The cursor blinked at me from a blank document like it was waiting for me to admit the truth.

Four hundred pages.

Two years of work.

Gone.

For a full ten seconds I just stared, because my brain kept trying to correct the picture. The file should’ve been there. The title should’ve been sitting at the top of the page—The Last Dragon Keeper—with my messy notes in the margin and the last line I’d rewritten three times the night before.

Instead there was only white.

The kind of white that swallows you.

“No,” I whispered, and my hands were already moving, clicking too hard, like I could force the laptop to obey with pressure.

I opened my folders. I searched by title, by character name, by the weird placeholder words I used when I couldn’t think of the right one.

Nothing.

I checked the trash.

Empty.

I checked my cloud drive.

A login screen I hadn’t seen in months.

I typed in passwords. I tried old ones. I tried the one I used when I was sixteen and dramatic.

Still nothing.

My throat tightened with each failed attempt until it felt like someone was pressing a thumb into the soft part of my neck.

I clicked into every backup location on my laptop.

I checked the external drive I’d sworn I was keeping up with.

I checked the email drafts where I sometimes pasted chapters when I was paranoid.

I checked the notes app where I kept fragments.

Everything but the thing I needed.

The meeting was in six hours.

Six hours until I walked into Hartfell Publishing—the building downtown that smelled like paper and coffee and money—and sat across from the people who could turn my private obsession into something real.

And my book was gone.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to the edge of the desk.

Two years.

Seven hundred hours, at least.

The first draft written in bursts between part-time shifts and family dinners.

The second draft stitched back together after my mentor shredded it with red ink.

The third draft—the real draft—built in quiet, hungry nights while everyone in this house slept.

Every scene I’d paced through the backyard while pretending I was “just thinking.”

Every conversation I’d whispered into my hoodie sleeve so no one heard.

Every revision that made my eyes burn.

Gone.

I forced myself to sit up. Recovery. There had to be a recovery.

I opened the file history.

The wheel spun.

Nothing.

I googled data recovery like a person who still believed in miracles.

I downloaded a program.

It asked me to pay.

I paid.

The scan started, crawling through my hard drive like a slow-moving animal.

I watched the percentage tick up and felt my pulse tick down.

Twenty percent.

Thirty.

Forty.

The program found a thousand useless things—old photos, broken downloads, a playlist I made in grad school when I thought heartbreak was a personality trait.

No manuscript.

My phone buzzed.

A reminder notification popped up:

Hartfell Publishing — 2:00 p.m. Conference Room B.

I swallowed hard.

I could hear my parents downstairs, the low rumble of the morning news and the clink of dishes.

I’d been up most of the night revising because I couldn’t stop. Because I never could.

Because when you’re a writer, your brain doesn’t shut off just because the world expects you to be quiet.

Footsteps came up the stairs.

My stomach went cold.

There was a pause outside my door, like someone was deciding how to arrange their face.

Then a voice—too casual.

“Looking for something?”

Dad stood in my doorway with a coffee mug in hand. He wasn’t even dressed for work yet. No rush. No urgency. Just that smirk at the corner of his mouth, the one that meant he’d won something.

My fingers froze on the keyboard.

“My novel,” I said, and I hated how small my voice sounded. “Where is it?”

He sipped slowly, savoring the moment like it was dessert.

“I deleted it last night.”

The room tilted.

My heartbeat felt loud enough to be heard through the floor.

“What?”

He shrugged like he’d changed a lightbulb.

“Did you know you left your laptop open?” he added. “Very careless.”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. It was like my body couldn’t decide if it was going to scream or faint.

“You deleted my book,” I managed.

“All four hundred pages of that fantasy nonsense.” He waved the mug like a judge’s gavel. “Dragons and magic and whatever else you’ve been wasting your time on.”

“That’s two years,” I said. My voice cracked on the number. “Two years of work. I have a publisher meeting today.”

Mom appeared behind him, robe tied tight, hair clipped back like she was ready to supervise someone else’s failure.

“Writers are just failed adults playing pretend,” she said. “It’s time you grew up, Naomi.”

She didn’t even blink when she said it.

I looked from one to the other.

They were calm.

They were satisfied.

They looked like people who’d just taken out the trash.

“My meeting is in six hours,” I said again, like repeating it would make them understand. “This could change everything.”

Dad set the mug down on my dresser with a soft, final clink.

“This meeting was a waste of time,” he said. “I saved you the embarrassment.”

He leaned against the doorframe like he owned the air in my room.

“They probably meet with hundreds of delusional writers,” he went on. “At least now you can focus on getting a real job.”

My chest tightened until breathing hurt.

And then my sister chose that exact moment to glide down the hallway like she’d been waiting for a cue.

Chloe wore leggings that looked expensive and a sweater with a tiny designer logo near the cuff. Her perfume arrived before she did. A neutral, confident smile sat on her face like she’d practiced it in the mirror.

“Did you tell her about the opportunity at my company?” she asked our parents, bright and helpful. “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,” I said.

“Which cost us forty thousand dollars,” Mom sniffed. “For what? So you could sit in your room making up stories like a child?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” I said, the words tasting metallic. “Living in our house.”

Dad pointed at me like he’d been waiting for that line.

“Because artists need time to create,” he mocked, throwing my own old argument back at me in a sing-song voice. “Well, time’s up. Either get a real job or get out.”

Something in me went very still.

Not calm.

Not numb.

Still, like an animal that knows if it bolts too soon it gets caught.

I stared at them—my family, the people who raised me on bedtime stories, who bought me my first notebook, who once told me my imagination was a gift.

I could still see my mother on the couch when I was nine, laughing at the ending I’d written where the princess refused the prince and bought a horse instead.

I could still hear Dad when I was thirteen, peeking into my room and saying, “That’s my girl,” when he saw me bent over a spiral notebook.

Back then, my dreams were cute.

Back then, my passion made me “special.”

Somewhere between then and now, my writing had become a threat.

A refusal.

A mirror they didn’t want to look into.

“When had they become these people who saw my passion as a character flaw?” I thought, and the question hurt more than the deletion.

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

“Nothing’s changing,” Mom said, firm as a closing door. “You’re going to call them, apologize for wasting their time, and then you’re going to fill out applications. That clothing company is hiring. So is the grocery store. Even McDonald’s would be better than this… pretending.”

She said the last word like it had a taste.

They left me there.

They didn’t even slam the door.

They didn’t need to.

The silence did it for them.

I stared at my empty screen.

Two years.

Seven hundred hours.

Countless revisions.

Characters I’d lived with, breathed life into, loved like friends.

Gone, because my father decided I needed a reality check.

I should’ve screamed.

I should’ve thrown something.

I should’ve run downstairs and knocked the mug from his hand.

But then another thought cut through the panic like a clean blade.

They had no idea the book was already in print.

They had no idea the meeting wasn’t a pitch.

They had no idea their little act of control was six months too late.

And suddenly the sadness in my chest hardened into something else.

A plan.

See, what my parents didn’t understand about modern publishing—what they’d never bothered to ask in their crusade to make me “normal”—was that traditional publishers don’t meet with authors who only have digital manuscripts.

They meet with authors who already have deals.

Who’ve already signed contracts.

Who’ve already gone through months of revisions with editors.

My meeting today wasn’t a desperate plea.

It was a launch strategy session.

For a book that was already printed, already shipped to warehouses, already listed online for pre-order.

A book I’d sold six months ago for a six-figure advance I never told them about.

I hadn’t told them because I’d learned the hard way that my joy didn’t survive their hands.

The moment I handed them something tender, they squeezed until it bruised.

So I kept the deal quiet.

I used a P.O. box.

I scheduled phone calls with my agent when I was “at the library.”

I signed contracts at a coffee shop downtown with my hands shaking under the table.

I cried in the bathroom of the publishing building when they slid the check across the table and said, “Welcome.”

Then I drove home and sat through dinner while Dad asked if I’d “applied anywhere yet.”

I didn’t tell them.

Not because I wanted to punish them.

Because I wanted to protect myself.

I pulled out my phone and called my editor.

“Diane,” I said when she answered, and my throat did a strange little hiccup. “My parents deleted my local copy of the manuscript.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Diane laughed.

“They what?” she said, genuinely delighted. “How very 1990s of them.”

I stared at the empty screen and felt my pulse finally slow.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“Oh, I know you’re serious,” Diane replied. “That’s what makes it funny.”

She clicked something on her end, like she was pulling up a file.

“Good thing we have it backed up in about seventeen places,” she continued, “plus the ten thousand physical copies sitting in the warehouse.”

Ten thousand.

The number rolled through me like a wave.

Ten thousand versions of my dream, stacked and shrink-wrapped and waiting.

“They don’t know about the deal,” I said. “Or the advance. Any of it.”

“Ah.” Her voice shifted. Understanding. “One of those families.”

It made my stomach twist, how quickly she got it.

“Well,” Diane went on, softer now, “that explains why you use a P.O. box for correspondence.”

I swallowed.

“How do you want to play this?” she asked.

I thought about years of “when are you going to grow up?”

About watching them praise Chloe for every sale while dismissing my publications in literary magazines like they were little participation trophies.

About the contempt in their voices when they called me a failed adult.

I thought about Dad’s smirk.

About the way Mom said “pretending” like it was the worst sin a person could commit.

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

“Honey,” Diane said gently, “with your advance, you can look for permanent housing.”

I let out a shaky breath.

“See you at two,” she added.

I hung up and opened my email.

Seventeen messages from my agent, all various stages of excitement about the upcoming launch.

Cover reveal approvals.

Interview requests from podcasts.

A note from a librarian who said her teen book club cried when they read an advance copy.

And one particular email that made me smile so hard my face hurt.

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 read it twice.

Then a third time.

As if the words might vanish if I didn’t hold them with my eyes.

I had six hours until the meeting.

Six hours to decide how to handle this.

I could tell them now.

I could walk downstairs with my phone in my hand, pull up the listing, say, “You can’t delete what’s already printed.”

I could watch their faces shift from smug satisfaction to shock.

Make them apologize.

Make them choke on their own certainty.

Or…

I could let them think they’d won.

Let them celebrate their little victory.

Let them hand me an employee handbook like it was salvation.

And then let reality hit them in a place they couldn’t talk their way out of.

Because the truth was, I didn’t want their apology.

I didn’t want their pride.

I didn’t want their sudden, sticky affection that always showed up when something benefited them.

I wanted freedom.

I put on my interview outfit—the one they’d mocked as “playing dress up” when I wore it to author events.

Black pants.

A cream blouse.

A blazer that made my shoulders look like they belonged to a woman who couldn’t be shoved around.

I packed a bag with essentials.

Laptop charger.

Toothbrush.

The folder with my contract copies.

A notebook that still had coffee rings from the day I signed with my agent.

Then I went downstairs for breakfast like nothing had happened.

The kitchen smelled like toast and Dad’s coffee.

Mom was already wiping down the counter like she was erasing evidence.

Chloe sat at the table scrolling on her phone, nails glossy, ring light reflection still faintly visible in her pupils like she’d filmed content earlier.

“There she is,” Dad said cheerfully. “Ready to join the real world?”

“Actually,” I said, pouring coffee with a steady hand, “yes.”

Mom perked up.

“Oh?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I added.

Her face softened into victory.

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

“I’ll go to that job at Chloe’s company,” I said.

Chloe laughed.

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

“Even better,” I said. “When do I start?”

Chloe blinked, suspicious now.

“Are you serious?”

I looked at my parents.

I let my face go blank.

“I’m giving up the writing thing,” I said. “Writers are just failed adults, right? And I’m tired of failing.”

The transformation was instant.

Dad clapped me on the shoulder like I’d finally graduated.

Mom actually smiled.

Chloe started babbling about employee discounts and how I could work my way up to cashier someday.

“This is wonderful,” Mom gushed. “I knew you’d see sense eventually. That publisher meeting was just a delusion.”

“I know,” I said, finishing my coffee. “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. “I’ll fill out the application after.”

They were too pleased with their victory to argue.

I left with their blessing.

Chloe’s employee handbook.

And a bag containing everything I couldn’t replace.

Outside, Portland was gray and wet, the kind of day that made everything look like a movie if you squinted.

I drove downtown with the windshield wipers ticking like a metronome.

At stoplights, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror.

Same face.

Same brown hair.

Same tired eyes.

But something in me had changed.

I wasn’t driving to beg for approval.

I was driving to claim what was already mine.

Hartfell Publishing sat in a gorgeous old building that looked like it had been built for secrets—stonework, tall windows, carved details you didn’t see in strip malls.

The lobby smelled like paper and citrus and the faintest hint of cinnamon, because someone had put out a tiny bowl of holiday potpourri near the reception desk.

A small pine wreath hung on the elevator panel.

It was the kind of detail that said, We do things on purpose here.

I’d been here before: for contract signing, for editing sessions, for the surreal moment when they handed me a check that could buy my freedom.

“Naomi!”

Claire at reception lit up when she saw me.

She wore red lipstick today and a scarf with tiny gold stars.

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

“Thanks,” I said, and something warm flickered in my chest. “Is everyone here?”

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

Display copies.

Of my book.

The one Dad thought he deleted.

My throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic.

It was awe.

I walked down the hallway past framed covers of books I recognized.

Past a wall of author photos, smiling faces in different decades.

I’d stood in front of those photos before and felt like a tourist.

Now I felt like I belonged.

Conference Room B was bright with winter light.

A long table filled the center.

And on that table, stacked like proof, were hardcovers of my novel.

Dozens of them.

Gorgeous.

Heavy.

Real.

A dragon curled around a crumbling tower, moon rising behind it.

My name in bold letters across the bottom.

Naomi Blake.

Not failed adult.

Not pretend writer.

Published author.

I stood there for a second and just… breathed.

There are moments in life where something you’ve lived inside your head for years suddenly becomes physical.

You can touch it.

You can hold it.

You can’t talk yourself out of it.

“That’s her,” someone said.

Diane rushed over, all energy and sharp eyes, and squeezed my hands like she was anchoring me.

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

“I feel like I might throw up,” I admitted.

“Perfect,” Diane said. “That means you care.”

The next two hours blurred into marketing strategies, blog tour schedules, and discussions about the sequel already in progress.

The marketing director clicked through a presentation.

A timeline.

A list of influencers.

A photo of a bookstore display mock-up with my cover enlarged like a movie poster.

“We’re sending out special boxes to bookstagrammers,” she explained. “A faux ‘dragon scale’ bookmark, a candle that smells like smoke and pine, and a letter from you.”

“A letter?” I asked.

“Two paragraphs,” Diane said. “We don’t make you do anything you hate. We just make you visible.”

I signed forms.

I approved the final author photo.

I listened to my publicist coach me through how to answer questions without spiraling into a plot summary.

“Smile,” she said. “Then pivot. You’re allowed to protect your story.”

They showed me early reviews.

Kirkus.

Publishers Weekly.

A starred notice from a trade publication I’d been reading since grad school.

Pre-orders exceeding expectations.

Foreign rights being negotiated.

An email from an audiobook producer asking if I had a preference for narrators.

“We’re thinking a thirty-city tour,” the marketing director said, tapping a printed list. “Starting with Powell’s here in Portland, obviously. Then Seattle, San Francisco, Denver, Chicago…”

Powell’s.

My stomach flipped.

“Are you okay?” Diane asked, watching my face.

“My dad thinks fantasy books don’t get published,” I said.

Diane stared for half a second.

Then she laughed again.

“Oh, I’m going to love meeting your father,” she said.

I laughed too, and it came out sharp.

As the meeting wrapped, Diane pulled me aside.

She lowered her voice.

“So,” she said, “housing situation.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said. “I’ve got the advance. I just need to find something that—”

“My sister’s looking for a roommate,” Diane interrupted, like she’d already built the bridge. “Nice apartment in the Pearl District. Writer-friendly. She’s a poet. Interested?”

“Seriously?”

“Honey,” she said, squeezing my forearm, “we take care of our authors. Especially the ones whose families tried to sabotage them.”

Her face softened.

“Text her. Mention my name. You could probably move in this week.”

I nodded, because if I tried to speak my voice would’ve broken.

I left the building with a box of my own books.

Keys to my future in my pocket.

A phone full of notifications I hadn’t checked.

Fifteen missed calls from Chloe.

Twenty texts that ranged from where are you to Mom is going psycho to Dad says you’re being dramatic again.

I sat in my car for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel.

The rain tapped against the windshield.

My box of books sat on the passenger seat like a silent witness.

I could go home.

I could confront them.

I could watch them twist.

Or I could go straight to Chloe’s store and let the truth walk in ahead of me.

I chose Chloe.

Her shop was bright and clean and aggressively cheerful—white shelves, glossy posters, a playlist that made every song sound like a commercial.

Through the window, I could see her at the counter, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing wildly.

I grabbed one of my books and went in.

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

Then she spotted me.

“Oh my God,” she hissed, snapping the call dead. “Where have you been? You’re three hours late. They gave the position to someone else.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

I set the book on the counter.

“I had a meeting.”

“You said you were canceling,” she snapped.

Her eyes dropped to the cover.

To the dragon.

To my name.

“What is this?”

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

Chloe stared like her brain couldn’t fit the image into the story she’d been telling herself.

Then she picked it up with shaking hands.

Flipped to the copyright page.

The dedication.

The author bio.

My photo.

“This is…” Her voice broke. “This is real.”

“As real as your makeup sales,” I said. “More real, actually.”

I let her stare.

“This is my dream,” I said. “Printed and bound and about to be sold in every bookstore in America.”

“But… how?”

“When?”

“Six months ago,” I said. “When you were bragging about your year-end bonus, I was signing a six-figure book deal.”

Chloe’s face went pale.

“While Mom was calling me a failure, I was working with editors,” I continued. “While Dad was plotting to delete my future, it was already printed.”

Her expression cycled through shock, anger, something that might’ve been pride—before settling into the family default.

Resentment.

“You lied to us,” she said.

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

Chloe’s jaw tightened.

“Mom and Dad are going to lose it,” she said.

“Let them,” I said.

I pulled out my phone and showed her the listing.

There it was.

My book.

Available for pre-order.

$26.99.

Chloe’s fingers hovered over the screen like she was afraid it would bite.

“Though you could probably get the family discount if you asked nicely,” I added.

Chloe’s eyes snapped up.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

I didn’t deny it.

I’d earned the right.

My phone rang.

Dad.

I answered on speaker.

“Hi, Dad.”

“You get to your sister’s store right now,” he said. His voice was deadly quiet. “We need to talk about this lying problem of yours.”

“I’m actually at the store,” I said, and I lifted my book so Chloe could see it again. “Want to talk about books?”

A pause.

He tried for dismissive.

“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.

“That’s impossible,” he finally said.

“Publishers don’t…”

“Publishers don’t what?” I asked. “Don’t publish fantasy? Don’t pay advances? Don’t work with failed adults who refuse to grow up?”

Chloe stared at me like she was seeing my face for the first time.

“Turns out they do all of those things,” I said, “especially when the writer is good.”

“If this is some self-published vanity—”

“It’s one of the Big Five,” I said. “Check their website if you don’t believe me. I’m featured on the homepage.”

More silence.

I could picture him Googling, face going purple as proof filled his screen.

“You’ve been lying to us for months,” he said at last.

“You deleted my life’s work because you decided I was a failure,” I said. “Who’s the liar here?”

“We’re your parents,” he snapped. “We deserve—”

“You deserve exactly what you gave me,” I cut in. “Nothing.”

No support.

No belief.

No respect.

“So that’s what you get,” I continued. “No advance money. No reflected glory. No bragging rights at church about your successful daughter.”

“You can’t.”

“I can,” I said. “I did. I am.”

I ran my thumb over my name on the cover.

“You thought you could delete my dreams,” I said, “but they were already real. Already out there. Already bigger than your small minds could imagine.”

“Get home now,” Dad said. “We’re going to discuss—”

“I’m not coming home,” I said. “Ever.”

I kept my voice calm, because calm was power.

“I have a place lined up in the Pearl District. I have a thirty-city tour starting next week. I have interviews and a sequel to write. I have a life finally—one you can’t delete.”

“Naomi—”

I hung up.

For a second, the shop was too quiet.

The only sound was the soft pop song overhead and the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

Chloe still clutched the book like it might vanish if she blinked.

“Sixty thousand,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I made sixty thousand last year,” she said. “Selling makeup. You made more?”

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

Chloe’s mouth opened, closed.

“There’s royalties,” I went on. “Foreign rights. Maybe a screen option.”

“Movie?”

“Someone’s interested,” I said carefully. “My agent’s handling it.”

Chloe looked down at the cover again.

Then back at me.

And for a moment, something cracked.

“I used to write,” she said quietly. “In high school. Poetry.”

“I remember,” I said.

“Mom said it was stupid,” Chloe whispered. “Said I should focus on things that made money.”

“Mom was wrong,” I said.

Chloe traced the dragon with her thumb.

“Can I… can I buy this?” she asked.

“Not the family discount,” I said. “Full price.”

She looked up, startled.

“You want to buy my book?”

“I want to read my sister’s book,” she said, and her voice trembled on the word sister. “The real one. Not the deleted one.”

I stared at her.

For the first time all day, my anger loosened enough for something else to show.

Not forgiveness.

But recognition.

Chloe had survived our parents by becoming what they respected.

I’d survived by becoming what they feared.

“Keep that one,” I said finally. “I’ve got a whole box in my car.”

Chloe hugged it to her chest like a shield.

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

“Let them try,” I said.

“I have recordings of them calling me a failure,” I added. “Hard to claim credit when there’s evidence.”

Chloe’s eyes widened.

“You recorded them?”

“Writers observe everything,” I said. “We take notes. We remember.”

And sometimes we write barely disguised versions of our families into our books as the villains.

Chloe went still.

“Did you?”

“Chapter twelve,” I said.

Her swallow was loud in the quiet.

“The Dragon Keeper’s family tries to sell her to the dark wizard because they think magic isn’t real,” I said. “They burn her spell books. Sound familiar?”

“Oh my God,” Chloe breathed.

“Dad’s going to sue you,” she blurted, half horrified, half thrilled.

“He’s welcome to try,” I said. “Plus, he’d have to admit he’s the father in the story—in court. On record.”

Chloe stared, then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“That’s kind of genius,” she said.

“Writers are just failed adults,” I reminded her. “We have nothing but time to plan.”

My phone buzzed.

A text from Diane’s sister—the poet roommate.

Diane says you need a place. Can you move in tomorrow? Rent’s $900/month. Utilities included. First chapter of your book made me cry. Good tears. Please say yes.

I stared at the message until my eyes stung.

“I have to go,” I told Chloe.

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

“The truth,” I said. “Their failed daughter just became a published author. Their pretend writer just started a real career.”

I eased my arm free gently.

“Their disappointment just turned into someone they’ll spend the rest of their lives claiming they always believed in,” I added. “They’ll rewrite history. Say they supported me all along.”

Chloe’s jaw tightened.

“Good thing I’m the writer in the family,” I said. “I know how to control the narrative.”

I walked out into the rain.

The air hit my face cold and clean.

In the car, my box of books waited.

I sat for a moment with my hands on the wheel, breathing like I’d just run a mile.

Then I did something I hadn’t planned.

I drove home.

Not to stay.

To leave properly.

Our house sat in a quiet neighborhood where everyone pretended they didn’t hear each other’s arguments through open windows.

The porch light was on even though it was daytime, like my mother believed in unnecessary signals.

When I walked in, Mom was pacing.

Dad sat at the table with his laptop open, the Hartfell website glaring back at him like a spotlight.

He looked up and I saw it—the panic he tried to bury under anger.

“You really did it,” Mom said, voice high.

“Did what?” I asked.

“Don’t play games,” Dad snapped. “What is this? Some scam? Some—”

He gestured at the screen.

I set the box of books on the counter.

The sound of cardboard against laminate made them both flinch.

Then I lifted the lid.

Hardcovers.

My name.

A dragon.

Proof you could hold.

Mom stared as if I’d placed a bomb on her kitchen counter.

Dad’s face went slack.

“You deleted my local file,” I said, calm. “You didn’t delete the book.”

Mom’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Then she did what she always did when she couldn’t control a situation.

She reached for the story.

“Well,” she said, forcing a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “I mean… I always said you were talented.”

Dad blinked.

“I didn’t say that,” he snapped.

Mom shot him a look.

“Of course we did,” she corrected quickly, like she could rewrite reality if she spoke fast enough. “We were just trying to motivate you.”

I stared at her.

“Motivate me,” I repeated.

Dad’s jaw tightened.

“You lied,” he said again, because it was the only weapon he knew. “You hid this from us.”

“I hid it because you punish anything you can’t control,” I said.

Mom’s eyes flashed.

“We’re your parents,” she said. “We sacrificed for you.”

“You spent two years calling me a failure,” I said. “And last night you crossed a line.”

Dad pushed back his chair.

“You live under my roof,” he started.

“Not anymore,” I said.

The words fell into the kitchen and settled there.

Mom made a small noise.

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” I said. “I already did.”

I walked past them and up the stairs.

My room smelled like old paper and laundry detergent.

I opened my closet.

I grabbed the clothes I liked.

I took the framed photo of me at sixteen holding a notebook like it was a trophy.

I took the tiny dragon figurine my best friend gave me in college when I told her my book idea.

I left the rest.

Downstairs, Mom’s voice rose.

“Naomi, you’re being dramatic!”

I kept packing.

Dad’s footsteps thudded on the stairs.

“Stop,” he barked, appearing in the doorway like he could physically block my future.

“You don’t get to say stop,” I said, and my voice didn’t shake.

He looked at me like he didn’t recognize me.

I realized he didn’t.

He’d only ever known the version of me that could be embarrassed into obedience.

The version of me that tried to earn love by being agreeable.

That girl was gone.

When I zipped my bag, Dad’s eyes darted to the box of books downstairs.

“How much did you make?” he asked, and the question was small and greedy.

Mom’s voice followed, softer now.

“We could help you manage it,” she called up the stairs. “Money can be overwhelming. You know that.”

There it was.

The pivot.

Contempt to concern.

Dismissal to interest.

I walked out of my room with my bag on my shoulder.

I paused at the top of the stairs.

“I’m not giving you access to anything,” I said.

Mom flinched like I’d slapped her.

“We’re family,” she protested.

“You became my critics,” I said. “And then you became my saboteurs. You don’t get to become my team now.”

Dad’s face tightened.

“You’re ungrateful,” he snapped.

“I’m free,” I corrected.

I walked downstairs.

I lifted one of the books from the box and held it up.

“This is mine,” I said, slow enough that they couldn’t pretend they didn’t hear me. “I made it. I earned it. You don’t get to rewrite that.”

Mom’s eyes went wet.

Dad’s jaw worked.

For a second, I almost saw the people they used to be.

But then Mom swallowed and her face hardened again.

“You’ll regret this,” she said.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But I’d rather regret leaving than regret staying.

I walked out with my bag.

In the driveway, the rain had eased into a mist.

The world looked soft.

Like it was giving me a chance to start over.

In the car, my phone buzzed again.

Another text from the poet roommate.

Door’s open tomorrow. I have tea and extra blankets. And I’m not kidding—your first chapter wrecked me.

I laughed out loud in my empty car, and it sounded strange and bright.

That night, I didn’t go back.

I stayed at a small hotel downtown paid for with money my parents didn’t know existed.

I lay in a clean bed under white sheets and listened to the city hum outside the window.

For the first time in my adult life, I slept without my parents’ disappointment pressing through the walls.

In the morning, I moved into the Pearl District.

The apartment was on the third floor of an old building with creaky stairs and big windows.

My new roommate opened the door with purple hair and a smile like she’d been waiting for me.

She was barefoot, holding a mug of tea, wearing an oversized sweater that looked like it had seen a hundred late-night drafts.

“You must be Naomi,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, and my throat tightened.

“I’m Wren,” she said, like the name was a promise. “Diane told me what happened.”

Wren stepped aside.

“Anyone whose family tries to delete their art is welcome here,” she said, and she pulled me into a hug that felt like a beginning.

Her apartment smelled like books and citrus and something faintly sweet, like vanilla.

There were sticky notes on the wall near the kitchen—lines of poetry, grocery reminders, a quote written in neat black ink:

Make a home out of what tried to break you.

My room was small.

A bed.

A desk by the window.

A shelf already waiting for my books.

I set my bag down.

I opened the box of hardcovers.

I lined up three of them on the desk, because I needed the reminder.

Because part of me still expected someone to burst in and rip it away.

Wren leaned on the doorframe.

“Do you want champagne?” she asked.

“It’s ten a.m.,” I said.

“That’s when writers celebrate,” she replied.

I laughed.

We toasted with cheap champagne in mismatched glasses.

Then I sat at my desk.

I opened my laptop.

I stared at the blank document.

The cursor blinked again, patient.

But this time the white space didn’t feel like loss.

It felt like room.

I started typing.

Chapter 1.

The day after her father deleted her book, Lydia Blake became a bestseller.

Later that week, I walked into a Barnes & Noble on my own.

Not as a customer.

Not as a dreamer.

As an author.

There was a Staff Picks display near the front.

And there it was.

My cover.

My name.

My dragon.

I stood there, hands trembling, and watched strangers pick up my book.

A teenager in a hoodie.

A woman with a tote bag full of holiday shopping.

A man who looked like he’d never read fantasy before but was curious.

They turned the pages.

They read the first paragraph.

They smiled.

And something inside me loosened so hard I thought I might cry right there between the café and the gift cards.

My phone rang.

Mom.

I let it ring.

It rang again.

Dad.

I didn’t answer.

A text popped up from Chloe.

They’re saying they always supported you. They’re already telling Aunt Lisa you’re only published because they “pushed you.”

I stared at the message.

Then I looked at the display.

At my name.

At the dragon that had survived being “deleted.”

I typed back.

Let them.

Then I added:

I’m the writer.

I control the narrative.

That night, in my new room, with a box of books at my feet and a city full of possibility outside my window, I opened a fresh document.

Not for revenge.

Not for proof.

For joy.

Sometimes the best revenge isn’t anger or confrontation.

Sometimes it’s success they can’t delete.

Dreams they can’t steal.

A future they can’t control.

My parents thought they deleted my novel.

They’d only deleted my obligation to include them in my success.

The book was already in print.

Just like my new life.

Just like my future.