Jessa vanishes down the hall, comes back a moment later holding an envelope.
A large manila envelope with my name typed on the front.
My stomach drops.
“This was in our mailbox,” Jessa says, handing it to me. “Looks official.”
I know what it is before I open it. The return address confirms it: Starlight Publishing—Children’s Publishing Division.
I submitted my manuscript three months ago. A children’s book about a dragon who wants to fly and the little girl who helps him find his wings. All twenty-eight pages are filled with whimsical illustrations I drew myself. It’s twenty-eight pages of the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever created.
I’ve been checking my email obsessively for weeks.
Apparently they went old-school.
Snail-mail rejection.
“Want me to open it?” Jessa asks gently.
“No. I’ve got it.”
I tear open the envelope. Pull out the letter.
Dear Ms. Dawson,
Thank you for submitting your manuscript, “The Dragon Who Wanted to Fly,” to Starlight Publishing. While we appreciated the creativity and heart in your story, we regret to inform you that it does not fit our current publishing needs…
The rest is standard rejection boilerplate.
We receive thousands of submissions. This is a subjective business. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Something falls out of the envelope.
One of my illustrations—the dragon from Barcelona. The one I’d sketched out that morning in Park Güell, just before Brody saved my purse.
Only that dragon had been different—sharper, harsher. Beautiful and expressive, but unafraid.
And then Brody showed up. Burst into my life and made me believe in a different kind of hero…even just for a moment. From then on, my dragon looked a little different. No matter how many times I sketched him. He wasn’t ferocious anymore, not crouched over his hoard of treasure. He was just…alone. Hiding.
In this version, the dragon peers out from the depths of a dark cave, his eyes bright in the inky black.
I stare at it.
Jessa picks it up carefully. “Chloe. This is beautiful.”
“It’s not good enough, apparently.”
“One rejection doesn’t mean?—”
“It’s fine.” I fold the letter. Shove it back in the envelope. “It’s just a silly dream anyway. I should focus on event planning. Stick to what I’m good at. That’s the practical thing. The realistic thing.” Never mind that my event planning business is circling the drain as well. But with Maya’s wedding coming up, at least there’s hope for it.
“Chloe—”
“I’m fine.” I force brightness into my voice. “Really. It’s fine. I have a date to get ready for. Let’s just—let’s focus on that.”
Jessa watches me for a long moment.
Then she sets the illustration down carefully on the coffee table.
