Boots
She’d never say it out loud, not to her team, not even to Wendy, but pulling off something like this makes her feel like a god.
The rooftop of the Faubourg Hotel glows like a dream: soft, honeyed pools of light cast from floating glass orbs; white drapes fluttering in a breeze laced with bergamot and neroli—the custom scent Boots commissioned just in time. Sculptural florals spill from modern plinths in blush and bone.
She moves through the space with quiet command, AirPods tucked discreetly in place. Every few feet, someone tugs at her attention—a publicist worried about step-and-repeat lighting, a panicked server asking about hors d’oeuvres, a branding rep debating whether the influencer lounge needs more gift bags.
“Fix the uplight,” Boots murmurs. “Get the yuzu spoons back out, and no one touches the shampoo wall until after Carina’s toast.”
She glides toward Carina Zhao, posing beneath the Aureole banner in a metallic mini and too much spray tan.
“You look stunning,” Boots says as she passes. “And tonight is perfect.”
“I know, right?” Carina replies, soaking in the spotlight like it’s hers by default.
Beauty influencers—they’re all the same. Easy to please, as long as nothing punctures the fantasy. Thank god for distractions. That scene with Daphne had been messy enough that someone might’ve noticed.
Boots scans the crowd, counting without effort: a dozen influencers, a handful of reality-TV recyclables, two TikTok chefs, and a wellness coach hawking a protein-bar line with suspiciously vague ingredients.
“Well, look at this,” Wendy says, reappearing at her side. “You pulled it off.”
“We pulled it off,” Boots says with a shrug, though she doesn’t mind the credit.
Just as they clink glasses, Wendy spots something over Boots’s shoulder. “What is she doing here?”
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Boots turns, spotting Leah without missing a beat. “Leah? I invited her. She brought a client who agreed to promote the event. His reach is huge. Feel free to thank me later.”
Wendy shoots her a look, something close to a warning. “Who’s the client?”
She spots him before Boots can answer. He looks like he just wandered in from yoga class. A blonde influencer orbits him in full glam: gold eyeshadow, rose blush, even rosier lips. Her silken maxi dress flutters like she’s auditioning for a period drama no one asked for, or like her inspo board is split between fairy folk and Colonial Williamsburg.
“Please,” Wendy mutters, rolling her eyes. “Leah wishes Darin Rossellini were her client.”
“She said he was.”
“If Darin were her client, I’d know. Because he’d be our client.” A shadow of revulsion passes over Wendy’s face. “Leah’s too junior to handle him, let alone rep him.”
Boots studies Darin from across the rooftop. Handsome, sure, but it’s the controlled stillness that catches her. Like someone used to being observed but never needing to react.
Then she sees it. Leah steps forward, hand outstretched. Darin bypasses it completely, pulling Leah into an easy, familiar hug.
Wendy stiffens.
“Told you,” Boots murmurs.
“Told me what?” Wendy snaps. “Please. You LA people hug and kiss everyone. Probably to fill the void of having nothing interesting to say.”
“Or maybe we’re just nice, Wendy.” Boots flashes a small smile like she’s opting out of the argument. “I gotta skedaddle. Have fun tonight.” And just like that, she slips back into the crowd.
She’s straightening a crooked logo on the branded backdrop when his voice nearly startles her.
“Quite the miracle.”
She turns—and there he is. Alan Grayson. He’s wearing that green Paul Smith suit, looking better than he has any right to.
“Two days’ notice,” he says, surveying the rooftop. “And it still looks like a five-figure planning committee had a month.”
Boots smiles, cool, contained, just on the edge of smug. “Miracles tend to happen when my name’s on the line.”
“Then maybe I’ll make sure it’s your ass on the line next.” Alan chuckles, raising his glass. “Well done, Plotkin.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I guess.”
But he’s already gone, at least in his head. His gaze slides past her, tracking the crowd.
“She’s on the guest list?”
Boots follows his line of sight. The girl from earlier—Daphne’s plus-one. Leah’s new roommate. Tina, right? Leaning against the bar with that borrowed confidence, laughing at something a producer type just said.
“Her? What do you mean?”
Alan glances away, then shrugs it off. “Don’t worry about it.” He plants a kiss on her cheek, almost too self-assured.
“Nice execution tonight,” he says. No smile, just a glance and a brief nod of approval. Then he walks off.