Boots
Two weeks in, and the thrill of her new office still hasn’t worn off. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glitters, the skyline washed in smog and late sunlight. Everything looks alive, like it’s waiting for her signal.
Boots smiles, thinking back. Those first days at NDA were a blur: names, meetings, policy decks. Junior and senior agents buzzing around, smiling deferentially in a way that felt too calculated to trust. But now the noise has settled. She can finally breathe.
She remembers Wendy lingering in the doorway that first morning, when she saw Boots’s gleaming new office.
“They gave you this one?” Wendy said, almost in disbelief. “Quite the vote of confidence.”
Boots caught that flicker of envy, barely masked. Since then, Wendy’s circled. Possessive. Friendly, with an edge. Thrown, maybe, by how fast Alan’s attention had turned to Boots.
Little girl, Boots thinks, her smile tightening with cool disdain. Thirty-five, and Wendy still acts like the business owes her something. But this is her town, not Wendy’s. It always has been.
“Come in,” she says, answering the knock at her door.
Alan steps inside, tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of him tailored and hard-edged in that pristine Ami Paris suit. Her gaze lingers on the shape of his chest beneath the crisp white shirt, the subtle, unmistakable bulge in his trousers—now she’s thinking things she has no business thinking. There’s something wolfish in his grin, but she doesn’t quite smile, just lets her gaze drift over him, slow and casual.
“I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Now that you’re settled,” he says, taking the seat across from her desk, “I think it’s time we talk about your first event. So, what have you got for me?”
Boots lifts her tablet, then swipes. “One event. One night. Not a rollout. Not a soft launch. A spectacle. A gala at an iconic venue. Griffith Observatory, maybe the Getty. Something with gravity. Something forward-thinking that still says legacy.”
“This city’s choking on influencer parties,” Alan says, leaning back, unimpressed, his gaze drifting all over her. “What makes yours different?”
“Because, Alan, it won’t feel like one of those. The usual brand activations and pop-ups lean intimate. Too small, exclusive, entirely forgettable. This will be the opposite: an immersive gala. Built for luxury, celebrity, and livestream.”
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She slides the tablet across the desk, clearly pleased with herself. “Think the Oscars… but for content. With no meaningless awards or movie stars, certainly none over the age of forty. And ten times the gifting suite. Or Coachella, if they admitted no one cares about the music.”
“So basically another multi-format livestream brand event.”
“If you want to water it down, sure.”
“I’m confident with Boots Plotkin in charge, nothing gets watered down.” His gaze lingers on her chest just a second too long.
“I’m glad you agree,” she replies, lips curling, almost a smirk. “Now picture it: everyone’s desperate to be in the room. Surprise drops, flash collabs, real-time reveals. Clients launching partnerships live. Products unveiled on the spot. And maybe, just maybe, a headliner or three. We’ve got a clean line to K-Sol’s team.”
Alan squints, like it’s gibberish. “K-Sol?”
“The K-pop global phenom.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Her,” Boots corrects, quietly amused. “She just signed with NDA to run her socials. You closed the deal last week.”
“Right. That one.”
“Think of it like this. This event isn’t VIP. It’s FYVIP.”
“For… you… ?”
“Fuck You VIP.”
“So we’re flaunting exclusivity.”
“Exactly,” she says, satisfied to the point of smug. “While the rest of the world watches.”
Alan leans back, gaze settling on her mouth. Then her neck. Then her eyes. “And you think you can pull it off?”
“I know I can,” Boots says, lifting her chin, holding his stare.
They bounce ideas—sponsors, anchor brands, potential venues. Alan leans in, nodding along, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at her. Like he’s undressing her with his eyes. Boots notices. Says nothing.
After he leaves, she turns back to the window. The city sprawls beneath her, and for a moment, she allows the quiet. Then it crosses her mind, something an old mentor once told her: Charm doesn’t equal trust.
Later, the words echo as she crosses her legs opposite Wendy’s desk. It’s been two weeks since the pitch. Wendy made her case, and in hindsight, Boots realizes how subtly she planted the seed, like the whole book proposal had always been Boots’s idea.
“I don’t want this to turn into some tacky how-to guide,” she says, flipping through the pages. “If I have to write about centerpieces and celebrity seating charts, I’m out.”
Wendy leans forward, not forceful, just sure. “Agreed. This is about voice. Perspective. You’re the woman behind the velvet rope. That’s the hook. A chapter on managing high-profile clients without losing your soul. On what it really takes to build a moment, versus what everyone sees on Instagram. On navigating chaos without getting caught in it.”
“You mean like keeping a tech mogul’s mistress from sitting next to his wife—without anyone noticing.” Boots lifts a brow, like it should be obvious.
“Exactly,” Wendy replies, eyes lighting up. “You’re the one who makes it look effortless. Lift the curtain, just enough. Make people feel like they’re in the room.”
And yet, Boots can’t help but ask herself… who really needs a Hollywood hostess memoir? It feels a little vulgar. Tacky. Self-aggrandizing. Not unlike Wendy.
“Fine. But I get final say on the title,” she says, dismissing the thought.
“Naturally.” Wendy waves it off, like it’s not even a question. “This is your proposal, Boots. Your story. Your title.”
But something about this feels too easy. Too smooth. And that quote echoes again: Charm doesn’t equal trust. Boots doesn’t trust Wendy. Not yet. But charm makes a lot of things possible. That’s what makes it dangerous.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she replies, already wondering if she’ll regret it.