Chapter 23 #2
“You have no idea what shame is.” My bones turn into lead pipes held together by PVA glue. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”
When you’ve been publicly shamed, people around you react in one of two ways: They avert their eyes or they can’t stop staring.
Both make you feel less than human. Somehow both make you feel like a carcass, like your immovable body is being pecked at
by crows until there’s nothing left. Your only legacy, your entire existence, eroded and consumed and decayed until it’s whittled
down to that One Thing. When I went back to work, everyone knew I was the reason Malcolm was fired. Unfortunately for me,
he was friends with everyone. When we started casually dating, I was brought into that sphere of attraction. He was the one hosting parties and encouraging
people out for drinks. I gained some social clout just from hanging around him. For better or worse, he was a magnetic force.
Everyone else was shrapnel that dropped to the ground the moment he disappeared. They blamed me for the mess. The men in the
office said it was my fault, that I consented to the photos and therefore it wasn’t a crime, that I was lying, that I was
a selfish bitch for encouraging his expulsion.
My head is a bowling ball rolling across the edge of the gutter. “You committed a crime, Malcolm.” Bile creeps up my throat; this conversation is one I could’ve never imagined having.
Before I have a chance to react, he gets up closer and points a bitten-down finger in my face. “I am not the criminal here—you
are, Jess.” He spits my name like a curse.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat, knowing damn well denying it is only going to anger him further. My learned
instinct to calm down the angry man alone with me. I risk looking away from him for a second, glancing down both ends of the
street for someone, anyone who can help me get away from him.
“There’s no point denying it. I’m a journalist now . . .” He raises his eyebrows, as though I’m supposed to be impressed by
this news. “Do you think for a second that I would let you get away with this? Rigging the competition, tricking the public
into supporting your company like you tricked everyone into thinking I was some sort of . . . predator?” For a second, a flash
of real hurt appears on his face, before switching back into anger and outrage.
I swallow. I want to get this over with; there’s no way he’s really here to “do the right thing.” “So what do you want? Money?
Why are you here?”
He scoffs, shaking his head like I’ve made a hilarious joke. “Please, I’ve looked into Wyst’s financials. You don’t have any
fucking money.”
I blink away the embarrassment and cross my arms again. “Then what?”
He lets out a breath. “I want you to tell everyone you were wrong. I want you to release a statement saying the truth, that it was a made-up, false accusation and you are sorry for all the pain you’ve caused.”
My stomach lurches like a fist has just slammed into my gut. “What? Why?”
He paces in front of me. “Because right now I should be in a plush corner office suite with a hot secretary and a Nespresso
machine. Not in a newspaper’s unlit basement. I want my career to get back on track. I want to not be a social pariah anymore.”
I almost laugh. “No way. After everything you put me through. Why the fuck would I do that?”
He lowers his chin, a dark look in his eyes. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to expose your company for the sham that it
is and tell everyone about the grift you’re pulling at TechRumble. Why would anyone trust a so-called feminist business again
when they find out the CEO is pretending to be a man.”
He steps in closer, so close I can tell it’s whiskey he’s been drinking. My body freezes. I can barely breathe. He’s not much
taller than me, but he’s bigger. Bulkier. I realize it was a mistake to pull him out of public view on the main street. I
grip my keys tighter.
Malcolm studies my face. “Or . . . I could make it good for you; we could do it together. Get your side of the story. You
coming to the man you wronged for the exclusive would almost make up for all the damage you’ve done. You come clean about everything . . .” He puts a finger to his chin, thinking out
loud. “But then, on the other hand, exposing you myself would be much more satisfying. Maybe this is a pattern of a misandrist
compulsive liar who abuses her gender to get ahead. ‘What will she lie about next?’”
“So either way, you’re going to dredge everything back up and call me a liar?” My voice breaks as I try not to let a terrified tear escape. “You’re going to breach the NDA?”
A scenario flashes before my eyes: everyone at TechRumble hearing about this, seeing the photos, just like that day at the
office. This time an entire auditorium full of spectators to my downfall. My legs begin to furiously shake.
“I think I’ll see how you do in the final round.” He shrugs, pursing his lips in thought. “The further Wyst gets, the bigger
my story gets.” We both briefly glance to the end of the road, hearing noises of a group of people begin to echo around the
corner.
He steps in again, not quite touching me, but the bile rises in my throat like he is. His wretched mouth whispers near my
ear, “Good luck in Vienna, Violet.”
He turns away, stalking down the street at a quickening pace. Leaving my body cold against the February air. My whole body
starts to shake as I watch him walking like he’s just leaving work and heading home. My fingers cling to the stone wall behind
me; my chest pounds, breathing heavily until he rounds the corner. I wait a few more seconds before letting the bile claw
up my throat. Heat overwhelms my chest as I vomit onto the drain embedded in the street, one hand still clinging to the wall.
My hair hangs over my face, but I can hear the footsteps of a group of people on the other side of the street. The male sniggering
makes another wave of nausea hit me.
“She’s had a few too many!” one of the men shouts, his partner bashing him in the chest with her handbag and tutting.
“You all right, love?” Her heels click as she steps across the road.
I can’t speak so instead I nod and try to calm my breathing. I wipe my hair back over my ear and take the tissue she offers me, willing the retching feeling pulsing in my stomach and throat to stop.
My lips twist into a polite smile, my vision blurred around the edges. Eventually, I squeak out a thanks and nod at her.
The woman studies me, realizing I’m not drunk, perhaps recognizing the signs of an experience so many women go through. “Are
you okay? Do you live nearby?”
Instead of explaining fully, I just say, “There,” and point to the Wyst office building. It has an old town house facade,
so she isn’t fazed. Eventually, my fingers release from the wall, the muscles pulled taut and frozen in place. Pain shoots
through my hand as I stretch out the muscles. As my body starts to straighten, the woman loops my arm and walks me over to
the door, the rest of her group straggling behind.
My shaking hands grapple with my keys, the adrenaline of what just happened and what could have happened if this group of
blissfully ignorant, unknowing vigilantes hadn’t stumbled upon the same street Malcolm had cornered me in.
The woman’s partner, seeing me struggling and taking the situation more seriously now, takes my keys. “Let me do that,” he
says softly.
Once again, a tight smile forms on my face as I try and retain a modicum of grace. I blink, the blurriness not leaving my
line of sight. Black dots start to appear like floating specks of dust in my vision.
The woman studies me for a final time, her eyebrows forming a concerned line in the middle of her forehead. She squeezes my arm. “Whatever it is, things will be better after a good sleep.”
“Thanks,” I say again, stepping through the threshold. I click the automatic lock behind me, double-checking it’s shut before
climbing the three flights of creaking stairs up to the office, where I sit down at my desk, make eye contact with a confused-looking
Pacha, and finally let the tears come.