I held the manuscript against my chest as I left the printing shop. Three hundred and forty-two pages. My work, my nights, my mistakes, all bound together. The weight of it made my arms tighten, like I was carrying something alive.

The publishing house rose ahead of me. It already made me feel small even before I walked inside. I adjusted my floral dress to hide the ankle monitor, fixed my hair, then pushed through the doors.

The elevator ride to the fourteenth floor stretched forever. I kept ...