Wendy & Leah & Bethenny
“Is it here? Did it arrive yet?”
Wendy had been wired since sunrise. The Variety piece was out today, and she’d made that abundantly clear. Nothing else mattered.
“They still do print?” Leah asks, blinking up from her screen. “I thought everyone just read Variety online.”
“Yes, they still deliver legacy editions, Leah. That’s what we call a tangible artifact.” Wendy’s eyes pin Leah in place, letting the judgment settle. “Tragic, really, that your generation’s only relationship with paper is wiping down ring lights.”
She waves a hand toward the hallway. “Now go to the mailroom and find it.”
Down the hall, the mailroom hums with fluorescent indifference. Leah rifles through the half-forgotten pile: Hollywood Reporter, W, a rogue Architectural Digest.
Then, there it is. Variety’s 40 Under 40: Hollywood’s Rising Power Players. She flips through it… and stops cold. Oh my god. This is so bad.
A grin creeps across her face as she takes in Wendy’s feature: just one measly screenshot from their Zoom call. A few limp quotes, maybe fifty words, tucked beneath a full-page spread of a 29-year-old Netflix exec in Oscar de la Renta.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
She’d planned to shred the hard copy. But no. This is better. Leah’s smile widens as she tucks the magazine under her arm and heads back down the hall.
“Mail call,” she says sweetly, dropping the issue onto Wendy’s desk.
“Finally.”
Wendy barely looks up as she flips straight to the spread. Leah lingers, watching the slow collapse of her expression.
“What the fuck?” Wendy says, voice edged with panic. “Didn’t you send them my headshot like I told you to?”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t my headshot. It’s a fucking Zoom screenshot.”
“What? But I sent them everything. I triple-confirmed—”
Wendy keeps reading, breath picking up. Her fingers tense around the glossy pages. “This isn’t even fluff.” She slams the magazine down, whirls to her monitor, and starts typing fast.
The online version loads… but it’s just as bad. Same screenshot. Tossed-off copy. Her name barely bolded.
Then, she sees it. Role model: Bethenny Frankel. Not Anna Wintour. Bethenny. Fucking. Frankel.
Her voice drops to a low, furious whisper. “This is a joke. I was explicit about Anna fucking Wintour.”
“Wait—what?”
“They’ve got to fix this.” Wendy’s already mid-email, fingers hammering out a note to Taylor Marsh.
“I mean… Bethenny’s great, though. So scrappy.”
Wendy shoots Leah a look. Ready to murder her. “Would you please leave me alone?”
“Of course, Wendy.”
But at the doorway, Leah lingers, just long enough to savor it. Because the wrong headshot? That grainy screenshot was no accident. It was Leah’s handiwork. Something far more deliberate than a simple mistake.
And the Bethenny quote? Maybe fate. Maybe Variety’s quiet way of putting Wendy in her place. Either way, the image had cracked. And next time? Leah planned to shatter the whole damn thing.