Wendy
It was the fight she hadn’t asked for, and the one she had no choice but to win. The moment Wendy was cleared, it became obvious: survival meant playing just as dirty as Leah.
First came the lockdown. New passwords. Scrubbed archives. Leah was locked out of every folder or thread she might weaponize. Meanwhile, the petty war stretched on: a steady stream of menial tasks, impossible deadlines, and verbal abuse, just enough to keep Leah overwhelmed, just enough to make her stumble.
Drive her to quit? That had been Plan A. But Leah was stubborn. Clinging to NDA. Maybe even to Wendy. So: Plan B.
Park came recommended by a publishing contact in New York—one of those whispered names passed between agents after too many martinis. He’d allegedly tanked a rival book launch once through the usual tactics: review bombing, Twitter trolling, armies of bots.
In the dim clutter of his office, Wendy laid it out cleanly. She wanted a full sweep. Any dirt he could find. Within days, he delivered. Leah’s personal record was clean. Too clean. But Park still turned up a few oddities: a string of vague traffic citations tied to Leah’s mother. Minor enough to avoid scrutiny, but suspicious in number. Buried deeper, her mother’s quiet, months-long stay at a private mental health facility, sealed under confidentiality, but traceable through insurance leaks, if you knew where to look. Nothing explosive on its own. But together? A constellation of cracks.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
Then Wendy saw it. Tucked deep inside a breakdown of the Cross family trust was one line Park hadn’t even flagged.
Richard Cross. Leah’s second uncle. A silent member of NDA’s board.
She’d always known Leah was a trust-fund nepo brat. She just hadn’t realized how deep the insulation ran—protection built right into the agency itself.
Park slid a slender report across the desk. “And there’s this. Cross family trust filings. All public, if you dig far enough—tax disclosures, SEC statements, property records. Took some scraping, but the picture’s clear. The Cross fortune? Crumbling. Fast. She’s living off fumes.”
Within the hour, Wendy had Simone Vale on Zoom.
“You made it sound like NDA was about to go up in flames,” Simone said, skeptical, but ready to be convinced.
Wendy smiled sweetly. “Because it might, if we don’t move fast.”
She didn’t waste time. She staged the stakes like theater: There had been a leak. A betrayal. The person who’d falsely accused her, Leah, wasn’t some naïve assistant, but an aggrieved, vengeful relative of NDA board member Richard Cross. And that connection? Never disclosed. Worse, Wendy hinted, it pointed to something bigger—a web of nepotism and internal sabotage, with Wendy as the first casualty.
She leaned in closer to the camera. “If we sit on this, it’s not just me they’ll destroy. It’s the agency’s credibility. And if it blows wide open…” She paused, letting the silence do the work. “Wouldn’t you rather be the one who saw it first?”
Simone arched a manicured brow, half-impressed, half-preparing to call bullshit. “You, Wendy Deerwood, could sell ice to an Eskimo.”
“Save the compliments, Simone.” Wendy smiled, more self-satisfied than self-assured. “One day you’ll need an agent, and when you do, you’ll know who to call.”
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Simone sipped her coffee, watching over the rim like she could see every calculated thought flickering behind Wendy’s eyes through the Zoom screen.
Then, slowly, she gave a nod.
“Okay. I’m in.”
Piece by piece, Wendy had put the plan in motion: leverage the dirt Park uncovered, mobilize Simone to press the board, and now, the next part: a multi-pronged strike.
She slipped into Icons and scanned the crowd. Found him exactly where she expected. She’d tailed him here, keeping a careful distance.
“Gareth,” she crooned, sliding onto the stool beside him. “I have an interesting update for you.”
He glanced up, skeptical. “Oh yeah? Do tell.”
Wendy dove right in. Leah’s little plot had failed spectacularly. Wendy’s name was cleared, her reputation intact, thanks in no small part to Gareth’s early warning, and that key introduction to Simone Vale.
“You and Boots saved my life. I owe you everything,” she purred. “Y’know, I’ve heard Leah’s family situation isn’t what it used to be. A lot of smoke around that trust fund.”
Gareth’s eyebrows lifted, curious, but cautious.
“If something were to happen? If she suddenly couldn’t cover her rent… well.”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“Quite the opposite,” Wendy said. “If she’s living above her means on an assistant’s salary, with no safety net…”
She met his gaze and let the implication settle.
“Make your point, Wendy.”
Her voice softened, almost maternal. “If Leah can’t afford rent, that becomes a management issue. The building suffers. And the blame could fall on you. You could have a squatter on your hands, and that affects all of us.”
He stared at her, underwhelmed. “Feels like a mountain out of a molehill. What’s this really about?”
“I’m simply being a good neighbor,” she said. Then she finished her drink, stood, and walked away, triumphant. Because all she needed to do was plant the seed.
She chose the crimson Mugler pantsuit that morning with intention. Simone was waiting in the parking lot—black Givenchy skirt, blood-red Gucci blazer, tablet in hand. They reviewed final notes and locked into script. Now, the boardroom looms ahead.
Inside, Alan Grayson, Evelyn Knox, and Senior Partner Gary Traynor are already seated, folders stacked neatly in front of them.
“Alan. Gary. Evelyn,” Wendy says as she and Simone sit. “Thank you for taking the time.”
Then she begins: “When institutions crumble, it’s rarely from outside attack; it’s rot from within. Scott Galloway once said, ‘The most dangerous risks are the ones you’re not looking at.’ Simone and I are here because we believe in NDA. Corporate responsibility isn’t a slogan. It’s—”
“Cut to the chase, Wendy,” Alan interrupts, voice clipped.
She registers it instantly: they’re already losing patience.
“As you wish.” She presses on: “Leah Cross, my former assistant, is directly tied to NDA through her second uncle, Richard Cross, a current board member.”
“A conflict of interest,” Simone adds. “One that, if exposed, becomes a major liability. We confirmed Richard’s role through board records. It’s verifiable.”
Gary tilts his head just enough to show he’s listening, but not enough to pretend he cares. “Family ties don’t prove interference.”
“This isn’t theoretical, Gary. It’s a potential landmine.” Simone holds his gaze, unmoved. “NDA’s credibility is at stake.”
Alan leans back, half-smiling, more amused than concerned. “That almost sounds like a threat, Ms. Vale.”
Wendy jumps in, her voice rising. “Not a threat—”
“A shared risk,” Simone says, cutting her off. “And my job is to protect all of you from unnecessary exposure. Alan, Gary, Evelyn. We’re on the same side here. At least we ought to be.”
“Exactly,” Wendy says, picking up the cue. She’s ready to launch into the second half, the speech she rehearsed in the shower about Leah’s entitlement, about nepotism and liability—but Simone is already closing her tablet. A glance. A small shake of the head. Not yet.
“We’ll present your concerns to the board,” Alan says, clearing his throat. “Happy, now?”
“They think it’s nothing,” Wendy says once they’re back in the corridor.
“It is… until it isn’t,” Simone shoots back, striding ahead.
But the truth is settling in. NDA isn’t just Richard Cross. It’s Alan. Gary. Evelyn. A fortress built on self-preservation. And Wendy, as much as it galls her, is still just one woman.
One woman, she reminds herself, but not alone. She glances at Simone, composed and steady at her side. Then, she slows. Stops.
Simone pauses a few steps ahead, then turns. “Coming, Wendy?”
She holds Simone’s gaze, the veneer of confidence starting to slip. “Can we actually win this?”
“You’ll see. We just need the right spark.”
Wendy exhales. Shrugs it off, then straightens. “Then we’ll light one,” she says, her voice a match strike in the cold hallway.