“Sign the papers, Rachel,” Thomas said, tapping the folder. “Danielle and I are in a hurry.”

The email glowed on my screen, my agent’s message bold and undeniable: “Contract finalized. Film rights secured. $1,200,000 upfront, plus royalties.”

I slipped the phone back under the blanket, suppressing a smile. Thomas’s words rang in my ears: “I can’t stay with someone who brings nothing to the table.”

He had no idea the table was already mine.

For fifteen years, I had drawn in silence, late nights hunched over sketches after he’d fallen asleep, mornings spent writing before he stirred his coffee. Every “little fox” doodle had been dismissed as nonsense by him, but they had built an empire beneath his nose—book deals, merchandise, and now, film rights.

“Sign the papers, Rachel,” Thomas said, tapping the folder. “Danielle and I are in a hurry.”

Danielle smirked from the doorway, her fingers brushing the diamond he had once promised me but never delivered.

I signed without hesitation. My hands didn’t tremble. Why would they? I wasn’t losing anything. He was.

Two weeks later, at the premiere announcement of Brave Little Fox: The Movie, cameras flashed, reporters shouted questions, and I stood in the spotlight for the very first time. My publisher held up the figures proudly: projected revenue in the tens of millions.

Thomas’s face appeared in the crowd—ashen, stunned. Danielle clung to his arm, her smile faltering as whispers spread.

He had traded me for the illusion of “stability,” only to discover I had quietly built more than he ever dreamed.

That night, while the world celebrated my success, Thomas called. His voice was low, desperate. “Rachel… we should talk.”

I laughed softly into the phone. “Oh, Thomas. You were right. I bring nothing to your table. That’s because I built my own.”

And then I hung up—because I finally understood the truth: the fox had never been little. He’d only been underestimated.