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.
“All right,” she says. “Let’s fix you up.”
Three hours later, I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the person looking back.
The green dress fits perfectly—vintage seventies-style with bell sleeves and a wrap waist that’s somehow both bohemian and elegant. Jessa convinced me to wear my hair down in loose waves instead of my usual ponytail. Minimal makeup but enough to make my eyes look less like I’ve been fighting back tears over rejection letters.
I look…good?
Not Maya-level stunning. Not “professional hockey player’s girlfriend” polished.
But good.
Like maybe I could pass for a girl who deserves to be on Brody’s arm.
Maybe.
