this firm had a pattern.

They’d farmed out “tests” to desperate applicants for years, launched pieces of campaigns, and never hired anyone. It was a system. A scam. And now they’d been caught.

PureNest quietly took down their entire campaign within 48 hours.

And then I got an email.

Not from the company—but from a whistleblower. A former employee. She didn’t give her name at first, just said she used to work there and was glad someone finally spoke up.

She told me everything. The job I’d applied for? It never existed. They weren’t hiring. They’d wanted a new pitch for PureNest and used the hiring process to gather options without paying an agency.

She sent me internal Slack screenshots. Conversations between the marketing team joking about how “recruiting” was their favorite way to brainstorm. My name was mentioned. “This one’s strong. Could actually run with this.”

I read those lines five times. My stomach turned. My face burned.

The whistleblower agreed to testify if it came to court. She even offered to send a signed affidavit. That changed everything. Now it wasn’t just my word—it was insider proof.

The company tried to play hardball once more. Said my claims were exaggerated. Said I was “bitter” about rejection. But once they realized I had an affidavit and their internal messages, they backpedaled hard.

Their legal team emailed a “confidential resolution proposal.” They’d pay me £18,000 and issue a private apology, if I signed an NDA.

I refused.

Not because of the money—but because the point wasn’t just getting paid. It was stopping them.

So I countered: pay me, publicly apologize, admit the error, and commit to ending fake project assignments. Or I’d go fully public.

They dragged it out for weeks. But the pressure online was building. I hadn’t posted their name yet, but marketing Twitter was like a bloodhound. People had narrowed it down. PureNest’s own followers started asking where the campaign went.

Eventually, they caved.

They issued a public statement. Claimed it was a “mistake,” that they’d “reviewed their hiring practices” and were “taking steps to ensure fair treatment.” PR word salad. But still. It was out there.

And they paid me. £22,500. More than I would’ve made had I actually gotten the job.

I donated a chunk to the nonprofit that helped me. Told Alma she could use my story in talks, workshops, trainings. I wanted people to know it was possible to win.

A few months later, something unexpected happened. I got an email from a startup called GreenRoot, a plant-based packaging company based in Manchester. The founder had read the blog post. Loved my campaign. Asked if I’d want to join them part-time, to help shape their next big product launch.

No tests. No unpaid tasks. Just trust.

I said yes.

Working with them felt wildly different. They actually listened. Paid upfront. Gave me credit. I even got to help name the product line: Verdana.

When it launched, it went viral—not in a scandalous way, but because people loved it. Real engagement. Real growth.

And then came the best part: I was invited to speak on a panel about ethical hiring in the creative industry. I wore a green blazer, matched Verdana’s palette. And when someone in the audience asked, “What would you say to companies who still exploit talent like that?” I said:

“Don’t mistake silence for power. Just because someone doesn’t fight back right away doesn’t mean they won’t. We’re not disposable. We’re the engine behind your brand’s voice. Treat us like it.”

There was a long pause. Then, applause.

Walking off that stage, I felt taller. Lighter. Not because of the money. But because I’d finally reclaimed something: my voice.

If you’ve ever been used, don’t let them convince you it was just “how the industry works.” It’s not. And you’re not crazy for caring.

Sometimes, standing up is the job.

If this story resonated with you—or if you’ve been through something similar—share it. It’s time companies stop getting away with theft disguised as opportunity.