Leah
The day’s been a nonstop blur—back-to-back Zooms, endless meetings, capped off by a drink with Michelle Conklin at Icons, who somehow managed to fill an hour with petty gossip and breathless complaints about nothing. All Leah wants now is silence.
She slides the key into the lock and breathes a silent wish: Please let Tina be out.
No such luck. Bass thumps the second she opens the door, relentless ‘90s hip-hop pulsing through the walls. Leah exhales, drops her bag, and heads straight for Tina’s room.
Inside, clothes are everywhere—heels scattered, jeans draped over a chair, a silk top balled on the floor.
“Hi, hi,” Tina calls over the music, catching Leah’s reflection in the mirror. “Okay. A.L.C. top with the Celine skinnies, or full Givenchy with the boots?”
“Where’d all this come from?” Leah asks from the doorway. “Daphne playing fashion fairy godmother again?”
Tina grins, slipping her arms into the blouse. “You gonna scold me if I say yes?”
“Tina, that’s not fairy dust she’s sprinkling. It’s coke and delusion. Don’t let the Beverly Hills bad-girl packaging fool you. She’s just trash in couture.”
Tina fastens a Jimmy Choo and stands, unfazed. “Relax. I can handle myself. What is this, a dorm? You the RA now?”
“I’m warning you as a friend. As someone who used to be her friend. She’s not worth it.”
Tina snaps her clutch shut. “She likes me. And I kinda like her. You don’t have to approve.”
“Well, don’t bring her around here. I want nothing to do with Daphne Marks.”
“I’ll try my best.” Tina’s already halfway gone, but then she stops, inches away from Leah in the doorway. “Have fun doing nothing tonight.”
Then she slips past without one last glance back. The sound of her heels fades down the hall, then the front door slams. The apartment reclaims its stillness.
Finally. Leah’s eyes sweep across the bedroom. A half-eaten pad thai container wilts on the nightstand. A roll of paper towels unravels across the floor. That ridiculous stuffed unicorn Tina loves so much sits propped on the Restoration Hardware dresser Leah furnished the room with before she was poor.
She doesn’t mean to snoop. But her gaze lands on the jewelry box, cracked open. Just a glance: a few rings, a broken clasp, a mess of tangled chains. Nothing damning. Leah closes it quietly.
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Then she turns. Sees the closet door slightly ajar. Technically, it’s my closet, anyway. She doesn’t pull, just nudges. That’s when she sees it: a suitcase, wedged in the back. Locked. She crouches, presses a finger to the zipper. Yeah—definitely locked.
She should walk away. But beside it, a pale department store box waits, ribbon still curled, perfectly in place.
Leah lifts the lid. Peels back a layer of tissue. No fucking way.
A cherry-red La Perla bralette stares up at her—balconette cut, sheer mesh, scalloped. Beneath it: a matching satin thong, folded with almost reverent care. And under that, a black garter belt, delicate and strappy, its trim glinting with fine gold thread.
“Hello, Tina,” Leah murmurs, holding the thong between two fingers. “Knew there was a bad girl in there somewhere.”
She thinks back to the other night. After the car ride home from the Carina Zhao launch with Tina and Shane, there’d been a flicker in the courtyard—the glance, the weight of possibility, the moment she was sure it would finally happen.
But fucking Tina. She wouldn’t leave them alone. She kept laughing, commanding Shane’s attention, maybe even on purpose. Refusing to take a hint. Leah waited too patiently for her to say goodbye and give them some goddamn space.
But Tina never left. And then Shane yawned, called it a night, and walked away.
That cock-blocking bitch. Leah picks up the garter belt, turning it over in her hands. Spots the Agent Provocateur label. No one buys this for themselves. You wear it when you want sex.
Which is exactly the thought that brings her to his door. Shane opens it to find Leah standing in the dim courtyard light, lips lacquered in blood-red gloss, trench coat belted tight at the waist.
She doesn’t wait for a greeting. Doesn’t need one. With a flick of her wrist, she unties the belt and lets the coat fall.
He blinks, barely believing it. “You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little,” she purrs, stepping in.
Shane pulls her inside. Leah shoves him back, her mouth on his, urgent, tired of waiting or wondering, done with anything but his lips. His hands find her waist, sliding lower, gripping the satin thong. She hears herself grunt as he pushes her toward the kitchen. She feels him lift her, wrapping her legs around him, locking tight, gasping as he hoists her again, then lays her out across the stone countertop.
She reaches for the clasp of her bralette and pops it open, baring herself with a teasing grin.
“Oh, Shane,” she cries, breath catching, as he hooks his fingers into the garter belt and drags her closer.
“Yeah, you want this?” he whispers.
“So bad,” she moans, breathless. “Now make it worth the wait.”
Outside, Wendy strides through the wrought-iron gate, halfway to the staircase, when something flickers in her periphery—movement in Shane’s apartment.
She turns. And there, through the half-drawn shades, she sees them: Leah, pressed against Shane, head tipped back, lips parted. Shane’s face buried in her neck.
Wendy freezes. Breath gone. That smug little parasite. Let them fuck. Let them rot.
Then Leah shifts. Opens her eyes. Through the window, their gazes lock, Leah’s smile slow to form. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reaches for the wall and flicks off the light.
Wendy just stares at the dark window. She’s not furious. Not even disgusted. Because that’s what Leah wants.
So she stays still. Which, in some ways, is worse. Because that was the point. Not rage. Not reaction. The win was this—making Wendy see. Making her stand there and watch.