Wendy
Some women might retreat, she thinks, sipping her drink. But not Wendy.
Still, she’d been doubting herself all day. Had firing Leah been one colossal mistake? The board won’t overlook an impulsive termination. And Leah won’t go quietly. She’ll spin it. Then lawyer up. Because isn’t that what entitled nepo-brats do when they don’t get their way? Damage control won’t cut it this time. She’ll need a full counteroffensive.
She knocks back the tequila, eyes closed, feeling the burn. And that’s when a memory stirs: Montauk. Late summer. Air thick with salt and fish guts. Wendy was sixteen when she learned how people like Diane Halloran played the game of rich summer elites who treated locals like props in their sun-drenched Hamptons fantasy.
Diane had found out Wendy’s mom was sleeping with her husband. A high-powered JPMorgan exec, caught cheating with some Bayside fishmonger slut—there were few things more humiliating to an Upper East Side socialite desperate to believe her husband’s appetites were more… refined.
Diane retaliated fast: whispers, pressure on the town council, a campaign to revoke the Deerwoods’ fishing license under the guise of “sustainability.”
But Wendy knew better. This wasn’t about fish. It was revenge. About putting a working-class woman in her place.
So she found leverage: Diane’s son, Andrew. A Cornell brat with bad habits and worse judgment. It didn’t take much: a Friday night out, just the right timing, and a disposable camera. Andrew, at a party, kissing a girl who had just turned fourteen. Not even barely legal. Completely underage.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
Wendy snapped the shot. The kind of photo that wouldn’t just embarrass his family, it would end them for good. She never confronted anyone. Just slipped the print into Diane’s tennis bag with a note: Drop the complaint. Or I take it to MySpace.
By morning, it was over. Only Wendy knew why. And she never forgot the lesson: people like Diane Halloran built empires on illusion. But one crack was all it took to bring it crashing down.
Her phone buzzes. She blinks, the memory vanishing, just as she sees the group text from Boots: Big names tonight. Come camera-ready. No excuses!!!
Huh. The last time they spoke, Boots had torn her to shreds. Could this be… an olive branch?
Then, a knock at the door. Wendy tenses, pads over, opens it. He’s framed in the courtyard light, looking maddeningly handsome. Slightly windblown, casual, infuriatingly perfect.
“Shane,” she says, recovering fast. “This is… unexpected.”
“I saw the article.” He studies her quietly, like he’s trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with the version he once believed in. “Hollywood’s a shark tank. You okay?”
A breath too late, her composure catches up. “I’m fine. Just another day in hell-disguised-as-paradise. And I thought New York was cutthroat.”
“Come with me tonight. Boots’s thing.”
“I don’t know if I’m in that kind of headspace, Shane.”
“Bullshit. The Wendy I know would walk in like nothing touched her. Make a statement.”
He’s not wrong. She’s played this game long enough to know. Show up, keep cool. Stay visible, never flinch. But she doesn’t answer right away. Tentatively, she looks up.
Shane reaches for her, just a light touch, anchoring her. Their eyes lock. He leans in. Their lips hover, close enough to imagine it.
But Wendy pulls back.
“I should go,” she says, soft but certain, catching the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Good. Let him want me. Let him chase me.
“Well,” Shane says, stepping back, “I tried. Where are you off to, then?”
“To get ready,” she says, tossing it back like the answer should’ve been obvious. “I thought we had a date?”