The cursor blinked like a tiny strobe light on a white page that had no business being empty.

Not in six hours.

Not today.

Outside my bedroom window, Portland rain stitched the glass into a blurry watercolor—streetlights smeared gold, fir branches bowed under a wet December sky, and somewhere a siren dipped and rose like the city was breathing through its teeth. Inside, my laptop hummed with that cheerful, ignorant fan noise computers make when they have no idea they’re about to ruin your life.

My document was titled LAST DRAGON KEEPER — FINAL FINAL — DO NOT TOUCH.

It opened to page one.

And then it stopped.

No chapter list. No page count. No familiar paragraphs I could recite in my sleep. Just a blank, clean sheet and a blinking line, daring me to pretend two years of work had been a dream.

I clicked. I scrolled. I searched my own name, my main character’s name, a rare word I knew I’d used because it sounded like a spell.

Nothing.

I yanked open Finder, then Spotlight, then every folder I’d ever used as a writer and every folder I’d ever used as a scared person who didn’t trust anyone. I checked Downloads. I checked Desktop. I checked the folder where I hid drafts like contraband. I checked the folder where I hid my heart.

Trash: empty.

External hard drive: not plugged in.

Cloud: signed out, then signed in, then loaded, then stared at me like a stranger.

My hands went cold first. Then my mouth. Then my chest tightened until breathing felt like trying to drink through a straw.

Four hundred pages.

Seven hundred hours.

Two years of building a world where dragons didn’t die when people decided they were inconvenient.

I had a meeting in six hours.

Not a casual “let’s chat” meeting. Not a “send me your pages and we’ll see” meeting.

A meeting with Hartfell Publishing, downtown—top three floors of one of those old brick buildings that still smelled like books and money and history. A meeting I’d been counting down to like a holiday I was terrified to believe in.

My phone buzzed on the desk: 8:04 a.m.

Six hours.

I slammed the laptop lid down and opened it again like I could jolt the file back into existence with anger. I tried “recent files.” I tried “recover unsaved documents.” I tried the kind of frantic clicking that feels like action but is really just panic in a disguise.

My bedroom door creaked behind me.

“You looking for something?”

Dad leaned in my doorway with a coffee mug in his hand. He wore his fleece robe like a crown. His hair was damp, combed back in that way that always made him look like he’d just made a decision for the whole household. He coughed into his fist—one dry, theatrical cough—then took a slow sip.

That smirk. The little curl at the corner of his mouth.

That was the face he made when he’d gotten the last word at church council meetings. When he’d returned something “defective” after using it for a month. When he’d corrected a waiter loudly just to watch them apologize.

When he’d won.

My stomach dropped so hard it felt like it hit the floorboards.

“My novel,” I said, and my voice came out thinner than I meant it to. “Where is it?”

Dad set his mug on the doorframe like he owned the air in my room.

“I deleted it last night,” he said.

The sentence landed with a clean, casual thud—like he’d said he took out the trash.

I blinked once. Twice. Waiting for the punchline.

“You… what?”

He sipped again. Slow. Savoring. “Did you know you left your laptop open? Very careless.”

The room tipped.

My hands dug into the edge of the desk for balance. “You deleted my book.”

“All four hundred pages of that fantasy nonsense,” he said, and his smile sharpened. “Dragons and magic and whatever else you’ve been wasting your time on.”

My throat burned. “That’s two years of work.”

My voice cracked on the word work like my body was trying to defend me from the humiliation of sounding like I was begging.

“I have a publisher meeting today,” I said. “In six hours.”

A shadow moved in the hall. Then Mom appeared beside him, as if she’d been waiting just out of sight for her cue. She wore her “concerned” face—lips pursed, eyebrows pinched—like a mask she’d perfected over decades for relatives and strangers. The face that said I’m only being harsh because I love you.

“Writers are just failed adults playing pretend,” she said, as if she was quoting a fact from a pamphlet. “It’s time you grew up, Naomi.”

My name in her mouth felt like a leash.

“And your sister sells makeup and makes real money,” Mom continued, warming to the comparison. “Sixty thousand last year. What did your little stories make?”

“Nothing,” Dad supplied, pleased.

“Because I haven’t published yet,” I snapped. “That’s what the meeting is for.”

Dad’s mug hit the doorframe again, a little harder. “This meeting was a waste of time.”

He said it like he’d been burdened by my optimism.

“I saved you the embarrassment,” he added. “Hartfell Publishing probably meets with hundreds of delusional writers. At least now you can focus on getting a real job.”

As if on cue, a perfume cloud preceded my sister into the hallway.

Chloe—Klo to our parents, because Mom loved a nickname like it could turn a personality into a brand—swanned in with a designer purse swinging from her elbow. She looked too awake, too glossy, like she’d already filmed herself applying highlighter for a morning story.

“Did you tell her about the opportunity at my company?” she asked Dad, eyes glittering with the thrill of being useful to the family narrative. “We need someone to pack orders. Minimum wage, but it’s honest work.”

I stared at her. “I have a master’s degree in creative writing.”

Mom made a sound in her throat like she’d tasted something sour. “Which cost us forty thousand dollars. For what? So you could sit in your room making up stories like a child?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” I said, because that fact felt like it should be armor. It wasn’t. “I’m living in your house because artists need time to create.”

Dad’s eyes lit up. He leaned forward and repeated my words back to me in a mocking voice, drawing them out like he was tasting how ridiculous they sounded.

“Artists need time to create,” he said. “Well, time’s up. Either get a real job or get out.”

For a second, the room was too quiet. The rain outside was suddenly loud, tapping, tapping, tapping, as if the window itself was impatient with me.

I looked at them—Dad with his smirk, Mom with her tight jaw, Chloe with her polished, curious frown—and something in me tore not with anger but with grief.

These were the people who once bought me notebooks. Who once told me bedtime stories and let me pick the ending. Who once smiled when I said I wanted to be an author and didn’t laugh like it was a disease.

When did they become the kind of people who saw my passion as a defect?

“The meeting is in six hours,” I said again, softer. “This could change everything.”

“Nothing’s changing,” Mom said firmly. “You’re going to call them, apologize for wasting their time, and then you’re going to fill out applications. Chloe’s company is hiring. The clothing store at the mall is hiring. The grocery store is hiring. Even McDonald’s would be better than this… pretending.”

They left me there.

They didn’t slam the door. They didn’t need to. Their footsteps down the hall were confident. Victorious. They were people who believed the world was orderly, and they’d just restored the proper order by deleting the messy part of me that refused to fit.

I sat in front of my blank screen and tried not to throw up.

Two years.

Seven hundred hours.

Countless revisions.

Characters I’d lived with—people I’d built and loved so fully I sometimes forgot they weren’t real until I looked up and saw my parents’ faces.

Gone because my father decided I needed a “reality check.”

I stared at the blinking cursor until it started to look like a heartbeat.

And then, underneath the panic, something else stirred.

A calmness. Not peace. Something sharper.

Because there was one thing my parents didn’t understand about modern publishing.

They thought a book existed only as long as it lived on my laptop like a fragile little file.

They had no idea it was already in print.

They had no idea there were boxes of it sitting in a warehouse right now—my name stamped on the spine, my world bound into paper.

They had no idea what happens when you try to erase a writer’s work after it’s already become real.

I picked up my phone with hands that finally stopped shaking.

And I called Diane.

She answered on the second ring, voice bright with a kind of professional joy that still startled me. “Naomi! Ready for this afternoon? Marketing is—”

“I have a… small problem,” I said, and the understatement made me laugh once, a thin sound that was half sob. “My parents deleted my local copy of the manuscript.”

There was a pause. Then Diane laughed, full and delighted, like I’d told her my cat tried to sign my contract.

“They did what?” she said. “Oh my god. How very 1990s of them.”

I closed my eyes, a fresh wave of dizziness washing through me. “It’s… gone. Everything’s gone.”

“Sweetheart,” Diane said, and her tone shifted into something steady, warm, unshakeable. “Your book is backed up in about seventeen places. Also, there are ten thousand physical copies sitting in a warehouse. You’re fine.”

My chest loosened so suddenly it hurt.

“They don’t know about the deal,” I whispered. “They don’t know about any of it.”

A beat. Understanding slid into Diane’s voice like a key turning. “Ah. One of those families.”

“Yes.”

“That explains the P.O. box,” she murmured, like she’d been quietly taking notes for months. “Okay. How do you want to play this?”

I stared at my blank laptop, my stomach still sick with the memory of Dad’s smirk.

I thought about the way they praised Chloe’s sales like she’d cured a disease. About the contempt in Mom’s voice when she called me a failed adult. About Dad parroting my words back to me like a joke.

“I’ll be at the meeting,” I said. “But I might need temporary housing afterward.”

Diane didn’t even hesitate. “Honey, with your advance, you can look for permanent housing.”

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like my freedom had already been purchased and paid for—because it had.

“See you at two,” she added. “And Naomi? You didn’t lose anything. They tried to take something from you. That’s different.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay.”

I hung up and opened my email.

Seventeen messages from my agent.

Subject lines bursting with exclamation points, the digital equivalent of confetti cannons.

COVER REVEAL SCHEDULE

PODCAST REQUEST — URGENT

FOREIGN RIGHTS UPDATE

PREORDERS ARE CLIMBING!!!

And then one email that made my vision blur.

Ms. Blake, we’re pleased to confirm your book, The Last Dragon Keeper, will be featured in our Staff Picks display at all Barnes & Noble locations starting next Tuesday.

I stared at the words until they went from letters to electricity.

My book.

In Barnes & Noble.

In America.

In every location.

Staff picks.

The kind of thing Chloe would’ve killed to put on a vision board.

I had six hours until the meeting.

Six hours to decide how to handle this.

I could tell them now—watch Dad’s smugness collapse into panic, watch Mom’s certainty scramble for a new story where she’d secretly supported me all along.

Or I could do something better.

Something clean.

Something that didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me plead for recognition like it was oxygen.

I stood up, forced my legs to work, and went to my closet.

I pulled out my “interview outfit,” the one Mom had mocked the last time I wore it to an author event.

A fitted blazer, a simple top, dark jeans that looked sharp without trying too hard, boots that made me feel taller than I felt.

I dressed slowly, deliberately.

Then I packed a bag—passport, birth certificate, the external drive Dad hadn’t found, my grandmother’s ring, the tiny notebook I’d had since grad school.

Things I couldn’t replace.

I printed out a few documents I might need later—lease information Diane had sent, bank info, my contract summary. Paper felt satisfying in my hands. Real. Harder to erase with a smug click.

Then I went downstairs like nothing had happened.

The kitchen smelled like toast and coffee and Dad’s victory.

“There she is,” Dad said cheerfully, as if we were starting the day fresh, as if he hadn’t just tried to erase my future. “Ready to join the real world?”

I poured myself coffee. My hand didn’t shake. “Actually,” I said, voice steady, “yes.”

Mom’s head snapped up. Hope sparked in her eyes—the hope of getting what she wanted. “Oh?”

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s time to face reality.”

Chloe’s lips curled. She looked almost excited, like she could already picture herself telling people at her company how she’d rescued her sad older sister.

“I’ll go to that… job at Chloe’s company,” I continued. “I’ll start today.”

“Interview?” Chloe laughed. “It’s not an interview. You just show up and start packing boxes.”

“Even better,” I said, and took a sip of coffee. The bitterness grounded me. “When do I start?”

The transformation was immediate.

Dad’s shoulders loosened. He clapped me on the shoulder like I’d just gotten accepted into the right club. Mom smiled like she’d just gotten her daughter back from a cult. Chloe started babbling about employee discounts and “working your way up.”

“This is wonderful,” Mom gushed. “I knew you’d see sense eventually.”

“That publisher meeting was just a delusion,” Dad said, grinning.

“I know,” I said. “I should go cancel it in person, though. Professional courtesy.”

“Waste of gas,” Dad grumbled.

“It’s on the way to Chloe’s store,” I said smoothly. “I’ll fill out the application after.”

They were too pleased with their win to argue.

I left with their blessing, Chloe’s employee handbook shoved into my hands like a leash, and my bag heavy with everything I planned to keep.

Downtown Portland felt like a different world.

The freeway was slick, the skyline gray, the river a sheet of hammered metal under the clouds. I passed coffee shops already busy with laptops and scarves and people who looked like they’d never been told their dreams were embarrassing.

Hartfell Publishing’s building sat like a quiet throne among newer glass towers—old brick, tall windows, the kind of place that made you straighten your spine automatically.

I’d been here before.

For contract signing.

For edits.

For the surreal moment they’d handed me a check that could buy my freedom.

I parked, clutched my bag, and walked inside.

The lobby smelled like paper and polished wood. The receptionist—Claire—looked up and her face lit up.

“Naomi,” she said. “Love the outfit. Very… author-about-town.”

I smiled, and it felt real. “Thanks, Claire. Is everyone here?”

“Conference Room B,” she said. “They’re setting up the display copies now.”

Display copies.

My heartbeat kicked.

I took the elevator up, the kind with a soft whir and old brass buttons. Each floor felt like a step away from my parents’ house and closer to something that belonged to me.

The doors opened.

I walked down the hall.

And then I stepped into a room full of my book.

Stacks of hardcovers on the table, on the sideboard, leaning against a poster stand. The cover was glossy and gorgeous: a dragon curled around a crumbling tower, moon rising behind it like an omen. My name in bold letters across the bottom.

NAOMI BLAKE.

Not failed adult.

Not pretend writer.

Published author.

My throat tightened with something too big to be called emotion. It was like my body didn’t have a container large enough to hold the fact that my life had changed.

Diane rushed over in heels that clicked like applause.

“There’s our star,” she said, squeezing my hands. “Ready to make you famous?”

The next two hours blurred into momentum.

Marketing strategies.

Blog tour schedules.

Cover reveal timelines.

Interview talking points that made me laugh because they were real sentences about my real book.

They showed me early reviews—glowing lines from trade publications, enthusiastic blurbs that made my cheeks burn.

Preorders exceeding expectations.

Foreign rights negotiations.

A thirty-city tour proposal that made my stomach flip.

“We’ll start at Powell’s,” the marketing director said. “Portland, obviously. Then Seattle. San Francisco. L.A. Chicago. New York.”

New York.

I pictured my parents’ faces if they ever saw my name on a poster in a city they’d only visited for church conventions.

“That sounds perfect,” I said, and meant it.

I signed papers.

Posed with my book for promotional photos.

Discussed the sequel, already in progress—because I hadn’t stopped writing just because my parents were loud.

As the meeting wrapped, Diane pulled me aside, her expression softening.

“So,” she said quietly, “housing situation.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said. “I have the advance. I just need… time.”

Diane’s eyes narrowed. “Your sister said something about you packing boxes for minimum wage.”

I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Absolutely not,” she said, like she was rejecting a bad cover design. “Listen. I have a friend. She’s looking for a roommate. Nice apartment in the Pearl District. Writer-friendly. She’s a poet.”

A poet roommate. In the Pearl District. It sounded like the beginning of the life I used to pretend I didn’t deserve.

“Seriously?” I asked.

Diane’s mouth curved. “Seriously, honey. We take care of our authors—especially the ones whose families try to sabotage them. Text her. Mention my name. You could move in this week.”

I left the building with a box of my own books in my arms, the weight of them solid and undeniable, and a phone full of missed calls I hadn’t checked yet because I wanted one more minute in the version of reality where my parents had no control.

Fifteen missed calls from Chloe.

Twenty texts.

Where are you?

Mom is freaking out.

Dad is furious.

You’re embarrassing us.

Come home right now.

I drove to Chloe’s store anyway.

Her company sat in a strip mall outside downtown—bright signage, glass windows, racks of glossy products. Through the window, I could see her at the counter with her phone pressed to her ear, gesturing wildly like she was directing an emergency.

I grabbed one copy of my book from the box.

Just one.

Like a match.

I walked in.

“I don’t know where she is,” Chloe was saying into the phone, voice shrill. “She said she was coming here—”

Then she spotted me.

Her face changed instantly, relief snapping into anger like a switch.

“Oh my god,” she hissed, and marched toward me. “Where have you been? You’re three hours late. They gave the position to someone else!”

“That’s okay,” I said, and set the book on the counter gently.

The sound was small.

But it landed like thunder.

Chloe’s eyes dropped to the cover.

To the dragon.

To my name.

“What is this?” she whispered, and for once she wasn’t performing.

“My novel,” I said. “The one Dad deleted.”

Her fingers hovered over it like it might bite.

“Turns out publishers keep backups,” I added.

Chloe picked it up with shaking hands, flipped to the copyright page, the dedication, the author bio with my photo.

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

“This is…” she breathed. “This is real.”

“As real as your makeup sales,” I said softly. “More real, actually. This is my dream. Printed and bound and about to be sold in bookstores all over the United States.”

“But how?” she choked. “When?”

“Six months ago,” I said, and watched it hit her. “While you were bragging about your year-end bonus, I was signing a six-figure book deal. While Mom was calling me a failure, I was working with editors. While Dad was plotting to delete my future… it was already printed.”

Her face cycled through shock, anger, something like pride trying to break through—and then the family default kicked in.

Resentment.

“You lied to us,” she snapped, because if she could make me wrong, she wouldn’t have to examine how wrong they’d been.

“I protected myself from you,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

Chloe’s grip tightened on the book until her knuckles went pale.

“Mom and Dad are going to—what? Delete it again?” She let out a shaky laugh that sounded like fear. “They’ll lose their minds.”

“It’s a little late,” I said.

I pulled out my phone and showed her a webpage.

There it was: Barnes & Noble. The listing. My cover. My name. Preorder price.

Chloe stared like it was a ghost.

My phone rang.

Dad.

I answered and put it on speaker.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

His voice was deadly quiet, the way it got when he wanted to sound in control. “You get to your sister’s store right now. We need to talk about this… lying problem of yours.”

“I’m actually at the store,” I said calmly. “And I’m holding my book.”

Chloe’s eyes were huge.

Dad scoffed, but I heard the uncertainty under it. “Your little story?”

“My published novel,” I said. “The one you deleted. The one that’s already in stores. The one that paid me enough to move out, live comfortably, and never pack makeup boxes for minimum wage.”

Silence.

For a second, I could hear the faint clink of something in the background at home—Mom probably setting down a dish too hard, the sound of tension.

“That’s impossible,” Dad finally said.

“Publishers don’t—?” I supplied, sweetly. “Publish fantasy? Pay advances? Work with adults who refuse to ‘grow up’?”

I glanced at Chloe, who was photographing the pages like she needed proof her worldview was cracking.

“Turns out they do,” I said. “Especially when the writer is good.”

If this is self-published vanity— Dad started.

“It’s not,” I cut in. “It’s Hartfell Publishing. One of the big houses. Check their website if you don’t believe me.”

I didn’t say “Google it” because Dad would bristle at the implication of being told what to do, but the pause that followed told me he was already typing.

A few seconds. Then longer.

I could picture him, face darkening as the evidence loaded, the way his hands always shook slightly when he was angry and trying not to show it.

“You’ve been hiding this from us,” he said, and the accusation was the only weapon he had left.

“You deleted my work because you decided I was a failure,” I replied. “If anyone has a problem with honesty here, it’s not me.”

“We’re your parents,” Mom’s voice cut in suddenly, sharp through the speaker. “We deserve—”

“You deserve exactly what you gave me,” I said, and my voice didn’t shake. “No support. No respect. No belief. So that’s what you get back.”

Dad inhaled sharply. “You can’t—”

“I can,” I said. “I did.”

I looked down at the cover in Chloe’s hands—my name printed in ink that didn’t care about my parents’ opinions.

“You thought you could erase my dream,” I said. “But it’s already real. Already out there. Already bigger than anything you tried to keep small.”

“Get home,” Dad snapped. “We’re going to discuss this.”

“I’m not coming home,” I said. “Not today. Not ever.”

Chloe’s breath hitched.

“I have an apartment viewing in the Pearl District,” I continued. “And a book tour starting next week. I have interviews lined up and a sequel to write.”

I smiled, and it felt like stepping into sunlight.

“I have a life,” I said. “One you don’t get to edit.”

“Naomi—” Mom began, voice suddenly different, brittle.

I ended the call.

The store was too quiet.

The fluorescent lights hummed.

Chloe stared at me like I’d just revealed I could breathe underwater.

“You… made more than me,” she said finally, voice small.

“Significantly more,” I admitted. “And that’s just the advance.”

Chloe blinked hard. “What happens after?”

“Royalties,” I said. “Foreign rights. Audio. Maybe film—someone is interested.”

I didn’t name any platform. I didn’t need to. The word interested was enough to make Chloe’s world tilt.

Her mouth fell open. “Movie?”

“Maybe,” I said, shrugging like it was casual, even though inside my heart was doing backflips.

For a long moment, Chloe looked down at the book.

Then she traced the dragon with one finger, slow, reverent.

“I used to write,” she said quietly, like she was confessing something shameful. “In high school. Poetry.”

“I remember,” I said.

Her eyes flicked up. “Mom said it was stupid. Said I should focus on things that made money.”

A silence sat between us that wasn’t hostile. It was honest. Rare.

“Mom was wrong,” I said.

Chloe swallowed. Her glossy armor cracked just enough for something human to peek through.

“Can I… buy this?” she asked.

I raised an eyebrow.

She rushed on, embarrassed. “Not—like—discount. Full price. I want to read it. I want to read my sister’s book.”

The words hit me harder than any insult had.

I reached into my box and slid another copy across the counter.

“Keep that one,” I said. “I’ve got plenty.”

Chloe hugged it to her chest like a shield.

“They’re going to lose their minds,” she whispered. “They’ll try to take credit. They’ll say they pushed you to succeed.”

“Let them,” I said. “People like that always rewrite the story so they’re the hero.”

Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “And you?”

I looked at her, then smiled. “I’m the writer in the family,” I said softly. “I know how to control the narrative.”

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

Hi Naomi — Diane gave me your number. I’m Maris. Purple hair, too many books, very quiet apartment. If you need a place, you can move in tomorrow. Rent is $900/month, utilities included. Also… I read the first chapter of your book and cried. Good tears. Please say yes.

My eyes stung.

“I have to go,” I told Chloe.

She grabbed my wrist. “What do I tell them?”

“The truth,” I said. “Their ‘failed’ daughter just became a published author.”

Chloe’s mouth trembled like she wanted to smile and didn’t know if she was allowed.

“And if they try to rewrite it?” she asked.

I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder.

“They can try,” I said. “But the thing about books is… once they’re printed, nobody can pretend they don’t exist.”

I left her there holding my hardcover like it was a passport.

Outside, Portland rain had softened into mist. The air smelled like wet pavement and coffee and possibility.

I drove toward the Pearl District with a box of my books on the passenger seat like an absurd, perfect dream made tangible. Traffic crawled across slick streets. People hurried under umbrellas. The city looked the same as it always had, but I didn’t.

Maris’s building was an old converted warehouse with big windows and a lobby that smelled like plants instead of bleach. She met me downstairs—purple hair in a messy bun, oversized sweater, a stack of poetry books tucked under her arm.

“You must be Naomi,” she said, and her smile was immediate, genuine. No assessment, no smirk, no measuring me against someone else.

“That’s me,” I said.

She reached for the box in my arms. “Let me help.”

I followed her up to the apartment.

It was small but bright. Hardwood floors, a kitchen with mismatched mugs, a living room with a couch that had clearly hosted many late-night breakdowns and many late-night celebrations. Books everywhere—on shelves, on the floor, on the windowsill.

Writer-friendly, Diane had said.

It felt like stepping into a world where art wasn’t treated like an illness.

Maris showed me my room. Clean. Simple. A window that looked out over the wet city.

“Anyone whose family tries to delete their art is welcome here,” she said quietly, like it was a rule she’d written herself.

My throat tightened. “Thank you.”

She shrugged as if it was obvious. “Of course.”

That night, after I’d stacked my books in a neat tower like a tiny fort, after I’d texted my agent and Diane and confirmed the move, after I’d ignored the flood of messages from my parents that shifted from anger to pleading to threats to sudden sweetness, I opened my laptop.

I logged into my cloud backups. There it was—my manuscript, safe, untouched, waiting like it had never been in danger.

The cursor blinked at me again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like a dare.

It felt like an invitation.

I opened a fresh document.

My fingers hovered over the keys.

Then I started typing.

Chapter One.

The day after her father tried to erase her book, Lydia Blake became a bestseller.

I paused, smiling at my own audacity.

Sometimes the best payback isn’t screaming or fighting or begging people to see your worth.

Sometimes it’s success they can’t erase.

Dreams they can’t steal.

A future they can’t control.

My parents thought they deleted my novel.

All they really deleted was my obligation to include them in what came next.

Outside, the rain kept falling over Portland, Oregon—over the bridges and bookstores and coffee shops and the old brick building where my book sat stacked in glossy piles. Over the city that had held my secret while my family tried to shame it out of me.

I listened to the soft hush of water against the window and kept writing.

Because the book was already in print.

And so was my new life.

That night, sleep came in fragments.

I lay on the unfamiliar bed listening to the city breathe through cracked windows—the low rush of traffic on wet streets, the occasional bark of laughter drifting up from somewhere below, the distant horn of a freight train along the river. The Pearl District didn’t sound like my parents’ quiet suburban block. It sounded alive. Restless. Like a place that expected things to happen.

My phone buzzed again on the nightstand.

Mom.

I didn’t answer.

A few seconds later, another vibration.

Dad.

Then Chloe.

Then the family group chat lighting up like a Christmas tree no one wanted to look at.

I turned the phone face down.

For the first time in my life, ignoring them didn’t feel like rebellion. It felt like maintenance. Like closing a door to keep smoke out of a room where something fragile was finally learning how to breathe.

I opened my laptop again.

Not to check email. Not to reassure myself my manuscript still existed. I already knew it did. Diane had seen to that. My agent had seen to that. Entire departments had seen to that. My book no longer lived or died by whether a single hard drive survived the night.

It lived in warehouses. In systems. In other people’s hands.

It lived in the world.

Still, I opened the manuscript.

Four hundred pages bloomed onto the screen, familiar and steady. The opening paragraph sat there like an old friend who’d never doubted me, even when I doubted myself.

I scrolled.

Chapter after chapter. Scenes I could picture with my eyes closed. Dialogue I could hear in my head. Worlds I’d built one sentence at a time while my parents slept down the hall, convinced I was wasting oxygen.

A wave of exhaustion hit me then—not the bone-deep kind that comes from working too hard, but the emotional kind that comes from holding your breath for years without realizing it.

I closed the file gently.

Tomorrow would be loud.

Tomorrow would be phone calls and messages and articles and planning and moving boxes and logistics and explanations.

Tonight, I wanted quiet.

I turned off the lamp and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

For the first time in two years, I fell asleep without dreaming of losing my work.

—

The next morning, my phone was already vibrating when I woke up.

I didn’t panic this time.

I stretched, listening to the soft clink of mugs in the kitchen. Maris was up. I could smell coffee—strong, earthy, real coffee, not the watered-down stuff my parents bought in bulk because it was “good enough.”

I checked the screen.

Diane.

I answered.

“Good morning, bestselling author,” she said, voice bright and sharp as sunlight.

I laughed, rubbing my eyes. “Is that official now?”

“It’s trending that way,” she said. “Preorders jumped again overnight. Apparently, people love a fantasy novel written by a woman who refuses to be erased.”

I smiled into the pillow. “Funny how that works.”

“There’s more,” Diane continued. “A morning show wants you for a short interview. National. And two major outlets are asking for written pieces—origin story stuff. You know, ‘how she persevered despite adversity.’”

I exhaled slowly. “Adversity is one word for it.”

“We’ll control the angle,” Diane said, immediately. “No trauma porn. No family mudslinging. You get to frame it.”

That word again.

Frame.

Narrative.

Things writers understood instinctively, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

“Also,” she added, almost casually, “legal reached out.”

My stomach tightened, just a little. “About…?”

“About making sure your parents don’t try anything creative,” she said dryly. “Based on what you told me yesterday, I don’t think they have a leg to stand on, but we like to be prepared.”

I pictured Dad’s bluster, Mom’s moral outrage, the way they always assumed authority equaled correctness.

“They might threaten,” I said. “They always do.”

“They can threaten the weather,” Diane replied. “It doesn’t mean it’ll change.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“Get settled today,” she said. “We’ll start the media prep tomorrow. And Naomi?”

“Yes?”

“You did the right thing.”

The call ended.

I lay there for a moment, letting that sentence echo.

You did the right thing.

No caveat. No “but.” No implication that the right thing should have been quieter, smaller, more convenient for everyone else.

Just… right.

I got dressed and stepped into the kitchen.

Maris sat at the small table with her laptop open, hair piled messily on her head, scribbling notes into a notebook that already looked dangerously full.

She glanced up. “Morning, Dragon Keeper.”

I laughed. “Is that going to be my nickname now?”

“Until further notice,” she said solemnly, then slid a mug toward me. “Coffee. I make it strong enough to wake the dead or at least convince them to renegotiate their contracts.”

I wrapped my hands around the mug, savoring the heat. “You’re a good roommate already.”

She shrugged. “I come from a long line of people who were told to be quieter.”

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Finally, she looked up. “Your phone’s been going off since dawn.”

“I know.”

“You going to answer any of it?”

“Eventually,” I said. “Just not the way they expect.”

She nodded like she understood that completely.

After breakfast, I started unpacking.

My life fit into fewer boxes than I’d imagined. Clothes. Books. Papers. The small artifacts of a person who’d been living in one room, emotionally and physically, for far too long.

As I stacked my books onto the shelves in my new room, my phone buzzed again.

A text from Mom.

We need to talk. This is getting out of hand.

I stared at the words.

Then another message popped up beneath it.

Dad: Come home. We’ll discuss terms.

Terms.

As if my existence was a contract they’d drafted.

I didn’t respond.

Instead, I opened a new email.

To: Mom. Dad.

Subject: Boundaries.

I stared at the blank body for a long moment.

Then I typed.

I am safe. I am housed. I am working.

I will not be coming home.

I am not interested in discussing my career choices, finances, or personal life at this time.

If you want a relationship with me in the future, it will require respect and basic boundaries. That includes not interfering with my work, not belittling my profession, and not attempting to control my decisions.

If you cannot do that, I will be limiting contact.

This is not punishment. It is protection.

I wish you well.

—Naomi

I read it twice.

It didn’t apologize.

It didn’t explain.

It didn’t beg.

It stated facts.

I hit send.

My chest felt tight afterward, but not with fear.

With release.

—

The backlash came fast.

Calls. Voicemails. Emails. Messages from relatives who’d been given a carefully edited version of events where I was suddenly “ungrateful” and “secretive” and “acting strangely.”

I didn’t engage.

Diane’s team handled media inquiries. My agent handled contracts. A lawyer handled anything that looked like it might become ugly.

For the first time, I wasn’t alone in the fight.

Two days later, the first article went live.

Not a hit piece. Not a sob story.

A profile.

It talked about my book, my influences, my years of quiet persistence. It mentioned “lack of early family support” in one clean sentence and then moved on.

I didn’t read the comments.

Maris did, once, and then shut her laptop with a satisfied snap.

“They’re feral in there,” she said cheerfully. “In a good way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means strangers are very invested in your success,” she said. “And deeply unimpressed with anyone who tried to stop you.”

I smiled and went back to writing.

The sequel didn’t wait politely. It surged.

Words came easier now—not because the work was suddenly simpler, but because the constant background noise of self-doubt had finally gone quiet.

No more internalized voices asking if this was “worth it.”

No more flinching at footsteps outside my door.

Just the story.

A week later, my book appeared in a local bookstore window.

Maris dragged me down there like it was a religious pilgrimage.

We stood on the sidewalk, rain misting our hair, staring at the display.

My book sat front and center, cover angled just right to catch the light.

I pressed my hand to the glass, heart pounding.

“That’s you,” Maris said softly. “You did that.”

I swallowed. “We did that.”

She smiled. “Fair.”

Inside the store, a woman recognized my face from the author photo.

“You’re her,” she said, eyes wide. “I loved it. I stayed up all night reading.”

Something inside me settled.

Not pride exactly.

Belonging.

—

The night before my first official event at Powell’s, I got a voicemail from Chloe.

I almost didn’t listen.

But I did.

“Hey,” she said, voice tentative in a way I’d never heard before. “I just… I wanted you to know I read it. The whole thing. And… it’s really good. Like—really good. I didn’t expect to see myself in it. Or… us.”

She paused.

“They’re not handling it well,” she added quietly. “But… I think maybe they’re starting to understand they can’t control everything.”

Another pause.

“I don’t know what happens next,” she finished. “But I wanted you to know… I’m proud of you.”

The message ended.

I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in my hand, heart aching in a way that wasn’t entirely painful.

People change slowly, if they change at all.

But sometimes, cracks are enough.

—

Powell’s was packed.

Not overflowing—this wasn’t a movie premiere—but full enough that the murmur of voices felt like a tide.

I stood at the signing table, pen in hand, smiling until my cheeks hurt.

People came with dog-eared copies, with sticky notes marking favorite passages, with questions about characters who had once lived only in my head.

One woman leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “My family told me to stop writing too.”

I squeezed her hand. “Don’t.”

She smiled like she might cry.

Near the end of the night, as the line thinned, I caught sight of two familiar figures near the back of the store.

My parents.

They stood stiffly between shelves, looking out of place among the posters and handwritten staff recommendation cards.

Dad’s jaw was tight. Mom’s eyes were red.

They didn’t approach.

They just watched.

For once, they weren’t the audience I was performing for.

They were observers.

And for once, I didn’t need to explain myself to them.

I finished the last signature, capped my pen, and stood.

Diane came up beside me. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised by how true it was.

My parents left without speaking.

I didn’t follow.

—

That night, back at the apartment, I opened my laptop again.

Another fresh document.

Another blinking cursor.

But this one didn’t scare me.

It felt like a promise.

I started typing.

Not because I needed to prove anything.

Not because I was afraid of losing it.

But because this was who I was.

A writer.

Not a failed adult.

Not a child playing pretend.

A woman who built worlds—and now, finally, lived in one of her own choosing.

Outside, Portland hummed.

Inside, my story continued.

And no one could delete it ever again.

That night, the apartment settled around me like a new skin.

It wasn’t silent the way my parents’ house was silent—tight, watchful, waiting for someone to do something wrong. This silence was roomy. It had edges softened by books and warm light and the faint clink of Maris rinsing a mug in the kitchen like she’d done it a thousand times and never once been afraid someone would accuse her of wasting water.

I lay on my back on the bed in my new room and stared at the ceiling until the shapes of it stopped feeling unfamiliar. The air smelled like paper and clean laundry and the faint citrus of the candle Maris had lit in the living room. Outside, Portland rain whispered on the window, not a dramatic storm, just a steady mist that made the city look like it was thinking.

My phone sat on the nightstand face down, and even like that I could feel it pulsing with the weight of their calls. Mom. Dad. Chloe. The group chat. A couple of unknown numbers that were probably relatives who’d been recruited into the crisis as reinforcements.

I didn’t touch it.

I didn’t owe them my immediate attention. That was a lesson I’d learned too late and too violently: urgency was one of their favorite tools. They made everything feel like an emergency so I’d drop what I was doing and run back into the orbit of their control.

Six hours until the meeting had been an emergency.

But the meeting was done.

And I was still standing.

My chest felt sore in a new way, like muscles that had been clenched for years were finally releasing and didn’t know what to do with all that looseness. Grief, anger, relief, pride—everything ran together until I couldn’t separate it into neat labels.

I picked up my laptop and opened it on my knees.

My manuscript was there, of course. The cloud version. The version living in more backups than I could count. The version that belonged to Hartfell’s servers now, and to the editor’s device, and to the warehouse, and to the retailer listings, and soon to the hands of strangers.

Still, I clicked it open like a ritual.

Four hundred pages appeared. Familiar chapters. My own words staring back like they’d been waiting patiently for me to remember something.

They couldn’t take this.

Not really.

They could delete a file on my laptop and call it victory. They could threaten, mock, belittle, make my life small until I started to believe small was all I deserved.

But the thing they never understood about a book—about any creation that comes from someone who refuses to stop making things—is that it stops belonging only to the person who made it the moment it becomes real in the world.

Once the story existed beyond me, it had its own momentum.

It didn’t ask permission.

I scrolled to Chapter Twelve, the one Chloe had joked about, the one with the family who tried to sell the Dragon Keeper’s magic for profit because they didn’t believe in it until it could be turned into a bargain.

I read a few pages, then closed the file again.

Not because it hurt.

Because I didn’t want to spend my first night free rereading proof that my pain could be turned into art.

I wanted to live in the after.

I shut the laptop gently, like I was tucking in something precious, and walked into the living room.

Maris sat cross-legged on the couch with a paperback open in her lap. Purple hair in a messy bun, oversized sweater, bare feet tucked under her. She looked up when I entered, eyes soft and observant in the way poets can be—like she wasn’t just seeing me, she was reading the space around me.

“You’re still awake,” she said.

“So are you.”

She lifted the book. “Poetry is a terrible sleeping pill.”

I tried to smile, but my face didn’t quite remember how to stay light. I sank onto the other end of the couch.

Maris waited a beat, then closed her book and set it down. “Do you want quiet-company or talk-company?”

The question caught me off guard. In my parents’ house, silence was either punishment or avoidance. Conversation was either interrogation or correction. Nobody ever offered companionship as a choice.

“Talk,” I said, surprised by how quickly the word came. “I think… I need to talk.”

Maris nodded once like that made perfect sense. She didn’t ask me to start at the beginning. She didn’t pry. She just leaned back, present, and let me find my own way into it.

“I keep expecting… something,” I admitted. “Like they’re going to show up here. Like they’re going to bang on the door and make me come back.”

“They might,” Maris said calmly. “But you don’t have to open it.”

The simplicity of that hit me like a wave.

I stared at my hands. “I’ve spent so long trying to make them understand me.”

“That’s exhausting,” she said softly.

I let out a breath that sounded like a laugh if a laugh could be sad. “It’s worse than exhausting. It’s… humiliating. Like I keep offering them pieces of me and they keep acting like it’s trash.”

Maris’s eyes didn’t flinch. “You know you don’t have to do that anymore, right?”

I swallowed. My throat felt thick. “I know it in my head. I don’t know it in my body yet.”

She smiled gently, like she’d been there. “Bodies are slower. They learn when they feel safe long enough.”

Safe.

The word made something in me tighten and then loosen again.

“Do you think they’ll ever… change?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Maris didn’t rush to reassure me. She didn’t promise a happy ending I hadn’t earned. She thought for a moment, then said, “People change when it costs them more to stay the same.”

I pictured my parents, their identities built on being right, being respectable, being the kind of people whose children reflected well on them. I imagined them hearing about my book from someone else. Seeing my face on a website. Watching strangers praise what they’d mocked.

It would cost them something.

But would it be enough?

“I don’t know what that means for us,” I whispered.

Maris reached for her mug, took a sip, then said, “It means you get to decide what you’ll accept. Whether they change or not, you get to decide.”

My eyes burned.

I blinked hard and tried to steady my breathing.

For years, every decision had felt like it needed their approval to be real. Like my choices were imaginary until they nodded.

But this—this was real without them.

The box of books in my room was real. My name on the cover was real. The emails from my agent were real. The keys in my pocket were real.

My life was real.

And they hadn’t even been invited into the room where it started.

“I sent them an email,” I said quietly. “About boundaries.”

Maris nodded again. “Good.”

“I didn’t say sorry.”

“Good.”

“I didn’t explain.”

“Good.”

I laughed then—small, shaky, surprised. “You’re very supportive.”

“I’m very protective of artists,” she corrected, like it was a moral stance. “Especially ones who’ve been treated like their gift is a flaw.”

My chest tightened again, but this time it felt like gratitude.

We talked until the candle burned low. Not about my parents the whole time—Maris asked about my book, about dragons, about why I wrote fantasy, and I told her the truth: because the real world was full of people who wanted to control you, and I liked writing worlds where power had rules that could be challenged.

When we finally went to bed, I turned my phone on its face again and left it that way.

For once, the quiet felt like mine.

Sleep came in pieces, but it came.

And in the morning, the first thing I felt wasn’t dread.

It was space.

—

My phone had forty-seven notifications when I turned it over.

A dozen calls from Mom. Eight from Dad. Seven from Chloe. The rest were texts—long, jagged paragraphs that shifted moods like weather.

You’re breaking your mother’s heart.

We didn’t raise you like this.

We are worried about you.

This is not normal.

Call us now.

We need to discuss what you did.

You humiliated us.

You lied.

You owe us an explanation.

We paid for your education.

We deserve respect.

One message from Dad stood out because it was short.

Come home. We’ll discuss terms.

Terms.

Like I was a tenant. Like my freedom was negotiable.

My stomach twisted, but it didn’t collapse the way it would have yesterday. There was a new layer between me and their words now—distance, perspective, the faint beginning of immunity.

Maris was already in the kitchen, hair still messy, wearing pajama shorts and an enormous sweatshirt that said SOME POETS AREN’T NICE. She slid a mug of coffee toward me without asking.

“You look like you just survived a shipwreck,” she said lightly.

“Feels like it,” I admitted, staring at the screen.

She didn’t peek at the messages. She didn’t ask me to read them out loud. She just said, “Do you want to respond?”

“I already did,” I said, remembering the email I’d sent last night. It was sitting in my sent folder like a quiet line in the sand.

Maris nodded. “Then you’ve done what you needed to do.”

I took a sip of coffee. It was strong enough to shock my nervous system into the present.

“Diane called,” I said. “Media stuff is starting.”

Maris’s eyes lit up. “Ooh. Like… actual interviews?”

“Apparently.”

“Do you have to be polished? Like, ‘I’d like to thank my supporters’ polished?”

I smiled despite myself. “Probably.”

“Gross,” she said affectionately. “I’ll make you practice.”

The idea made my stomach flutter with nervous excitement.

I’d dreamed of this. I’d imagined it in quiet moments when my parents were out of the house and I could pretend my life belonged to me. But I’d always imagined it happening later, after some magical moment when I’d be ready.

The truth was, I would never feel ready.

I would just be.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

I ignored it.

Then again.

Unknown number.

And again.

This time I answered with a cautious “Hello?”

“Naomi?” a woman’s voice said, clipped and professional. “This is Jenna from KATU’s morning segment. We’re doing a feature on local authors making a national splash. Your publicist sent over your information—are you available for a short interview tomorrow?”

My throat tightened. “Tomorrow?”

“It’s a ten-minute segment,” Jenna said. “You’ll come in, we’ll talk about the book, the launch, a little about your background. Very friendly.”

Friendly. Public. Real.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes, I’m available.”

“Wonderful,” Jenna said. “I’ll email details.”

The call ended.

Maris’s mouth was open in delighted horror. “Did you just say yes to live television?”

“It’s not live,” I said, though my heart didn’t believe me.

“It’s your face on camera,” she corrected. “Your parents are going to see it.”

The thought hit me like cold water.

I set my mug down slowly.

Maris watched me, then said gently, “Hey. That doesn’t mean you have to change what you’re doing.”

I swallowed. My voice came out smaller. “I know. It’s just… they’re going to show up.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But you’re not in their house anymore. You’re not a kid in your room being told to apologize. You have a team. You have a contract. You have your own keys.”

Keys.

I touched my pocket instinctively, feeling the small metal weight.

It anchored me.

“Also,” Maris added with a wicked glint, “if they show up, we can call building security. That’s what grown-ups do.”

I laughed, startled, and the tension in my chest loosened.

Grown-ups.

Dad had thrown the word at me like a weapon.

But grown-up wasn’t obedience. It wasn’t surrender.

Grown-up was boundaries.

Grown-up was protecting what mattered.

Grown-up was saying no without explaining.

I finished my coffee, then went into my room and opened my laptop.

I drafted another email—not to my parents this time, but to my agent and Diane, asking what to do if my family tried to contact the publisher or appear at events.

Within an hour, Diane replied.

We’ll handle it. We have protocols. Do not engage at events. Security will be present. You focus on being an author. That’s your job.

I stared at the line you focus on being an author.

My job.

Not a hobby. Not a delusion.

A job.

I closed the email and let my hands rest on the keyboard.

Then I opened the sequel.

And I wrote.

Not to prove anything.

Not to spite anyone.

Because the story wanted to be told, and I was finally in a place where telling it didn’t feel like a crime.

—

By afternoon, a new message popped up from Chloe.

Not a call. A text.

Can we talk? Just us.

I stared at it.

Chloe had been my parents’ golden girl for so long, the one whose choices validated their worldview. She’d played her part well. She’d parroted their lines. She’d offered me minimum wage like it was mercy.

But yesterday, for a second, I’d seen something crack. Something human behind the brand.

I typed back.

Yes. Meet me at 4 at Stumptown on NW 12th.

My hands shook slightly when I hit send.

Not with fear.

With the strange ache of hope trying not to be stupid.

—

Chloe arrived in a perfect coat and perfect boots, hair glossy, face carefully done. But her eyes were puffy like she hadn’t slept, and there was a tightness around her mouth that no lipstick could hide.

She spotted me at a corner table and hesitated before walking over, like she wasn’t sure what version of me she would find.

I didn’t stand up. I didn’t rush to hug her. I just lifted my coffee slightly in greeting.

Chloe sat across from me, set her purse down with a neat thud, and looked around like the cafe itself might be judging her.

Then her eyes flicked to me.

“I read it,” she said.

I blinked. “My book?”

She nodded once, sharply. “The whole thing. In one night.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly. “Okay.”

Chloe’s fingers twisted around the sleeve of her cup. “It’s… good.”

“Thank you.”

“No,” she said, almost angry. “It’s not ‘good’ like a cute little hobby. It’s good like… like you made something real.”

Something in her voice sounded like grief.

I didn’t speak. I waited.

Chloe swallowed. “I didn’t expect to feel… jealous.”

The honesty landed like a glass breaking in a quiet room.

“You’re allowed,” I said carefully.

She let out a harsh little laugh. “Am I? Mom says jealousy is a sin. But she’s been jealous of you for years without admitting it.”

My stomach dropped.

Chloe’s eyes stayed on her coffee. “She hates how you can be passionate about something without turning it into a product. She hates that you don’t need an audience to do it. She hates that you can fail and still come back to it, like failure doesn’t kill you.”

I stared at Chloe, the words rearranging my understanding of my mother in real time.

Chloe looked up, eyes shining with something raw. “And Dad… Dad hates anything he can’t control. He controls his job, his house, his church friends, his reputation. He thought he could control you too.”

I felt my hands curl into fists under the table.

“So he deleted it,” Chloe whispered. “Like if he erased your work, he erased your… defiance.”

My chest hurt.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, voice quiet.

Chloe’s mouth trembled. “Because I’m tired,” she said. “I’m tired of being the one who makes them proud just so they don’t turn on me. I’m tired of hearing Mom talk about your ‘phase’ like she’s waiting for you to come crawling back. I’m tired of Dad acting like he did you a favor.”

Her eyes flicked away, then back. “And because when I held your book yesterday, I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time.”

“What?”

Chloe looked down, embarrassed. “Like… I used to have dreams too.”

I didn’t interrupt.

She kept going, words spilling now that the dam had cracked. “I used to write poems. I used to want to do theater. I used to want—”

She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “But you know what happened when I tried? Mom laughed. Dad said it was cute. Then they told me to focus on something that ‘counts.’ Something that makes money.”

She looked at me like she was bracing for judgment.

I just said, “I’m sorry.”

Chloe blinked hard, surprised by the softness. “Don’t be. You’re the one who kept going. I’m the one who traded everything for approval.”

The admission made my throat burn.

We sat there in the cafe, Portland rain tapping the windows, steam rising from our cups like the air itself was exhaling.

Finally, Chloe said, “They’re going to try to take credit.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “I know.”

“They already are,” Chloe added bitterly. “Mom told Aunt Linda that they ‘encouraged you to pursue your dream’ and that you’re only successful because they ‘pushed you to be disciplined.’”

My stomach twisted. The predictability of it hurt almost as much as the lie.

Chloe leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”

I looked at her. “I’m going to keep living,” I said. “And I’m going to stop explaining myself to people who only listen so they can twist it.”

Chloe swallowed. “Are you going to cut them off?”

I hesitated, because the truth was complicated. Because family was a word with hooks in it.

“I’m going to set terms,” I said. “Real ones. Not Dad’s fantasy version. If they want access to me, they have to treat me like a person. Not a project.”

Chloe’s eyes flicked to mine. “And if they don’t?”

I breathed in slowly, feeling the weight of it.

“Then they don’t get access,” I said. “Not to my life. Not to my work. Not to my money. Not to my story.”

Chloe nodded, and for a second she looked… smaller. Like she’d been hoping I would save her too.

Then she said, softly, “Can you save me a copy? Like… a signed one? For me. Not for them.”

My eyes stung.

“I’ll give you one,” I said.

Chloe’s mouth quirked. “Full price.”

I laughed. “Fine. Full price.”

She hesitated, then added, “And Naomi?”

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”

The words were quiet, imperfect, delayed.

But they were real.

I held her gaze. “Thank you,” I said. “That means more than you know.”

Chloe nodded once, then stood, smoothing her coat like she needed to put her armor back on.

As she left, she paused. “They’re going to show up at your first event,” she warned.

I didn’t flinch.

“Let them,” I said.

—

The next day, I went to the studio for the interview.

Maris insisted on coming with me as moral support, which meant she sat in the waiting area flipping through a book of poems while I paced like a caged animal.

“They’re going to ask you what your book is about,” she said without looking up. “Say: ‘A girl and a dragon team up to reclaim stolen magic.’ Boom. Done.”

“It’s not that simple,” I muttered.

“It is,” Maris said. “They don’t need your whole soul. They need a hook.”

My stomach churned. “They’re going to ask about my family.”

“They can ask,” Maris said. “You don’t have to answer.”

The producer called my name.

My palms were damp. My mouth was dry. My heart was trying to escape.

I followed her into the studio anyway.

The lights were bright. The set was cheerful in a way that felt almost absurd. The host—Jenna—smiled like she’d known me for years, which was both comforting and unsettling.

“We’re so excited to have you,” she said as we settled into chairs. “Portland author Naomi Blake, whose debut fantasy novel The Last Dragon Keeper is already generating serious buzz nationwide.”

Buzz.

The word sounded like electricity.

The camera rolled.

Jenna asked about the book. I answered. I talked about dragons, about writing, about the magic of creating worlds. I focused on the story. On the joy. On the work.

Then Jenna leaned forward slightly, eyes bright. “And Naomi, I understand you’ve been writing for years. Did you always have support?”

There it was.

The moment where my parents’ narrative would either take over or be cut off at the knees.

Maris’s voice echoed in my head: They don’t need your whole soul.

I smiled politely, the way Diane had coached me. “I had support in some places,” I said. “And in others, I learned to support myself. I think a lot of artists know what that’s like.”

Jenna nodded, satisfied by the graceful answer, and moved on.

We finished the segment. The producer thanked me. Jenna hugged me and said she couldn’t wait to read it.

When I walked back into the waiting area, my whole body felt like it was vibrating.

Maris looked up. “You didn’t throw up,” she said proudly.

“Barely.”

She grinned and stood. “Congratulations, you’re officially famous in the morning news demographic.”

As we walked out, my phone buzzed.

A message from Dad.

Saw you on TV. We need to talk now.

No mention of pride. No congratulations. No apology. Just the old assumption of authority.

I stared at the text, then slipped the phone into my pocket without replying.

Maris saw my face. “They watched.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“And you survived.”

I exhaled, realizing my shoulders had been up around my ears. “Yeah.”

We went home. I wrote for three hours straight, fueled by adrenaline and something like defiance, but quieter now, cleaner.

That evening, Diane called.

“The segment was great,” she said. “Your preorder numbers spiked again after it aired.”

My heart lifted.

“And,” she added, “security will be at Powell’s. Just as a precaution.”

I swallowed. “Chloe said they might show up.”

“They might,” Diane said. “If they do, they’ll be treated like any other attendee. They don’t get special access because they share DNA.”

I closed my eyes, gratitude flooding me. “Thank you.”

“Focus on your readers,” Diane said. “That’s who matters now.”

After the call, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the box of books stacked against the wall.

My name on them looked surreal.

For years, my parents had treated my writing like it was a phase that could be disciplined out of me. Like imagination was a stain to scrub off.

But here it was, in glossy covers and barcodes and listings. Here it was in the hands of strangers.

Here it was in the world, stubbornly existing.

And suddenly, I understood something that made my chest ache with both sorrow and relief:

My parents didn’t define reality.

They just defined their version of it.

And I didn’t have to live there anymore.

—

Powell’s was packed the night of my first big event.

Not just a handful of polite friends. Not just Maris and Diane and my agent.

People.

Actual readers.

Some had copies already—advance readers, early shipments. Some held printouts of preorder confirmations like tickets. Some clutched notebooks with questions written in careful handwriting.

I stood backstage for a moment listening to the murmur of the crowd and felt my stomach flip.

Maris squeezed my shoulder. “Remember,” she whispered. “You’re not asking for permission. You’re offering a story.”

Diane adjusted my blazer like a stage mom who actually cared about your dreams. “Smile,” she said. “Breathe. You’re in control.”

I nodded, then walked out.

Applause hit me like warm water.

I sat at the table under the lights, microphone clipped to my collar, a copy of my book propped up so the dragon’s eye caught the gleam.

The moderator introduced me. I answered questions. I read a short passage, my voice steady, my words filling the room like music.

When the Q&A started, hands shot up.

A teenage girl asked about my main character’s fear of disappointing her family.

A middle-aged man asked about the worldbuilding and the magic system.

A woman with silver hair asked me, eyes shining, “Did writing this change your life?”

I swallowed, heart full. “Yes,” I said softly. “It gave me my life.”

Applause again.

Then it was signing time.

The line formed fast, curling around shelves. People stepped up one by one, smiling, nervous, excited. They told me how the book made them feel. They told me they’d stayed up reading. They told me they hadn’t read fantasy in years and this pulled them back in.

Each signature felt like a small, sacred act: my name written in ink that meant I existed, I mattered, I did this.

Halfway through the line, I saw them.

Near the back of the store, by a display of literary fiction, my parents stood like statues.

Dad’s posture was stiff, shoulders squared like he was preparing for a confrontation. Mom’s hands were clasped tight in front of her, knuckles pale. Her eyes darted around the room like she was searching for something familiar to grab onto.

They didn’t fit here.

This space wasn’t built for their rules.

My heartbeat spiked.

For a second, I felt eight years old again, caught doing something “silly,” waiting for the correction.

Then I saw a reader step up to my table, holding my book with shaking hands, eyes bright.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed this.”

The spell broke.

I looked down at the book. At my name. At the dedication. At the world I’d built.

I looked back up—and my parents were still there, watching.

But they weren’t the center.

They were background.

I kept signing.

When the line thinned, Dad finally started moving forward, pulling Mom with him like she was attached.

Diane noticed instantly. She stepped closer to my side, not threatening, just present. A security guard shifted subtly near the end of the table.

My parents reached the front.

Dad set his jaw and looked at me like he was about to scold a teenager for staying out past curfew.

Mom’s eyes were wet. She tried to look wounded, like pain was the best proof of innocence.

Naomi,” Mom began, voice trembling dramatically.

I held up one hand—not aggressively, just calmly.

“Are you here as attendees,” I asked, “or as my parents who want a private conversation?”

Dad blinked, thrown off. He wasn’t used to being asked to define his role.

“We—” Mom started, then swallowed. “We came to support you.”

The lie was so clean it almost made me laugh.

Diane’s presence at my shoulder was steady.

I looked at Mom, then Dad. “Okay,” I said. “Then welcome. If you’d like a signed copy, you can purchase one from the front.”

Dad’s face darkened. “Naomi, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” I asked, my voice quiet but clear. “Set a boundary? Act like an adult?”

His nostrils flared. He leaned in slightly. “You embarrassed us.”

I felt something cold and clear settle in my chest.

“No,” I said. “You embarrassed yourselves when you tried to erase my work because it didn’t fit your idea of success.”

Mom’s mouth opened. “We were just—”

“Trying to help,” I finished for her, because I’d heard the script my whole life. “I know.”

Dad’s voice dropped, sharp. “You lied to us. For months.”

I held his gaze. “I kept myself safe,” I said. “Because when I shared my writing, you mocked it. When I shared my goals, you belittled them. And when you had access to my work, you destroyed it.”

Mom’s eyes flashed. “Your father made a mistake.”

“A mistake is spilling coffee,” I said gently. “Deleting two years of work on purpose is a choice.”

Dad’s face reddened. “We paid for your education. We put a roof over your head—”

“You did,” I said, and felt the old guilt try to crawl up my throat like a vine. I cut it off before it could wrap around me. “And I’m grateful for what you provided. But providing basics doesn’t mean you own me.”

The words felt like a door clicking shut.

Mom’s lower lip trembled. “You’re being cruel.”

I almost smiled. The familiar pivot: when control fails, try guilt.

“I’m being honest,” I said. “Cruel would be pretending nothing happened and letting you do it again in a different way.”

Dad leaned closer, voice harsh. “We should talk at home.”

“I don’t live at home,” I reminded him.

“You’re still our daughter,” Mom whispered, like that was a chain.

“I am,” I said. “And I’m also a grown woman with her own life. If you want to be part of it, you can start by respecting it.”

Dad’s eyes flicked to Diane, then to the security guard, then back to me. He looked cornered, and I saw something I’d rarely seen on him: uncertainty.

Mom took a shaky breath. “We didn’t know,” she said, voice softening into something almost pleading. “We didn’t know you were… this.”

This.

As if success had transformed me into a different species.

“You didn’t ask,” I said quietly.

Silence.

Mom’s eyes darted, searching for an argument that didn’t make her the villain in a public place. Dad’s jaw clenched.

Finally, Mom said, “Can we at least… get a picture? With you and the book?”

There it was.

Not apology.

Not accountability.

Proof.

A prop for their rewritten story.

A photo they could show at church, at family dinners, on social media: Look, we always supported her.

My stomach turned.

I met Mom’s gaze. “Not tonight,” I said calmly.

Her face collapsed into shock. “Naomi—”

“I’m happy to take pictures with readers after,” I said, keeping my voice polite. “But not with people who tried to sabotage me and haven’t apologized.”

Dad’s voice went icy. “You’re going to regret this.”

I looked at him—really looked—and felt the old fear try to rise. The fear of consequences. The fear of being cut off. The fear of anger.

Then I remembered: they didn’t control my housing anymore. They didn’t control my money. They didn’t control my work. They didn’t control my reputation in this room full of people who had come here for me.

What could they take?

Only what I handed them.

“I don’t think I will,” I said softly.

Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “We love you.”

I nodded once. “Then show it,” I said. “In a way that doesn’t involve control.”

Dad scoffed like love was something you proved by winning.

He grabbed Mom’s elbow. “Come on,” he muttered, loud enough for me to hear. “She’s letting this go to her head.”

Mom stumbled a half step, still looking back at me like she couldn’t believe I was refusing to play my old role.

They turned and walked away through the bookstore, shoulders stiff, faces tight.

For a moment, my hands trembled over the open book on the table.

Diane leaned close. “You did beautifully,” she murmured.

I exhaled slowly. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Maris appeared at my other side, eyes fierce. “If you throw up, do it in a poetic way.”

A laugh burst out of me—unexpected, sharp, real.

The line moved again.

Another reader stepped up, smiling nervously, holding my book like it was fragile.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, eyes flicking toward where my parents had disappeared. “I… I overheard. That was… a lot.”

I swallowed, steadying myself. “It was,” I admitted.

She hesitated, then said, “You were very… calm.”

I looked down at my name on the page. “I wasn’t calm inside,” I said quietly. “But I’ve spent years being made small. I’m done.”

The reader’s eyes shone. “Good,” she whispered.

She slid the book toward me. “Can you write… ‘Keep going’?”

My throat tightened.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I can.”

I wrote the words carefully, ink dark and permanent.

Keep going.

When she left, clutching the book to her chest like a talisman, my hands stopped shaking.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because it meant something.

Because my story wasn’t just about dragons and magic. It was about survival. About stepping out of someone else’s script. About becoming real even when the people closest to you want you to stay imaginary.

I signed the last book.

The crowd thinned. The bookstore quieted. Diane hugged me, then walked me toward the back with security nearby, just in case.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a fine mist that made the streetlights blur into halos.

Maris linked her arm through mine as we walked to the car. “You just told your parents no in a bookstore full of witnesses,” she said in awe. “That’s… legendary.”

I let out a shaky breath. “It didn’t feel legendary.”

“It will tomorrow,” she said. “Right now it feels like grief.”

She wasn’t wrong.

In the car, with the event behind me and the adrenaline draining out, sadness rolled in like fog. Not regret. Not guilt.

Just the ache of seeing clearly.

It hurt to accept that my parents might never be the kind of parents I wanted. The kind who would have hugged me and said, We’re proud of you. The kind who would have trusted my choices even if they didn’t understand them.

It hurt to realize that success didn’t fix everything. It just made the truth louder.

Back at the apartment, Maris made tea and didn’t talk until I did. She had an instinct for silence that wasn’t punishment.

I sat on my bed, shoes still on, staring at my hands.

“I always thought,” I said finally, voice small, “that if I succeeded, they’d love me the right way.”

Maris sat beside me, mug in her hands. “That’s a common fantasy,” she said gently. “A painful one.”

I swallowed. “And it turns out… they just want to own it.”

Maris’s eyes were dark and steady. “Then don’t let them.”

The simplicity of it made my chest crack open.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and let myself feel it: the grief of being seen only when I was useful, the anger of being sabotaged, the exhaustion of years spent proving my worth to people who had already decided I didn’t have any.

And underneath it all, something else.

Freedom.

Because I didn’t have to convince them.

I could just live.

My phone buzzed again.

A new voicemail from Dad.

I stared at it.

Maris didn’t tell me what to do. She just watched, present, ready.

I pressed play.

Dad’s voice filled the room, controlled and cold.

“You think you can cut us out,” he said. “You think you can make us look bad and walk away. You owe us. You owe your mother an apology. You owe this family respect. Call me. We will fix this.”

Fix this.

Like I was a broken appliance.

The message ended.

Silence returned.

I sat very still.

Then I deleted the voicemail.

Maris let out a breath that sounded like relief.

I looked at her. “I feel… cruel.”

Maris shook her head. “You feel conditioned,” she corrected. “They trained you to think protecting yourself is cruelty.”

I swallowed hard.

“I want to answer,” I admitted. “Part of me still wants to explain. To make him understand.”

Maris’s gaze softened. “He understands,” she said quietly. “He just doesn’t agree. And he doesn’t have to. Understanding isn’t required for respect.”

The words settled into me like something I’d been missing.

Understanding isn’t required for respect.

I nodded slowly.

Then I opened my laptop.

Not the manuscript.

A new document.

I typed:

If you show up at my home, I will not open the door.

If you show up at my events, you will be treated like any other attendee.

If you contact my publisher, my agent will respond.

If you threaten me, I will save it.

If you insult me, I will end the conversation.

If you want a relationship, you will apologize for deleting my work and for belittling my career.

Not because I need the apology to survive.

Because I need it to trust you.

I stared at the list.

It looked like a map.

A map out of the maze I’d been trapped in.

I didn’t send it to them yet. Not as a message they could argue with at midnight. I saved it as a reminder for myself.

I closed the laptop.

And for the first time that day, I breathed all the way down to my ribs.

—

The week that followed moved fast.

So fast it felt like someone had hit fast-forward on my life.

Interviews. Emails. Scheduling.

Diane coached me on how to answer questions without bleeding on camera. My agent forwarded foreign rights updates that made my head spin. The marketing director sent a draft of the tour schedule—cities like a string of bright beads across the map: Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Austin, Chicago, New York.

New York still didn’t feel real.

My book appeared in more listings, more newsletters, more “upcoming releases” roundups.

People tagged me in photos of my cover at their local Barnes & Noble.

My cover.

In the wild.

Maris squealed every time she saw one. She acted like a proud older sister even though we’d known each other for less than two weeks.

“You’re everywhere,” she said one morning, showing me a photo someone posted from Florida. “A dragon is flying across America carrying your name.”

I laughed, but my chest ached in a sweet way. “I used to dream about this.”

“And now it’s happening.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “It is.”

My parents tried a few more times.

Dad emailed my agent. My agent replied politely and briefly, looping in Hartfell’s legal team. After that, the attempts stopped abruptly, like someone had finally realized they were playing in a different league now.

Mom left a few tearful messages. Softer. Less demanding. More “I miss you” than “You owe me.” Still no apology. Still no accountability.

Chloe texted occasionally. Sometimes about the book, sometimes about Mom crying at night, sometimes about her own life—a crack in her facade widening.

One afternoon, she wrote:

I told them they can’t take credit. Dad yelled. Mom cried. I left.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I typed:

You’re allowed to leave rooms that hurt you.

Chloe replied five minutes later:

I don’t know how you do it.

I stared at her message.

Then I typed the truth:

I didn’t know how either. I just got tired of dying quietly.

No response after that.

But something in me eased anyway.

—

The day my book officially hit shelves, Maris and I went to Barnes & Noble like it was a pilgrimage.

We walked through the automatic doors, the smell of paper and coffee and consumer comfort washing over me. I kept telling myself it was just a store. Just shelves. Just retail.

But my heart didn’t listen.

We found the Staff Picks display near the front.

There it was.

A stack of hardcovers with my dragon cover facing out, glossy under the lights.

A little handwritten staff card beside it.

If you love found family, fierce heroines, and magic that refuses to be controlled, don’t miss this debut. —Emma

My throat tightened.

Maris grabbed my sleeve. “Look,” she whispered, eyes wide.

I leaned closer, reading my own name on the card like it might disappear if I blinked.

It didn’t.

It stayed.

I touched the edge of one book lightly, like it was holy.

A woman browsing nearby glanced over, then did a double take.

“Oh my god,” she said softly. “You’re her.”

Heat flooded my face. “Hi.”

She smiled, shy and delighted. “I just finished it. I loved it. The dragon—”

She pressed her hand to her chest dramatically. “The dragon had me crying in the best way.”

Something inside me swelled.

For years, my parents’ voices had been the loudest in my head.

Failed adult.

Pretending.

Grow up.

Reality.

And now, here was a stranger in a bookstore saying my words made her feel something real.

That was reality too.

A better one.

“Thank you,” I managed.

The woman hesitated. “Can I… can I take a picture of the display? My friend is going to lose her mind.”

I laughed. “Please.”

Maris practically vibrated with pride as the woman snapped a photo and rushed off.

We stood there a long time, just looking.

Finally, Maris said quietly, “They can’t pretend this isn’t real.”

I swallowed. “They’ll try.”

Maris looked at me. “And you’ll keep living anyway.”

I nodded.

Because that was the point.

Not to convince them.

Not to punish them.

To live.

—

That night, I sat at my desk in my new room with a fresh document open.

The cursor blinked patiently.

I thought about the past two years—the nights writing after arguments, the mornings waking up with dread and writing anyway, the way I’d learned to create in secret like my gift was something illegal.

I thought about my father’s smirk when he said he deleted it.

I thought about my mother’s calm cruelty when she called me a failed adult.

I thought about Chloe’s careful brand and the moment it cracked when she realized my dream had become a product on shelves across the country—something she could hold, something she couldn’t dismiss.

I thought about Diane laughing and saying, How very 1990s of them.

I thought about the room full of my books at Hartfell.

About signing my name until my hand cramped.

About a reader asking me to write Keep going.

And I realized something that made my chest ache with a strange, fierce tenderness:

My parents hadn’t just tried to delete my manuscript.

They had tried to delete the part of me that believed my life could be mine.

They had tried to erase my future by shrinking my present.

But the future had already started without them.

It had started in the quiet moments when I kept writing.

It had started when I signed the contract.

It had started when I chose a P.O. box because I didn’t trust their reactions.

It had started when I built my world anyway, even with their contempt pressing on my shoulders like a hand.

The future didn’t ask for their approval.

It simply arrived.

I placed my fingers on the keys.

And I began.

Chapter One.

The day after her father tried to erase her book, Lydia Blake walked into a room full of her own name.

I paused.

My lips curved into a small smile.

Sometimes the best payback isn’t rage. It isn’t speeches. It isn’t public humiliation. It isn’t even cutting someone off with a dramatic slam.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

Sometimes it’s simply refusing to hand your life back to people who only loved you when you were obedient.

Sometimes the cleanest, strongest thing you can do is succeed without letting them claim it.

I kept typing.

The words flowed—not just because I was inspired, but because I was finally safe enough to let them.

Outside, the rain fell softly over Portland, Oregon, over the bridges and bookstores and coffee shops, over the old brick building where Hartfell’s offices glowed on the top floors, over the warehouse where thousands of copies sat stacked like proof.

My phone buzzed again.

A message from Mom.

Please. I just want to talk.

I stared at it.

The old reflex stirred—answer, soothe, explain, make it better. Be the good daughter. Fix the tension. Make them comfortable.

Then I looked back at my laptop.

At the words forming.

At the world I was building.

I typed a short reply.

I’m not ready to talk yet. If you want a relationship with me, I need an apology for deleting my work and for how you’ve treated my career. When you’re ready for that, email me.

I didn’t add I love you.

Not because I didn’t.

But because love without respect is a weapon in the wrong hands.

I hit send.

My stomach fluttered.

Then, slowly, the flutter eased.

I went back to my book.

I wrote for an hour, then two.

I wrote until my eyes blurred and my fingers ached in the good way—like I’d lifted something heavy and proved I could.

When I finally stopped, I leaned back in my chair and looked at the page.

A new story was beginning.

Not because my parents had tried to end the last one.

Because I had survived them.

Because my dream had moved beyond their reach.

Because success wasn’t just money or praise or displays in bookstores—it was freedom. It was choosing who got access to me. It was building a life where my art wasn’t something to hide.

I closed the laptop and walked into the living room.

Maris was on the couch, reading again, candle flickering beside her. She looked up. “Did you write?”

“Yes,” I said, voice quiet.

Her smile was immediate. “Good.”

I stood there for a moment, the warmth of the room wrapping around me.

“What?” Maris asked.

I swallowed, feeling emotion rise like a tide. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I admitted. “For something to go wrong.”

Maris set her book down. “Something will go wrong,” she said simply. “That’s life.”

My stomach tightened.

Maris held my gaze. “But you’re not trapped anymore. That’s the difference.”

The words slid into me, anchoring deep.

Not trapped anymore.

I nodded slowly.

Maris patted the couch beside her. “Come sit,” she said. “Tell me about Lydia.”

I sat down, and for the next hour I talked about my characters like they were friends—because they were. I talked about dragons and towers and magic that refused to be owned. Maris listened like it mattered, like this was as real as any corporate meeting or sales report.

And maybe it was.

Later, when I went back to my room, I paused by the stack of my own books and ran my thumb over my name.

Ink.

Paper.

Proof.

Not just of my success.

Of my existence outside their control.

I thought about my parents sitting at home, probably scrolling through posts, probably hearing whispers from relatives, probably rewriting the story already: We always supported her. We pushed her. We knew she’d succeed.

They would try to claim me now that I was safe to brag about.

But they didn’t get to.

They didn’t get to erase my pain and keep my success.

They didn’t get to edit my life like it was their manuscript.

I lay down in the bed in my new room and listened to the city, to the rain, to the gentle sounds of Maris moving around in the kitchen.

I thought about the little girl I’d been—scribbling stories in a notebook, believing adults were supposed to protect your dreams.

I wished I could reach back through time and tell her: They might not protect it. You might have to. But you can. You will.

The cursor had blinked at me yesterday like a threat.

Tonight, it blinked like a promise.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time, the future didn’t feel like something I had to beg for.

It felt like something I was already living.

The book was already in print.

And so was the person I was becoming—inked into the world in a way no one could delete.