Chapter 3 The Promise I Couldn't Keep

I could hear the muffled scolding from inside the room, Natalie's attempts to explain, and her broken sobs. But none of it mattered anymore.

…

That night, after I got home, I spread out the picture book and tried to fix it.

Just as I was about to pick up my pen, my phone lit up. It was a message from the shop handling our wedding favors, asking me to confirm the design.

I tapped it open.

On the screen were two cartoon figures modeled after Enzo and me. The lines were smooth, the colors warm. When I had drawn them, my heart had been full of happiness.

Now, only disappointment remained.

I lingered for a moment, then typed a few words. 'Thank you, but I won't need this anymore.'

The moment I sent the message, my phone rang. It was the chief editor I had been working with.

"Ms. Blackwood, I'm very sorry to inform you that our collaboration has to be terminated. We can't disclose the specific reasons. We've simply found a more suitable candidate. My apologies."

The call ended.

The dull hum of the disconnected line filled my ear as I held the phone, my fingertips turning cold.

For some reason, one thought surfaced in my mind.

I pulled up Enzo's number and called him directly. "The publishing deal is being terminated. That was you, wasn't it?"

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end.

I knew that silence all too well. Every time he needed to gather his thoughts—every time he was about to say something that would hurt me—it was exactly like this.

"Natalie's situation is more difficult than yours," he finally said. "She suffered domestic abuse overseas and only just managed to get divorced and come back. She needs a way to rebuild her life. Back then, her family saved my parents. My parents promised to take care of her. Please understand where I'm coming from."

I lowered my eyes and stared at the smeared colors on the page. My tears fell without warning.

This picture book had been left unfinished when my mother passed away. I had promised her that no matter what, I would see it published.

It had taken me three years. Stroke by stroke, I completed what she had left behind. I had tested every shade of color myself. I rebuilt the story based on her notes.

Back then, at her bedside, I had promised her two things: that I would live well with Enzo, and that I would publish this book.

Now, I had failed both.

Perhaps he heard the faint change in my breathing, because his tone softened slightly. "Don't worry. I'll make sure to find you a better publisher to make up for this. I won't let your story be buried."

"No need."

I did not want to continue this story anymore.

…

Life went on quietly, as if nothing had happened.

I shut myself inside my studio and locked the door. Every draft, every sketch, every version of the book I had worked on—I organized them all and stored them deep inside a cabinet.

Then, I spread out a fresh sheet of paper and started again. This time, I would draw a new story, one that belonged only to my mother.

Three days later, my phone rang. It was an international number.

"Hello, is this Ms. Estelle Blackwood? We are the most renowned independent art publishing house in Falden. We came across some of the works you previously posted online and would like to acquire your series."

I froze for a moment.

That institution in Falden was one of the top in the industry, with extremely high standards. I had submitted to them three times before and never even received a reply. For them to approach me out of nowhere, it was most likely Enzo's doing.

"I'm sorry," I said, steadying myself. "I don't have any plans to sell my work at the moment."

There was a brief pause. Then, a mocking laugh came through the line. "Ms. Blackwood, there is no need to act so high and mighty. An opportunity handed to you through Mr. Beck's connections, and you still refuse it? Do you really think you got here on your own ability?"

Even through the foreign language, the insult was unmistakable.

I said nothing and hung up.

A few days later, I browsed through smaller publishing houses and studios, hoping to find another possibility. Then, one name suddenly caught my eye.

I clicked into it. The introduction contained only a single line—'Never forget why you started.'

There was nothing harder than holding on to that reason.

I stared at those words for a long time.