Leah
She follows Daphne up the wide stone steps, toward the glass façade of the midcentury house. Tucked into the Hollywood Hills, the party is exactly what she expected when she knocked on Daphne’s door earlier that night.
“I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing,” Leah had said, offering a tight smile as Daphne stared back at her, looking vaguely annoyed.
“Doing?” Daphne repeated, eyes narrowing in lazy skepticism.
“You know… after everything. The accident. The—”
“Oh, that.” Daphne waved it off like it barely registered. “I’m fine.”
There was no point pushing. So, Leah cut to the chase. “I need your help.”
“Help?” Daphne’s lips curled into a smirk, satisfied by how neatly the tables had turned. “Interesting. I don’t hear from you for weeks, and now that you need something, here you are. Crawling back.”
“Maybe you were too wasted to remember,” Leah snapped, “but I helped save your life.”
Daphne shrugged, unbothered. “So? How can I help you?”
Leah let the pride drain out of her, what little was left. “I need to expand my network. I need clients. You know the right people. If I’m going to build something real, I need to be in those rooms. And I was hoping… you could get me there.”
She didn’t miss the flicker of delight that crossed Daphne’s face.
“Leah, if you want me to take you out, just say so.”
“Really?” The word landed too fast. Too eager.
“Wow,” Daphne said, fully satisfied. “You really do need me.”
“Yeah,” Leah replied, a little ashamed. “Guess I do.”
Now here they are, shoulder to shoulder, moving through the party in the Hills, just as Leah had pictured it. Daphne leads the way, poured into a crystal-studded Missoni minidress. Leah trails half a step behind in a fitted white Alexander Wang tank and distressed Margiela boyfriend jeans, underdressed but not invisible.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“Was that—?” Leah asks, clocking a passing flash of cheekbones and Netflix familiarity.
“Yep,” Daphne says. “She’s legit now. Greg Berlanti just cast her in his new show.” She takes another quick key bump without breaking stride. “Told you this party was the real deal.”
A glass of champagne materializes in Leah’s hand before she fully registers taking it. She tightens her grip on the stem, scanning the room, then stops cold.
She sees him instantly. Even in a crowd like this, he stands apart. Not just because he’s famous, though that helps, but because there’s something else. Something more magnetic.
“That’s Darin Rossellini,” Leah murmurs, nudging Daphne.
He’s flanked by three women—glossy, glowing, nearly identical. Champagne hair, center parts, dewy skin, cherry cheeks. Rose-gold and ivory gowns. Polished and passive, like curated sister-wives.
“He’s got that whole guru-meets-CEO thing,” Daphne mutters. “Thinks he’s a prophet. Half the internet agrees.”
“And that collab house he runs? Basically a content sweatshop, right?”
Daphne shrugs, already glancing around the party for something more interesting. “Rumors. But yeah, probably.”
But Darin Rossellini’s more than just some influencer. He’s built a belief system. His name trends weekly. His voice echoes across podcasts, panels, YouTube shorts—soundbites sharpened for virality. People don’t just follow him. They quote him, too. And now he’s here. Mere feet away.
“No way,” Daphne breathes, half horror, half awe, as Leah steps forward.
“Darin Rossellini,” she says, extending a hand. “Leah Cross. Literary agent. NDA Management.”
Darin pauses before taking her hand, more curiosity than caution. Behind him, the women look her over. Not cold. Not warm. Just… measuring. Like they’ve been trained to spot threats before he does.
“Literary agent?” he repeats. “You think I need one?”
“I know you do,” Leah replies, summoning more confidence than she has. “A book outlasts hype. It cements legacy.”
“That’s an interesting theory.”
“Movements fade. Ideas last. You’ve built something people follow. Imagine if they believed in you, too.”
“I’m quite sure they already do,” Darin says, smile sharpening.
“Then make it permanent. You’re not just a personality. You’re a brand. A voice. A movement. Publishing is the next evolution. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t already.”
“Because I don’t sell pieces of myself for corporations to own.” He studies her, calm but watchful, like he’s waiting to see if she’ll flinch. “Everything I create, I keep. For someone as bold as you, a tastemaker, I’d think you’d know that about me. So. What do you know?”
“That people don’t follow you for what you tell them,” she says. “They follow you for how you make them feel. I can capture that. Package it. Put it in their hands. Make them believe even harder. Be in touch,” she adds, pulling a card from her clutch, then offering it with a faint smile.
He takes it without breaking eye contact. Leah walks away, never looks back… until she does. And there it is: Darin’s still watching. No question he’s interested now. Maybe even impressed.