Wendy
She squares her shoulders, smoothing the cuffs of her blazer. Beside her, Simone Vale walks in silence, measured, composed, entirely in control. Wendy doesn’t want to get ahead of herself. But moving in step with this woman, she feels it: We’re unstoppable.
Inside, Alan Grayson, Evelyn Knox, and Robert Mitchell sit in stiff formation, a tribunal disguised as colleagues. They offer no greeting. No preamble.
Wendy meets Simone’s gaze as they take their seats. Whether they play it clean or go for blood? That depends on what comes next.
Wendy notices Evelyn’s gaze lingering on Simone. Good. Simone makes her nervous.
“We’ve reviewed the evidence,” Evelyn begins, flipping through a binder. “All of it suggests premeditation.”
Simone lets out a quiet laugh. Then her lashes flick up. “The only thing premeditated here is how my client’s private emails were obtained. What you’re holding is circumstantial at best, fit for gossip, not proof.”
Evelyn glares across the table. Suddenly, this feels personal. “Your client told a journalist she ‘needed protection.’ She discussed ‘timing.’ ‘Discretion.’ That implies intent.”
Simone smiles faintly, like she’s already won. “Are we policing tone now?”
Wendy glances at Alan. He’s annoyed. She can tell just by the way he shifts in his seat.
“Ms. Vale, no one’s accusing Wendy—er, Ms. Deerwood—of a crime.”
“But we are questioning her judgment,” Evelyn adds, “and her motive.”
“And do you know what often fuels motive?” Simone’s smile widens, but nothing softens. “Jealousy. Fear. Particularly toward women in power.”
Alan shifts again, clearly uncomfortable. “Let’s not make this about gender politics.”
“Oh, let’s,” Simone claps back. “Because I’ve represented men who committed felony fraud and still got seven-figure book deals and glowing Wall Street Journal profiles. Meanwhile, my client is being interrogated over anonymous emails. You’re treating her like a liability. If NDA can’t tell the difference, maybe we’re all in the wrong room.”
Wendy holds her breath. She almost speaks, instinctively. She’s used to leading in rooms like this, but now someone else is holding the reins. And she hates it.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Evelyn closes the binder. “Intent is difficult to prove. But this doesn’t look good for Ms. Deerwood or NDA.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Simone fires back, already rising. “You’d better be certain before you destroy a career on suggestion. Because when this leaks, and it will, it’ll be your names in the headlines, not hers. And it’ll look worse for the agency.”
Mitchell shifts in his seat. Alan taps the edge of the table, measured, like he’s trying to regain control. Evelyn just exhales slowly.
“Then you’ll be pleased to know we’re not prepared to act,” she says. “There’s no conclusive evidence.”
Wendy lets out a quiet breath. Thank fucking God.
“But this isn’t exoneration,” Alan adds. “It’s a stay. There’s smoke, and where there’s smoke—”
“There’s usually someone with a grudge and too much time,” Simone finishes, already stepping away, no more time to waste. She tosses Wendy a final glance, dismissive, almost bored. “Congratulations, love. My work here is done.”
Wendy rises, calm but unyielding as she looks at Alan. “I trust this doesn’t affect my standing.”
Alan offers a thin smile. “We expect nothing but the best from you, Wendy.”
“Good,” she says, trailing Simone toward the exit. “That makes two of us.”
It should feel like a win. And yet, she can’t celebrate dodging a bullet that should never have been fired. Simone’s departure at the elevators lingers—the blank stare when Wendy thanked her, the faintest, almost imperceptible grin.
“We make a good team,” Wendy had said. Simone didn’t respond. She just let the doors close without a word. Only later, as Wendy marched back to her office, did she realize: Simone didn’t see them as a team. Didn’t see Wendy as her equal. Of course she wouldn’t. Favors like this weren’t generosity; they were exercises in hierarchy. Enough to make Wendy question if it had been worth it at all.
Whatever. Get over yourself. You did what you needed. You got away with it. Celebrate, don’t wallow.
All she wants is Shane. And that annoys her even more. Lately, she’s thought about him too much. Not as the hot, convenient idiot next door, but as someone—a person—she wants more of. A person she can allow herself to imagine having more of. And maybe wanting more than just sex, wanting more from Shane, or any man, doesn’t feel wrong.
She grabs her bag, then storms through her office door. Alaïas strike the polished concrete in crisp, ruthless bursts as she passes Leah, who types stiffly in her cubicle. Leah says nothing, but Wendy can feel it. She’s scared. Because Wendy’s still here. Because Leah knows Wendy knows the game she tried to play.
“I’m leaving early,” Wendy says, stopping mid-step and turning back. Enough passive-aggressive nonsense. “Forward my calls. And if anything goes wrong while I’m gone, start looking for a new job.”
Leah freezes, taken aback, absorbing the full force of Wendy’s wrath. “Sure, Wendy. Everything’s under control, as always. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. Now I’m going to celebrate. At home. With my boyfriend.”
Wendy catches the flicker in Leah’s eyes—not defiance, not surprise. Fear. So, she retraces her steps to the cubicle, leaning in just enough to make her scared.
“But don’t get comfortable, Leah. Tomorrow, I’m back.” Her voice drops to a hiss, leaving no room for doubt. “And if you thought I was bad before? That was just the warm‑up.”