Boots
Everything’s locked into place. She fastens the last hook of her red Alex Perry dress, steps into her Giuseppe Zanotti stilettos, and smooths the fabric over her hip.
In forty-eight hours, her apartment has morphed into a war room—floral swatches fanned across the dining table, sample gift bags crowding the chairs, sticky notes layered in neon: timelines, vendor names, backup plans.
Her phone buzzes—lighting crew confirmed. Good. She needs everything airtight.
The past two days moved in a fever. Venue secured. Contracts finalized. Brand teams wrangled. What started as a scattered wishlist for the Carina Zhao x Aureole launch has become alarmingly real. Boots didn’t just make it happen—she bent time to do it.
She remembers steering the concept meeting at NDA, reshaping half-baked ideas into something coherent: a rooftop evening saturated in florals and ambient scent. Since then—voice notes to the calligrapher at midnight, a run-of-show overhaul before dawn, tense emails about stemware.
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And Wendy—always lurking, always adjusting. Calling people Boots had already called. Weighing in after decisions were final. As if Wendy knew the first thing about events. Not sabotage. But not trust, either.
She applies her makeup with a steady hand: nude tones, angled cheekbones, bitten-rose lips.
Then—a knock.
She finds Wendy in the doorway, poised in a crisp white Zimmermann jumpsuit. One glance down. One back up. Then Wendy nods.
“Ready?”
“Born ready,” Boots replies, snapping shut her clutch.
They walk along the balcony, heels in sync, each step a soft echo as they reach the stairs—just as Daphne stumbles into the courtyard.
“Well, well,” she purrs, blocking their path. “Where’s the party tonight, girls? Do I need a wristband, or just good lighting?”
Boots gives a sharp, derisive laugh. “Where we’re going, they don’t let in trash.”
“And if they did?” Wendy smiles, cold and cutting. “You’d still be thrown out.”
“Charming,” Daphne says, glaring as they pass.
“Seems you bring out the worst in us,” Boots calls over her shoulder, more than pleased with herself.
“She was never worth our best anyway.” Wendy laughs, not bothering to look back as her BMW beeps open.
Boots’s Alfa Romeo flashes its lights in reply.
Then they slip into their cars, pull onto the private drive, and speed off side by side.