Chapter 3: Blood On The Lipstick
Wendy
“Books are a woman’s medium.”
That’s what Troy Winslow told her the night Wendy finally saw him clearly. They were at some soulless premiere in Westwood, halfway through a lukewarm flute of champagne, back when his swagger caught her eye.
He leaned in, too pleased with himself to hide it. “If you want to graduate to playing with the big dogs, you might want to expand beyond books by girlbosses or whoever it is you rep.”
Then, with a smile, like he was daring her to disagree: “Men negotiate harder. We don’t mind being dicks.”
The memory arrives uninvited the second Wendy hears his voice, floating too loud through the half-open door of Boots’s office.
She slows her pace. Alan’s in there, too. A few others—junior agents, from the tone, Troy’s usual boys’ club chorus.
And then Boots, laughing. Not politely, not performatively. Genuinely. As if she belongs in that room with them. As if Wendy hadn’t created that role, pitched the title, made space for Boots in the first place.
It doesn’t take much to piece it together: Boots, deferential with the exact men who treat her like a novelty. Aligning herself with Troy, of all people, the one who openly mocks their female colleagues, only to repeat their ideas louder when someone like Alan is in the room. The one who once told a junior agent that her tone “made data sound hormonal,” then congratulated her male counterpart for saying the same thing in a lower register.
Wendy takes a long inhale, steadying herself. The Chanel minidress she wore this morning to remind the office she’s not to be underestimated suddenly feels… too feminine. She imagines, briefly, stepping on Troy’s neck with the heel of her knee-high Balenciaga boot. Just once. Just enough.
“Sorry to interrupt your little party,” she says, stepping through the door.
“Wendy, hi!” Boots beams, turning. “We’re just mapping out logistics for NDA’s inaugural gala.”
“Inaugural gala?” Wendy folds her arms, gaze cooling. “What are we now? A non-profit charity board? Because this is the first I’m hearing about it.”
Alan meets her eyes, clearly entertained. “You focus on your books, Wendy. This is for NDA’s macro-tier talent.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means there are levels,” Alan says, unfazed. “There are agents repping talent that moves the needle, and those who don’t. Your authors are charming little margin padders, sure. But let’s not pretend they’re the main event.”
She hears Troy’s laugh before she even looks at him. Then Boots cuts in, voice tilting toward diplomacy.
“I’d welcome Wendy’s feedback.”
Wendy turns. “I should hope so.” Then, to Alan: “Not sure what’s got your boxers in a twist today, but one of those charming little authors just inked an eight-figure deal with Aureole. You know, the ultra-luxury beauty brand backed by half of Silicon Beach?” She lets it hang a moment. “Carina Zhao.”
Alan lifts a brow. “Carina who?”
“She’s a podcaster, right?” Troy cuts in. “Dating advice, beauty tips. Girl stuff. But not exactly Alex Cooper.”
Wendy stares back at him—Troy Winslow, still draped across his chair like he’s auditioning for a reboot of Entourage. Legs spread, Hermès watch positioned for smug visibility. NDA is littered with his type: men who treat attention like proof of brilliance, and instinctively dismiss anything they don’t recognize.
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“She’s pushing five million followers,” Wendy adds, not bothering to hide her irritation. “Three seasons of that Hamptons share-house reality thing, a top-ten podcast with the Netflix stand-up, and I just closed a high six-figure memoir deal with Grand Central. Lead title for fall ’26. Oh, and she’s old friends with Jenna Bush.”
Troy snorts. “And that matters because…?”
“Because Jenna Bush runs one of the most influential book clubs in the country. But this isn’t about Jenna. It’s about rollout. Boots leading a campaign that integrates Carina’s podcast, the memoir, the speaking tour, and Aureole’s brand activation into one cohesive tentpole.”
“Okay, but what’s in it for us?”
“Are you deaf, Troy?” Wendy fixes him with a withering look. “Or just terminally slow?”
“He’s just asking the right questions,” Alan offers, like it should end the conversation.
Wendy bites back a laugh, eyes sharpening. “This is why we brought Boots in, Alan. Why the events division exists. Cross-platform storytelling. Strategic brand alignment. Rising tides and all that bullshit, remember? Carina’s beauty deal alone could pull in over two million in commission. She’s not some influencer with a cutesy ghostwritten rom-com. I don’t do quaint.”
“Wendy’s right,” Boots says, lifting her hand. “I’ll take it on. Think of it as a test run before the gala. I already have a few fabulous ideas.”
“At least someone here can read the moment,” Wendy says with a tight smile. “I look forward to working with you, Boots. And just a heads-up—the brand needs the event this Thursday.”
Boots hesitates, thrown. “This Thursday? That’s in two days.”
“Then you’d better hustle. Show Alan and his boy Troy what’s in it for them.”
Troy laughs. Alan doesn’t.
“Fine. I like a sprint,” Boots says, unflinching.
“Good. Then we’d better get moving.”
She should feel triumphant. Boots backed her, took her cues, then took the lead. Instead, she feels edged out. Three weeks in, and Boots is already calling shots? Sure, Wendy can stomach Alan; his brand of sexism is as predictable as beige carpet. But Troy Winslow? He laughed at her. And that will not happen again.
Back in her office, she’s already on the phone, pacing and prowling.
“Wait… you’re passing?” she says, stopping mid-step.
The editor’s voice is calm, too professional. “We just feel like we already have a hospitality book slotted, Wendy. It’s hard to justify another this cycle, especially from someone without a platform.”
“It went out yesterday. Did you even read it?”
“Listen, this Boots is respected in your circle out there, sure, but that doesn’t always translate. No offense.”
“None taken,” Wendy lies.
“Maybe if she gets a reality show,” the editor says, chuckling.
“I’m hanging up now,” she snaps, slamming down the phone.
A pass. Already?
She paces again, slower now. One pass isn’t death. There are still plenty of other editors reading, and her name alone should buy a second meeting. Someone will bite. They always do.
A knock interrupts her thoughts. She turns to find Boots in the doorway, and for the first time today, Wendy sees her. Earlier, in the testosterone fog of the meeting, she’d registered little more than a woman being leered at.
But now, the full picture, the full intention, comes into focus. A dusty blue Gabriela Hearst pencil skirt, tailored to severity. A ruffled Rosie Assoulin blouse. Black McQueen platforms that add unapologetic height. Jewelry that signals without begging: thick gold hoops, a slim diamond bracelet, a gleaming signet ring. It isn’t about fashion. It’s about control. And Boots, Wendy notes, knows exactly how to wield it.
“We need to lock the venue, confirm headcount, and finalize staffing by COB if Thursday’s happening,” Boots says, flat and efficient.
“Check your calendar,” Wendy shoots back. “I already set a call with Carina’s team and Aureole’s people for five o’clock. Figured it might’ve slipped through the cracks, what with all the male attention in your little circle jerk.”
“Excuse me?” Boots asks, wincing.
“I’m sure all that validation felt great, Boots, but it’s not exactly productive. So, are you joining the call, or should I run it without you?”
“Obviously, I’ll be there.” Boots pauses, masking her annoyance. “While I’m here—any updates on my proposal?”
Wendy keeps her eyes on the screen, typing, already moving on. “Went out yesterday. Early feedback’s been good.”
“I assume we’ll have an offer in hand by end of week. You said this would move fast.”
“Look, Boots.” Wendy meets her gaze, voice cutting across the room. “I know you’re new to this side of things. Publishing moves slow. Unlike this town, editors actually read. And rejection’s common. It takes time.”
“Fair,” Boots says, turning for the hall. She stops in the doorway. “But if you’re a good agent, you won’t need to manage my expectations.” She levels Wendy with a slow, deliberate stare. “You’ll exceed them. Understood?”
Wendy just laughs it off once she’s gone. She hadn’t seen it before, not fully. That ego. That edge. Until now, she’d mistaken Boots’s poise for deference.
But she’s not surprised. Just reminded: people always show you who they are. And when they do? The only thing to do is show them right back.