Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
The event happens on a rainy Tuesday evening.
I’m sitting behind a folding table at the back of a cramped local bookstore—nothing like the lecture halls or stages I once dreamed of.
There’s no mic in my hand, no mic needed.
No one is filming this, except for Mom, who’s in the back with her phone and a bright smile.
The air smells of coffee and books—a smell that once brightened my day no matter what. I worry I will always equate it to this day now.
The turnout is meager. Maybe fifteen people, including Mom and some of the bookstore workers. I’m surprised to see Ayo in the back row. And Hayden.
I can’t bear to look at either of them, for fear of the tears already straining my voice.
Fifteen people.
That’s all that’s left of my war. I grip the paperback copy of The Honored Lie—a title that market research suggested would sell better than the previously suggested CTRL+C.
It doesn’t matter. I’m numb. I closed myself off and stopped caring about any part of the story as they scraped the meat from its bones.
I just want this to be over.
Still, it’s my story. A ghost of it anyway. In reality, it’s their story. Whoever they are. The system got the story it wanted, one that would make money without ever piercing the flesh.
The truth has been carved, pruned, and softened to avoid lawsuits and keep everyone happy. The important people, anyway.
The bookstore manager approaches, a forced smile on her face. “I think we can go ahead and get started.”
“Right. Okay.” She backs away, and I stand, clearing my throat.
“Thank you all for coming.” A few people look up from their phones, though not all of them.
In the back, Mom beams. Hayden bobs her head proudly.
Ayo offers a smile that tells me there’s no ill will between us.
“I’m, um, Lila Parks. And I’d love to read you an excerpt from my memoir, The Honored Lie. ”
The door opens, announcing a visitor with a chime, and when my eyes skate over, my breath catches in my throat. Professor Bell’s face softens into a smile, and she gives me a thumbs up. It’s all I can do to keep from crying as I look down and begin to read.
Unlike Ralston, the words in this book are entirely mine, even if they’re not the words I intended to write. The story—the heart of it—is still here, I think, but muted, hushed, and hiding.
When I’m done, a handful of women approach to get signed copies and photos. They speak in whispers, eyes wide with hope and tears. “Thank you for being so honest,” one says.
Another touches my hand briefly, voice trembling. “I was one of the women who told my story on your site in the early days. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you were going to be here.”
“My daughter spoke up about her boss being creepy because she heard you speak on a podcast. I had no idea what she was going through. I’m going to surprise her with a copy. Oh, and I want one for me too.”
“Your website came along right when I needed it. I can’t thank you enough.”
By the end of the meet-and-greet, my makeup has been washed away by tears. Their gratitude, their hope…it all feels like fragile candles flickering at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
I never knew how badly I needed them.
When the women have mostly cleared out, Ayo is the first to approach me. She is standoffish, hanging back across the table as she asks if it’s everything I dreamed of.
I don’t think she’s being cruel. I think it’s a genuine question. Like she’s wondering if there might be something wrong with her.
“I wish I’d listened to you,” I admit, though the truth stings.
She shakes her head, one corner of her mouth drawn in. “Don’t. You saw what your story means to those women. Even if it’s not everything you hoped, it still matters.”
I press my lips together, drawing them inward, afraid of more tears. “Thank you for warning me. And for being here.”
She picks up a book, opening it for me to sign. “Solidarity,” she says gently. “It’s all we have.”
As she walks away, Hayden and Professor Bell congratulate me together. Professor Bell hands me a small gift bag with a candle inside. “For when you write your next book. I always write with a candle.”
Something cracks in my chest because I can’t tell them the truth. That this will be the only book I write. That I can never do this again.
“I’m proud of you,” she says, hugging me tight. She rubs her hand across my back. “You didn’t let her win. Look at you now.”
“Thank you both for coming.”
“We’re happy for you,” Hayden says. “Jade wanted to be here, but she’s at a rally. She said to tell you to keep kicking ass.”
I nod. “Give her my best, will you? We need to get together soon.”
“Next time we’re in Nashville,” she promises. “Now, come here so I can get a photo with the celebrity.” There’s a wink that makes me laugh, and when she turns her phone around, I realize the background is a photo of her, Jade, and a young girl—Jade’s daughter, I suppose. They look happy together.
She catches me staring, but doesn’t say anything, just snaps the photo.
Before they leave, Hayden hugs me. “I was right before. You won, you know? We always said we’d win, and we did. But even beyond Ralston, you won.” She pats the book in her hands. “You did it.”
It doesn’t feel like winning, but it doesn’t feel like losing either, so I won’t complain.
Mom waits in the back until everyone has left. Just as we’re gathering our things, the manager approaches me again. She holds out a small yellow envelope. “Thank you again for doing this. A woman left this for you at the register.”
As she walks away, I slip a finger under the edge, tearing it open. It’s a simple card with pink-and-yellow stripes. Inside, there’s a message in delicate handwriting.
Thank you for telling so many of our stories. You were right. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready.
-Priya
I know who it’s from in an instant. Priya Sharma, the student I reached out to before.
The weight of her silence doesn’t sting so badly anymore. We all have our reasons.
I look around the room at the rows of empty chairs being quietly cleared away. This is the only event Black Elm planned for me, provided I paid for my own flight and hotel. This was everything I dreamed of once, and now it’s over.
My truth, once a roaring fire, now feels like a faint whisper carried away in the wind.
And the truth is, this might be as far as my story travels.
Even with Black Elm’s marketing genius, my first-week sales have been low. Probably too low. So, I sold my soul for what?
For this.
I slip the card into the bag from Professor Bell.
Because even when it’s whispered, even when it’s made more marketable, the truth still matters.
I have to believe that because I have paid so much.
My career is stalled, sidetracked, and whispered about.
My vindication was private, hidden behind closed doors and paywalled websites, quiet corrections buried deep in academic archives no one will ever see.
And my voice—the thing I was once most proud of—has been muffled beneath the roar of a system that values marketability more than justice.
That same system has published two more Ralston books in the time since she left Havenport. As if nothing ever happened.
She will never pay for her abuse of power. Her only punishment came when she made their world inconvenient. Just as mine came when I made their world uncomfortable.
For a long time, I didn’t understand it, but I do now. The truth was never going to be my victory.
It will forever be my sentence.