Leah
She should have left hours ago. But not tonight.
By day, the agency is loud and swaggering, full of constant motion, constant noise. Now, it’s hollow. Just the low groan of a copier somewhere down the hall and the faintest trace of Mojave Ghost clinging to the stale office air.
Leah keeps replaying what she overheard earlier in the break room: Michelle Conklin and Nina Grabowski, whispering again, over soggy takeout. But not about Felicia this time. About Wendy.
They suspected it was Wendy who’d leaked the gossip that triggered the Variety takedown piece. And the latest rumor? Felicia’s suspension wasn’t just indefinite; it was unpaid.
Leah always knew Wendy played dirty. But this? This was another league entirely. Subterfuge turned blood sport. Which is why she waited for Wendy to go home. And why she now stands in the hush of Wendy’s office, this cold, immaculate sanctuary, the room where her empire is built, one manipulation at a time.
She remembers how easily the plan had come together earlier that afternoon. She’d leaned over Wendy’s desk, overly apologetic, spinning some urgent IT emergency about a temporary password update. Wendy took the bait, like an idiot. Leah smiled, thanked her sweetly, and went on her way.
Now, one last glance over her shoulder. The hallway is empty. Not a janitor in sight. She types in the password: WendEZBossBitch1234.
Leah almost laughs out loud. For all the pretense and grandiosity, Wendy’s choice of password was… juvenile, to say the least. But either way—access granted.
The irony is dizzying. For all the talk of strategy and secrecy, Wendy hadn’t even armored her files. No two-factor authentication. No lock-screen timer. Just arrogance.
She opens Outlook. Fingers hovering. Then moving. Within seconds, the search floods with results. And there it is: a thread with Gary Traynor, EVP. Subject: Workshop Collaboration Sidebar.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The body is dressed in diplomacy, all buzzwords and performative collegiality. Wendy pitching a small internal workshop to develop potential book projects… led by Wendy herself.
Then the list of talent she wanted to “zero in” on. The agent whose clients she wanted to spotlight most? Felicia Mercer.
The timing is damning. The email’s dated the day before the takedown piece ran.
I should stop. Before I get caught. But she doesn’t. Another thread. A New York Times bestselling author. Nothing scandalous, just notes on voice, pacing, structure.
Then another, some wellness influencer. Wendy’s tone softens there, laced with flattery. Leah observes the way Wendy mirrors them just enough to make it feel personal. It’s nothing remarkable, really, but there’s something oddly intimate about it, snooping through her emails. A glimpse into the rhythm of Wendy’s work: the everyday negotiations, the gentle ego-stroking, the way she balances praise and pressure without ever sounding unsure of herself.
Leah would never admit it aloud, but maybe there’s something to be learned here. Not the power plays, she already knows those by heart, but the finesse.
She clicks again. Another thread. Then, halfway through a note about galley blurbs, she catches it—movement outside the office. Footsteps down the hallway.
Leah freezes. Through the glass wall, she sees Michelle Conklin passing by—shoulders hunched, AirPods in, eyes glued to her phone. Another overworked, underpaid staffer slaving away after hours.
Michelle keeps walking, never looking up. Then, she’s gone. Leah’s hands tremble as she closes the open thread. Enough wandering. I need what I came for.
That’s when she sees it. An unlabeled email chain. No subject line. From Taylor Marsh.
The exchange is short. Just some clipped messages over a few days. Careful phrasing. Taylor asking if Wendy “still wants to go forward.” Wendy replying with an almost manic string of emojis—stars, fire, a single red heart.
Should have impact. You know how this goes. Sent to Gmail.
And then there it is. Wendy’s own words. Printed as plain as day: I need you to protect me. There’s no other context. But it’s dated three days before the takedown piece.
I need you to protect me. From what? From fallout? From Felicia?
There’s no reply. Not in writing, at least. Leah exhales a low, disbelieving laugh. She’s not sure if what she feels is contempt, or awe. Maybe both. She hadn’t known Wendy had it in her. Not like this. But now she does… and it makes her wonder what else she’s missed.