Three rings. Clara's heart hammered. She almost hung up on the second ring, which would have been ridiculous and also extremely on-brand.
"This is Nora."
"Hi, Nora. It's C.H. — it's Clara. Clara Hawkins."
A beat. She'd never used her real name with Nora before. Had always been C.H. Winters — the pen name, the avatar, the cartoon lighthouse standing in for the person behind it.
"Clara." Nora's voice warmed. Professional warmth — the kind that was genuine but controlled, the voice of a woman who was good at her job and knew when to be patient. "I'm glad you called."
"I'm saying yes."
The words came out steadier than she'd expected. Not dramatic. Not tearful. Just clear. A woman stating a fact.
"I want representation. I want to move forward with the graphic novel. I want to do this."
She heard Nora exhale — a small sound, almost a laugh, the release of someone who'd been hoping for this answer without assuming it. "Clara, that's wonderful. I'm really, really glad to hear that."
"There's something else." Clara gripped the phone. This was the part. The real part. The thing that would make it irreversible. "I want to use a real author photo. For the book, for the website, for everything going forward. Not the lighthouse avatar. My face."
Silence. A pause long enough that Clara thought the call might have dropped.
"Are you sure?" Nora asked. Not skeptical — respectful. The question of someone who understood what she was being asked and wanted to make sure Clara understood it too.
"I'm sure."
"The pen name stays?"
"The pen name stays. But the hiding doesn't."
Another pause. Then: "I think that'sexactly right."
They talked logistics for ten minutes. Next steps — Nora would send a formal representation agreement, they'd schedule a longer call next week to discuss the editorial approach, there was a publisher already interested and Nora wanted to move while the momentum was there. Clara took notes on scrap paper, her handwriting getting messier as the conversation went on because her hands were shaking and she didn't want Nora to hear it in her voice.
After they hung up, Clara set the phone on the table and sat very still.
She'd done it.
She'd said yes to the thing Sam said she couldn't do. Said yes to visibility, to being seen, to standing behind her work with her own face instead of a cartoon. Said yes while her heart was broken and her bed was empty and the man she loved was somewhere on the coast of Maine getting farther away by the hour.
She'd done it anyway. Not because of Jack. Not despite Jack. Just — separate from Jack. This was hers. Had always been hers. The publisher decision existed before him. It would exist after him. And she'd made it alone, sitting at her drafting table in her lighthouse, with nothing but her own courage and Lena's voice in her head sayingdon't let him take this from you too.
He hadn't taken it.
She hadn't let him.
Clara opened the Tidal Lock profile page.
The lighthouse avatar stared back at her. Clean lines, simple design. Drawn three years ago on the bedroom floor with mascara tracks on her cheeks and half a box of crackers beside her. A cartoon standing in for a person. A shield dressed up as branding.
She didn't change it. Not yet — that would come later, with Nora's team, done properly. A photo shoot, probably. The thought made her stomach clench and her mouth twitch at the same time, because Clara Hawkins at a professional photo shoot was going to be a disaster of awkward proportions and Lena was going to have a field day.
But she looked at the avatar and knew it was temporary now. The lighthouse icon had an expiration date. Soon — weeks, maybe a month — there would be a face there instead. Her face. Red hair, freckles, the expression she made when she was trying not to look like she wanted to run.
C.H. Winters, real person. Author. Artist. The woman who drew her way out of the dark and made something good enough to put on ashelf.
Clara picked up her phone and texted Lena.
I said yes.
