Boots
Across the table, Wendy Deerwood sips her drink like it’s no big deal. But Boots isn’t fooled. Had her clocked before they even sat down.
“Thanks for meeting me. And for… everything,” Wendy says, fingers tightening around her glass.
Boots swirls the last sip of espresso in her cup, eyes sharpening. She’s not here to thank me. This is damage control.
“No problem, Wendy. Call it professional courtesy. Women in this godforsaken city need all the backup they can get.”
“And… discretion, too.” Wendy’s voice lowers, cautious. “Not everyone needs to know what went down at NDA.”
Boots lets out a short laugh. Leans back, crossing one leg over the other. Gives Wendy a once-over.
“Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.” Because they bore me. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be celebrating?” she asks, already losing interest. “You were cleared.”
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“Seriously, Boots? I can’t even think straight, let alone celebrate.”
Boots reads it in her tone: she wants to say more.
“It’s Shane,” Wendy says, coming clean. “Between you and me, things were getting serious. Or so I thought. I showed up at his place… and there she was. Raf. That vapid, social-climbing sycophant glued to his face.”
Boots adjusts her sunglasses, like she’s shielding more than just her eyes. “Shane’s complicated, Wendy. He means well. But not exactly the settle-down type.”
“So I’m supposed to just roll over and wait my turn?”
“If you want him, you’ll need patience. Shane doesn’t rush, especially if he feels something. That’s when he runs.”
“Well, at least you get it. Because it was real. We had something. Unlike whatever he was doing with that bored socialite skank.”
“Maybe you’re making assumptions,” Boots says coolly. “We don’t know her.”
“Spare me the ‘women supporting women’ crap.” Wendy leans back, no longer angry, just exhausted from being right again. “I’ve been stabbed in the back by enough of them to know better. Leah? Perfect example. And after what she pulled—”
Wendy stops herself. Breathes in, slow and controlled.
“She’s going to pay.”
God, she’s insufferable. Petty, paranoid, insecure… just another entitled, boy-crazy bitch from out-of-state. What am I even doing here?
Boots lifts a hand, flags the server for the check. Maybe, once, she could’ve spared a sliver of sympathy. But not now. Whatever fight Wendy Deerwood had left was feeding on her from the inside, and Boots had learned long ago to let women like her lose quietly, beautifully, alone.