“Submission”

Submission

By

Elena C. Moore

“What do you mean my card’s been declined?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s just not going through.”

I stare at the cashier, trying to process what she’s saying. I look behind me at the line that’s now starting to form: men in suits checking their watches, a woman trying to quiet her toddler, growing impatient.

“It means you’re broke. No lunch for you today.”

I turn back to the cashier in disbelief. Did she really just say that? Did I imagine it?

“Excuse me?”

She gives me a strange look. “I said it’s just not going through. Do you want to try a different card?”

I let out a deep sigh. “It’s fine. I’ll come back.” I put my card away and leave what was supposed to be my lunch on the counter.

As I walk out of the supermarket, I pull out my phone and open my bank app to see ‘–$31.’

“What?” I could’ve sworn I had enough for at least a turkey sandwich.

I let my head fall back and stare at the sky. How did I end up here? I don’t get paid for two more days, and I’ve officially run out of groceries at home, except for some leftover pasta that will surely be my dinner tonight.

I head back to the office and make myself a protein shake to get me through the second half of the day, hoping someone will leave something in the break room for when my stomach starts to growl around 2 p.m. Sure enough, right at 1:59 p.m. my stomach growls. I get up from my desk and walk to the breakroom. As I pass Aaron’s office, I see he’s eating a pizza large enough to feed the whole floor.

“Elena! Come in for just a sec.”

I turn and walk into his office; the smell of pizza hits me, and I realize just how hungry I am.

“Take a slice, please. There’s no way I’m finishing this by myself,” he says, handing me a plate with a big slice of pepperoni pizza on it.

“Why’d you order a large one, then?” I ask as I take it.

“I didn’t. McConnell, from across the hall, sent it over as a thank-you for staying late to finish the edit on their latest publication. I meant to put it in the break room, but I’ve been lost in this new novel I got sent.” Perks of being editorial director: you’re always getting sent free stuff.

I nod softly and take a bite.

“Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to set up a meeting with you and Ryan. Are you free tonight for dinner?”

A moment passes, and then, as if he read my mind, he clarifies: “Work dinner.” Meaning no, he isn’t asking me out, and yes, it’s paid for by the company. Guess my leftover pasta can be tomorrow’s lunch.

“Sure, right after work?”

“It’s a date.”

We exchange a look, and then he follows up: “Not like an actual date… just, I’ll see you guys at Ginno’s at 5:30. I’ll let Ryan know.”

I laugh and get up to leave but then he stops me. “Elena?”

I turn around; I can tell there’s something else he wants to say, but in the end, he just says, “Never mind. I’ll see you later.”

I go back to my desk, hunger satiated for now, and finish up the day.

Exactly at 5:30 I’m walking into Ginno’s Italian restaurant and see Ryan at a table near the door.

“Elena, hey!” he stands and gives me a hug. Ryan is the Managing Editor at our office; he’s played a big role in my promotion to Senior Editor—he’s been a great mentor and friend.

We sit, and a few minutes later Aaron joins us. After a bunch of office talk and once the plates have been cleared, only wine remains at the table. I help myself to a glass or two.

“So, Elena,” Aaron begins, leaning back in his chair, “how are things going for you outside of the office?”

I stop mid-sip and meet his gaze over the rim of the glass. My eyes dart to Ryan, who has a blank look, as if Aaron’s question is nothing out of the ordinary. Usually, it wouldn’t be—but I detect something in his tone.

I empty my glass and set it down. “Fine,” I say with a tight grin.

“That’s not true,” Ryan says. I look back at him and realize he’s onto something, too. Suddenly I feel ambushed.

“We didn’t set this up to ambush you,” Aaron assures me.

“It sure feels like it.”

“A man came by the office,” he starts. “He was looking for you, but I believe you were out for lunch. We had a brief conversation, but we know you’re having financial problems.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you’re on the brink of losing your house?” Ryan finishes. My cheeks burn.

“We haven’t wanted to say anything, but we thought you would’ve come to either one of us by now.”

“Wait—how do you know about this?” I turn to Ryan.

“Aaron came to me after his conversation with that man. Since I oversee personnel, production, and budget, he thought I could help.”

“We don’t mean to overstep, Elena,” Aaron says, turning back to me, “but you know we’re more than just colleagues.” I flinch.

“Look, there’s not a whole lot we can do from within the company, but there is something else.” I look over at Ryan, who now has a serious expression. “There’s a client holding a writing contest. They’re sending out a company-wide email tomorrow with the details.”

“We think you should submit your work,” Aaron continues.

I shake my head, starting to deny having worked on a novel for years. I haven’t had the gall to let anyone else read it, let alone submit it for publishing.

“Don’t even try to deny that you’ve been working on something, Elena.” Can he actually read my mind? I shoot Aaron a look, curious how he knows.

“At least think about it,” Ryan interjects. “I think once you see the prize, it will make you think twice. And we can help you with your submission—it’s the least we can do.”

The next day, I’m at my desk at exactly 8:55 a.m., and a few minutes later an email from our largest client arrives:

From: Montrose & Ellison Publishing

Subject: Win $10,000 & a publishing deal—Enter our exclusive writing contest

Hello North Star Editorial Team,

Do you have a story waiting to be told?

We’re excited to announce an exclusive WRITING CONTEST open to all employees. This is your chance to step out from behind your red pens and computers and into the spotlight.

Grand prize:

• $10,000 cash prize

• An exclusive contract with Montrose & Ellison Publishing

• Professional editing & design support

Whether you’ve been working on a story in your spare time or have one ready to be published, we want to see it!

Submission guidelines:

• Original fiction genres

• Minimum 10,000 words

• Submit by Friday, June 27, 2025, 9:00 a.m. CST

• One entry per person

You may submit your story by replying to this email. Winner announced one week after submission deadline.

Happy writing,

Montrose & Ellison Publishing

“It’s exactly what you need,” I turn around to see Aaron behind me. “$10,000 could really help you out.” Before I can reply, Ryan walks up and peers at my screen.

“Well, what do you think?”

I read the email again, biting the inside of my cheek. This money could fix everything—catch up on the mortgage, pay for that lawyer… But submit my novel? Let everyone inside my head? Until now it seemed unfathomable. But $10,000. That’s enough to make a person do things they otherwise wouldn’t consider.

The next few weeks are a blur. I spend my days obsessing over my manuscript—questioning everything, reworking the ending, worrying how judges will interpret it. Will friends and colleagues think it’s any good? Would I be nuking my career as an author before it even begins? How can I read other people’s stories daily yet hesitate on my own?

Aaron notices my absorption and constantly reassures me my novel is solid, asking why I haven’t submitted it yet. He hasn’t even read it—how would he know? He also invites me to both work and non-work dinners, all of which I decline because I spend every night writing, editing, and, on occasion, crying.

Finally, two days before the deadline, Aaron “asks” me to dinner—though he tricks me. It isn’t until the waitress seats us at a table for two that I realize it’s not a work dinner and no one else is coming. After some small talk over the driest steak I’ve ever had and a couple glasses of wine, Aaron brings up the subject again.

“Elena… your manuscript.”

I steel myself to say I decided not to submit, but he stops me.

“It’s not fiction, is it?” I blink faster than I probably should.

“I… I don’t know what—”

“You really don’t remember?”

I struggle to follow his meaning.

“A few months ago, after that publisher’s party we hosted at your house, you and Ryan finished off the last bottles of wine. Ryan passed out on your couch, but you insisted on showing me something in your studio.”

I think back to that night—everything was already falling apart. I had been drinking heavily, so much of it is a blur, but I remember Aaron and me in my studio. I remember how handsome he looked and—I look at him, brows furrowed.

“You read it.”

“I haven’t said anything because I know you didn’t mean to. And you never brought it up, so I figured you wanted it to stay that way.”

“So why bring it up now?”

“Because…” He takes a sip and looks me dead in the eye. “Your sister needs you to submit that manuscript.”

My heart sinks and I feel exposed. When Aaron mentioned a man coming by the office, I assumed it was someone from the bank. But it wasn’t. It was the lawyer who has been hounding me for the money I owe him. My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly to keep tears at bay.

“Submit your story. You can help your sister out and keep your house.”

I go to wipe away a tear, but he beats me to it, gently with his napkin. Moments from that night flood back. I push back my chair.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for dinner.” I offer a polite smile and leave.

As I approach my front door, I see more notices taped up. Yet all I can think about is how much Aaron knows—and what Ryan could know.

The next day, the office buzzes about contest submissions; some complain about the short time, others bet on winners. Instead of heading to my desk, I walk into Ryan’s office as he hangs up the phone.

“That was Aaron. He said he’s out today.” Odd—Aaron never misses work, especially right before a deadline.

“Ryan, I want to ask you something.”

He stops and stands. “Yeah, what’s up?”He leans on his desk with arms crossed.

“How much do you know… about… my… situation?”

He raises his eyebrows, then uncrosses his arms. He looks at his desk for a moment before standing straight.

“Honestly, not much. I’ve pieced a lot together myself. But I know how much winning this contest would mean for you. It’s a good thing Aaron met that agent at that party. And for the record, I think the two of you make a great pair.”

Wait. What? The confusion on my face must give me away, because Ryan’s shock follows. It takes me a minute to process what he just said. Who was that party for? It was at my house—how do I not remember? Have I been drinking that much?

I rush back to my desk and pull up the email invitation for that party:

Join us to celebrate Montrose & Ellison Publishing- voted #1 publisher of the year

I stare at the screen in shock. I look up to see Ryan watching—concerned. I grab my bag and coat and push past him. I don’t stop until I reach the parking garage, I don’t stop when my phone buzzes with calls from Ryan—and then Aaron—until I arrive at Northfield Women’s Correctional Facility. I’m buzzed through security and wait almost an hour before being taken to a visitation room. I pick up the phone.

“Elena,” a fuzzy voice. Still hers.

“Lucy.” Tears threaten, but I fight them.

I watch my sister smile when I tell her I have a way to get her out.

“And what about the house?”

“It’s all going to be taken care of. I promise.”

They make you turn your phone off in the prison, but when I finally turn it back on, I have four missed calls from Ryan and a couple from Aaron—and one voicemail:

“Elena, listen, I’m sorry. That night after you let me read your manuscript and after we…”

I close my eyes to shut out that memory.

“It didn’t take long for me to realize it wasn’t fiction. But no one else needed to know. So I called that publisher I met—they wanted to give back to the editors who helped make them #1. I suggested a writing contest. Told them many of us are always working on something, so why not give an incentive? Please call me back so we can talk.”

The next morning I arrive at the office early—I stayed up all night reading and re-reading my manuscript. I’m there before everyone else, even Aaron. I almost don’t notice until I peek into his office again—it’s empty. His laptop, photo frames, all his personal items—gone.

I take out my phone to call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. I get to my desk and see a note on my keyboard:

Don’t forget the submission deadline is today at 9 a.m. You’ve got this in the bag, but just in case the judges don’t have good taste, I heard there’s an Editorial Director position you’d be great for.

– A

I look up at Aaron’s empty office and don’t know how long I stare. Eventually the elevator doors open, and people start to fill the office. Ryan is among them; he makes a beeline for my desk.

“You called him back?” he asks.

“Voicemail.”

He shakes his head understandingly, then says, “Montrose offered him a job last night.”

I look at him in disbelief.

“They want his help judging the submissions.”

I stare off into the distance, processing the meaning of what he’s saying. If Montrose knew Aaron and I were more than colleagues—and that he suggested the contest to help me—they’d shut the whole thing down. If Aaron judges and sways them to pick mine, I’d be disqualified—and he’d lose his new job. Yet new Editorial Directors here get a $10,000 sign-on bonus, and they make six figures. The catch is you have to submit a piece for publishing.

Ryan and I exchange a knowing look, then he nods toward my computer. I pull up the email sent last month, hit “Reply,” attach my manuscript titled “Submission” and, with one last glance at Ryan—and then at Aaron’s old, soon-to-be-mine office—I hit “Send.”