Eloise Bridgerton sat at the head of a sleek, modern conference table, surrounded by the soft hum of the bustling literary event. It was an author panel, and her turn was next. She couldn’t help but smile to herself—this was where she thrived, where her wit, her convictions, and her eloquent opinions truly shone. The room was filled with writers, literary agents, and journalists, but Eloise held a presence that was hard to ignore. Her sharp mind, unapologetic opinions, and cutting commentary made her a favorite among the press and a rising star in the literary world.

Her book, The Freedom of Feminism: A New Manifesto, had made waves when it was released. It wasn’t just a collection of essays about women’s rights, nor was it a typical feminist read. It was raw, candid, and often controversial. Eloise had managed to write in a way that wasn’t preachy but instead invited conversation, dialogue, and reflection. She wasn’t interested in simply being liked—she wanted to spark change, to challenge the world to think differently about the roles women played in society, in relationships, and in the world at large.

As the moderator introduced her, Eloise stood, smoothing the creases in her sharp navy blazer, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. She adjusted the microphone in front of her and took a deep breath. She had been in these situations countless times, but today felt different. She wasn’t just talking about the principles in her book. Today, she was here to talk about a deeper, more personal message.

“I have to say,” Eloise began, her voice strong and confident as she surveyed the room, “when I first wrote my book, it wasn’t for applause. It wasn’t for the sales or the publicity—though, of course, that’s been quite nice, thank you very much.” She gave a playful smile to the audience, who chuckled in response. “No, I wrote it because I was tired. Tired of the same narratives, tired of the same expectations placed on women, on myself, on all of us.”