Wendy
She doesn’t glance. Just walks, pumps striking the polished floor, straight through the doors, to her desk, to her inbox.
At the top: a single new calendar invite from Evelyn Knox. But it’s the second name that twists in her gut: Robert Mitchell, NDA’s compliance officer. The company’s bloodhound.
So. It’s official. A witch-hunt.
In the conference room, Wendy keeps everything neutral. But Evelyn’s stare cuts straight through it. Across the table, Robert Mitchell waits with a stack of neatly tabbed documents. On top: a red folder labeled DEERWOOD.
“Wendy, let’s not waste time,” Evelyn begins, her polish almost too perfect. “Have you ever disclosed confidential NDA information to outside parties?”
“No. Never,” Wendy answers, glancing from Evelyn to Mitchell, quietly measuring.
“Not even in passing?”
“If this is about hypotheticals, I can save us all some time.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Evelyn presses.
Mitchell cuts in: “You understand that even informal comments can breach confidentiality, don’t you, Wendy? You signed our ethics agreement.”
“I’m aware,” Wendy shoots back. “And I’ve honored it.”
“Then explain your recent communications with Taylor Marsh.”
“She wrote my Variety feature. I thanked her.”
“You told her you ‘needed protection,’” Mitchell says. “Explain that.”
Wendy hesitates, just enough to feel the floodwaters rising.
“I wasn’t cleared by NDA for the 40 Under 40 profile. I panicked. It was a huge opportunity. I made a poor judgment call and figured I’d beg forgiveness later. Foolish, I admit.”
“I see,” Evelyn says slowly. “So this had nothing to do with the Variety piece about Felicia Mercer? The timing suggests otherwise.”
“Not a thing. Pure coincidence.”
“And Felicia’s clients?” Mitchell asks, a sliver of threat beneath the calm. “Did you approach them? Float offers? Friendly deals?”
“Absolutely not,” Wendy snaps. “Felicia’s ethical breaches are well-documented. If you’re looking for blurred lines, start there, not with me. While she’s lawyering up, I’m here. Talking. Transparent.”
Mitchell scribbles something in his notepad. Evelyn stays silent. A beat. A standoff. Wendy’s mind races: What else did Leah dig up? What did she send? Who’s seen it? She knows how to fight dirty. She has fought dirty, her whole damn life. But this feels different. Leah isn’t just clawing at her reputation. She’s trying to burn it down. And the worst part: Wendy may have given her enough kindling to do it.
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As soon as the interrogation ends, she snatches up her phone and dials.
“Wendy Deerwood,” Gareth answers, calm, like he was expecting this. “I wondered when I’d hear from you.”
“Well… you were right. I need help.”
“Okay,” he says after a short pause. “I’ll handle it. Boots will know what to do.”
She arrives just after sunset. Boots answers barefoot, more basic than Wendy expected in black Lululemon, phone in one hand, a sparkling drink in the other.
“Come in,” she says, stepping aside without a smile.
The place, like all the others, is curated emptiness. A pale linen boucle sectional anchors the room beside a stone coffee table stacked with pretentious fashion books.
Across the room, Gareth looks up from the couch. “So, what happened?” he asks. “Must’ve been bad if you pulled a full one-eighty.”
Wendy takes in the space. Can’t help but notice—even the art on the walls feels expected.
“Let’s just say HR got involved,” she says, barely hiding her disgust. “And those drones couldn’t navigate a real crisis if it bit them on the tuchus mid-Zoom.”
Boots disappears into the kitchen, the clink of ice against glass echoing. “You’ve got two choices,” she says, filling a tumbler. “Roll over, or hit back harder than Leah ever imagined.”
Wendy exhales, crossing to the island. She hates needing this. Hates needing them.
“Tell me what I have to do.”
Boots slides her the drink. “You need Simone Vale,” she says, like it’s the only answer.
Wendy registers the name with a flick of interest as she takes the glass. “The crisis manager?”
“You’ve heard of her, then.”
Of course she has. Everyone has. Simone Vale, the political speechwriter turned Hollywood damage-control assassin, is legend. Everyone knows the stories: like the actor who called Middle America a hotbed of “obese Christofascist junkies”… and still kept his superhero contract. Before Wendy can respond, there’s a knock at the door.
“Right on time,” Boots says, crossing the room with a smug grin.
The door swings open. Simone Vale steps through, commanding in tailored Victoria Beckham trousers and a crisp Placebo blouse. Wendy clocks her immediately—the buzzcut, the diamond nose stud, the eyes like twin crosshairs.
“You know I only call when it’s a disaster,” Boots says as they greet each other with air kisses, perfectly in sync.
Simone steps in further, scanning the room. “And you know I love a hot mess.” She turns to Wendy without waiting for an introduction. “So, you’re the problem.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Wendy says, feigning nonchalance, masking the flicker of awe.
They sit. Wendy lays it all out: the Variety leak, Felicia’s implosion, the HR investigation. She shapes the truth carefully: just enough omission to avoid a direct lie.
When she’s finished, Simone snaps her leather-bound notebook shut. “You’re bleeding credibility. We can stop the bleeding, but it’s going to hurt.”
“I didn’t do this.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Simone says, like it’s all beneath her. “Truth doesn’t win. Perception does.”
“She’s right,” Gareth cuts in from across the room. “This isn’t about facts. It’s about what sticks.”
Boots, perched beside him, swirls her glass. “And that works in your favor too, if you play it right. Which, with Simone here, you already are. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Then, Simone lays out the plan: “We reframe everything. You’re Wendy Deerwood, the noble loyalist under siege. We flip the narrative, put them on defense. Threaten defamation. Put them on trial. Force NDA to close ranks or risk another scandal they can’t afford.” She smiles with cool self-assuredness. “They’ll pick survival… if they’re not complete morons.”
Wendy tries for strength. Almost pulls it off. “And what about my survival?”
“You’re already burning,” Simone says, cool and detached. “You can stand there. Or aim at the flames.”
A long, charged silence. Then: “Fine,” Wendy says. “I’ll aim. I’ll even walk into those motherfucking flames—if I have to.”