Chapter 11: The Offer of a Lifetime

Jasmine and Dean sat in the campus garden, reviewing feedback from the anthology launch. Sales were steady, social media buzz was increasing, and faculty members were requesting copies for their classes. Suddenly, Jasmine's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and froze.

Subject: Publishing Opportunity–Evelyn Rose Anthology & Future Works

From: Moon Front Literary Press

She opened the email.

We have been following the launch of The Evelyn Rose Anthology, and it moved us deeply with its vision and execution. We’d love to discuss a potential publishing deal—not just for the anthology, but for your future writing. Your voice is timely, resonant, and necessary.

Jasmine stared at the screen, then looked at Dean. “They want to publish me.”

Dean’s face lit up. “You deserve this. Every word. Every page.”

Jasmine smiled, heart full. “This is just the beginning.”

Jasmine and Dean worked together to put together a portfolio and a writing sample that they believed would be helpful for Jasmine's meeting tomorrow morning. They reviewed the details to ensure everything was in order. Dean noted that Jasmine was getting increasingly nervous; he could see her foot tapping on the floor and her eyes glued to her work as she tried to decide which piece to include in her portfolio to make it stand out. He was there to calm her nerves and provide support.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Jasmine stood outside the glass-paneled office of Moon Front Literary Press, her fingers curled around the strap of her satchel. The building was sleek, modern, and intimidating in its quiet elegance. She had rehearsed what she might say, but now that she was here, her thoughts felt like scattered pages.

A receptionist greeted her with a warm smile. “You’re here for the 2 p.m. with Ms. Callahan?”

Jasmine nodded. “Yes. Jasmine Mystic.”

“Right this way.”

Someone led her down a hallway lined with framed book covers—memoirs, poetry collections, and anthologies. One caught her eye: Letters to the Unheard. She paused. That title felt like her life.

The door opened to a sunlit conference room. Inside sat a woman in her early forties, sharp-eyed but kind-faced, dressed in a navy blazer and a stack of annotated papers beside her.

“Jasmine,” she said, standing to shake her hand. “I’m Elise Callahan. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Jasmine smiled, nerves tucked behind professionalism. “Thank you for reaching out. I wasn’t expecting it.”

Elise gestured to the seat across from her. “Let’s talk about why you should’ve.”

Elise began by sliding a copy of The Evelyn Rose Anthology across the table. It was marked with sticky notes, highlighted passages, and margin scribbles.

“This,” she said, tapping the cover, “is what publishing needs more of. Not just polished writing—but purpose. Voice. Vision.”

Jasmine blinked. “I curated it to honor my grandmother. And to give space to women who’ve never been asked to speak.”

Elise nodded. “And you did more than that. You built a platform. You created resonance. We’ve had editors, interns, and even authors in our circle talking about this collection. It’s not just beautiful—it’s brave.”

Jasmine felt her throat tighten. “I didn’t know it reached that far.”

“It did,” Elise said. “And we want to help it reach farther.”

She pulled out a proposal packet. “We’d like to publish a second edition of the anthology—expanded, with a foreword from you and a companion essay on curating voice. But that’s just the beginning.”

Jasmine leaned in, heart thudding.

“We’ve read your poetry. Your essays. Your podcast transcripts. You have range, Jasmine. You have a soul. We’d like to offer you a multi-project deal—starting with a solo poetry collection, followed by a nonfiction work on literary activism.”

Jasmine’s breath caught. “You want to publish me?”

Elise smiled. “We want to invest in you.”

Jasmine sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the weight of the offer. She thought of Evelyn—of porch swings and napkin poems. She thought of Dean, of betrayal and rebuilding. She thought of Mia, the student who found her voice through the anthology.

“I’ve spent years writing in the margins,” Jasmine said softly. “Trying to prove I belonged in rooms like this.”

Elise leaned forward. “You don’t have to prove it anymore. You’re here. And you’re ready.”

Jasmine nodded slowly. “I want to do this. But I want to do it right. I want creative control. I want to uplift more voices. I want this to be more than just a book deal.”

Elise smiled. “Then let’s make it a partnership.”

They shook hands, and Jasmine felt something shift—not just professionally, but personally. She wasn’t just being published. She was being heard.

As she walked out of the building, the city felt different. Brighter. And deep inside, Jasmine knew this was the beginning of her becoming.