Wendy
“This is Wendy.”
The voice on the other end is flat and clipped. It’s Felicia Mercer’s office. Felicia wants to see her. Now. “Just a touch-base,” the assistant says, toneless.
The office is a shrine to Felicia’s career. A triangular glass award sits on her desk, next to a faded red carpet photo of Felicia with someone who might be Brittany Murphy, clearly from twenty years and five dress sizes ago, and a framed picture of her with the wife and kids.
“Sit,” Felicia says as Wendy pauses in the doorway. She crosses the room and lowers herself into the chair, the leather hissing beneath her.
“Something urgent?”
Felicia taps her pen once. “I’ve been hearing things, Wendy. About how you treat staff. Particularly Leah.”
Wendy lets out a dry, condescending laugh. “Let’s be real, Felicia. If I had a dollar for every bruised ego I’ve managed, I’d be running the whole agency.”
“I’d watch your tone, Wendy. You’re good, but reckless. And you’re making enemies. Telling people NDA only kept Leah to avoid a lawsuit? That’s not gossip. If it circles back to the wrong person, it won’t be Leah out the door. It’ll be you.”
“I never said that—”
“Doesn’t matter. Perception is reality. And right now, you’re handing people ammunition.”
“I appreciate the concern, Felicia.”
“One warning. That’s it. Next time, it’s a bigger conversation.”
Felicia’s smile holds, polite but icy. Wendy takes the cue.
“Understood. Completely.”
She smooths her skirt, stands with a tight smile, and turns to go.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Oh, and Wendy?”
She stops. Turns back. Felicia’s still watching with an almost clinical interest. “Don’t test this place on where its loyalties lie,” she warns. “The agency protects itself.”
Wendy holds her gaze just long enough. Then she turns and walks, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
It twists in her gut. Not rage. Not yet. Something harder to dismiss. They’re circling. She can feel it, the hush that follows her steps. Her enemies aren’t hiding anymore. They’re waiting.
Then, voices. Low and urgent. She slows near the break room, phone in hand, pretending to scroll as Michelle Conklin and Nina Grabowski, that overeager junior agent with the permanent vocal fry, whisper over coffee like the whole world might end.
“I swear, Felicia’s playing with fire,” Michelle murmurs.
“She’s lying about the numbers again?” Nina asks.
“Not just lying. She’s manufacturing bids. That Connelly script ‘bidding war’? Total fiction. She’s inflating offers, and Business Affairs has no clue.”
“That’s a huge accusation. Are you sure?”
“She literally threatened me,” Michelle explains. “Told me to stop asking so many questions when all I was trying to do was figure out what I’m supposed to tell people. And then she said, verbatim: ‘Apple doesn’t need to know Amazon didn’t offer, and Amazon doesn’t need to know Apple thinks they did.’”
Nina stares at her, stunned. “That’s bananas.”
Michelle keeps talking, the words coming too fast: “She even dangled a promotion. Said she’d push for a bigger bonus if everything ‘goes smoothly,’ which basically meant keeping my mouth shut. And maybe I would’ve, if I thought she’d actually follow through. But everyone knows Felicia makes promises she doesn’t keep.”
Well, well, well. If this wasn’t divine intervention—this perfect piece of intel falling into Wendy’s lap at the exact right moment, from, of all places, a gossipy junior agent in the windowless break room—then nothing meant anything. Of course Felicia was as corrupt as a Real Housewife’s tax return. With that much hubris, built over that many years, how could she not start believing she was untouchable?
“Felicia really is relentless,” she remarks, finally stepping into view. Michelle and Nina snap toward her, startled.
“Yeah, well… she gets results,” Michelle says, smiling too fast, like she’s trying to rewind. “Felicia’s the best, though. I mean… obviously.”
“Or until someone catches her,” Wendy says, turning away before either can respond.
Back in her office, she shuts the door. Her pulse steadies. Her mind clears. She’s dialing.
“Wendy Deerwood,” Taylor Marsh answers, amused. “What’s up?”
Wendy leans against the window, the city stretching out like a battlefield below. “I have something for Variety. A story.”
“Go on.”
“Felicia Mercer. You know the name.”
“Of course.”
“Off the record?”
“Always.”
She twists the gloss open, smooths it across her lips. Her reflection meets her gaze, cool, controlled, and relentless.
“Good,” she says, with quiet satisfaction. “Because this one’s gonna bleed.”