Wendy
She draws a breath to steady herself. Knocks once.
The door opens almost instantly. Gareth stands in the frame, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp.
“Wendy,” he says, shifting his stance. “This a social call?”
“Not exactly. I wanted to thank you.”
“Really. Didn’t have you pegged as the grateful type.”
“Then maybe you don’t know me.”
A beat as he sizes her up. Then: “You coming in?” he asks, stepping aside.
Inside, the apartment is chic but bland—clean lines, muted beige, a few carefully placed pops of warm metallic. It feels more staged than lived in. Gareth moves to the bar cart and opens the Glenfiddich 21.
“I’d ask how you are,” he says, pouring, “but I don’t like small talk either.”
He hands her the glass. Wendy takes it, but doesn’t sip. “Let’s just say someone’s working overtime to cast me as the villain in a story I didn’t write.”
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“Leah?”
She nods once.
“And is she wrong?”
“I won’t dignify that with a response, Gareth.”
“Didn’t say she was right. But people don’t usually go scorched earth for nothing.”
“It’s complicated,” Wendy says as they step onto the balcony. The city glows below, restless but indifferent, the foothills sloping into the basin, a sprawl of smog, light, and gridlock.
“So what happened?” Gareth asks, giving her a sidelong glance.
“I was set up. Someone hacked into my account, twisted the narrative, and now I’m being accused of sabotaging a colleague to steal her clients.”
“And did you?”
“Hell no. But… maybe I did hear whispers she was on her way out. Maybe I thought, if the agency lost someone that senior, someone would need to manage the fallout. And maybe I had a few ideas about who that someone should be.”
It’s not a confession. It’s strategy, a performance. Control the narrative, and maybe no one notices the blood on your hands.
“Did I engineer her downfall?” She turns to meet his gaze, not defensive, not contrite, just pretending to be. “Absolutely not. But now I’m cast as the Sigourney Weaver villain from that movie.”
“So Leah just made up the dots and connected them herself?”
“And did a damn good job of it.”
“I wouldn’t count you out yet,” Gareth says finally. “I know someone who might help.”
“Oh, really? And who might that be?”
“Boots.”
“Boots?”
“She knows people. Powerful people.”
Wendy considers that, turning her glass between her hands. She barely knows Boots. Barely trusts her. And favors like this always come with strings.
“Thanks,” she says, draining the last of her whiskey. “But I can handle it.”
Gareth lifts his glass, eyes still on her. “For now, at least.”