Wendy
She feels it before she fully registers it. Something’s off. The assistants lining the walls seem more nervous than usual. Boots is too polished as she updates Alan, like she’s winding up for a reveal no one asked for.
Wendy catches the glances: Boots to Leah, Leah back to Boots. The gleam in their eyes says it all as Boots clicks to the next slide.
“—and thanks to Leah’s persistence, Darin Rossellini has officially signed on as a sponsor for what we’re now calling The NDA Collective.”
What???
It takes everything she has not to lunge across the table, slap Boots, and strangle Leah. After everything she’d done for Boots? She brought her into the NDA fold. Spent hours advocating, revising, hand-holding through that half-baked book proposal—
And this is how I’m repaid? Teaming up with Leah? Worse, now it looked like Leah might actually pull it off. Get her hooks into Darin Rossellini for real.
Boots keeps going, calm and self-assured, clearly enjoying the upper hand. “With Darin’s involvement, we’re adjusting the plan. He’s offered to host the event at his estate.”
“Is that smart?” Alan cuts in, lifting a skeptical brow. “Are we giving a sponsor too much control over our event?”
Boots doesn’t flinch. She answers with a firm shake of her head, that same smug grin tightening. “We weighed that. But the upside is bigger. The property’s ideal for a branded experience. Sprawling acreage, multiple activation zones, a built-in content hub, and it’s priced below market. A marquee influencer event at one of the most-followed collab houses in the country? It’s smart positioning. Stronger optics.”
“Or just confusing,” Wendy says, barely hiding her disgust as all eyes turn to her. “Is this an NDA event, or a Darin Rossellini PR campaign? Because last I checked, he’s not a client. And this looks a lot like we’re working for him—not the other way around.”
“I disagree, Wendy.” It’s Leah, her voice a touch too eager. “Darin isn’t just offering a venue. He’s offering visibility.”
Stupid roommate-bunking, agent-cosplaying, trust-fund-losing twerp. Wendy lets out a slow, dismissive breath, eyes barely masking her irritation.
“Leah, I’m not sure visibility does much good. This venue—did you call it an estate? From what I’ve heard, it’s just another collab flop house waiting for a Netflix true-crime doc.”
“You’re reaching, Wendy. He’ll amplify NDA client content across all platforms, but the branding stays ours. And if this goes well, we believe he could become a client.”
“Let’s not get ahead of our skis.” Wendy’s gaze sharpens, focus narrowing like a hawk before it dives. “You haven’t consulted me on any of this, and a client like Darin Rossellini requires full due diligence and legal clearance before we move forward. We’ve all heard the rumors. He’s a liability.”
She turns to Alan, waiting for the signal—the green light that she’s still in charge. But he just nods once, already checking the time.
“Move forward with it,” he says. “Pending final approvals. Leah, Boots, keep me looped in.” His eyes flick briefly to Wendy, not quite deferential. “And next time, run it by Wendy first.”
As soon as the meeting ends, Wendy falls into step beside Boots.
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“Let me walk with you.”
Boots doesn’t slow. “What’s up?”
“You really just did that.”
They round the corner, heels clicking in sync, the tension keeping pace with their stride. Boots keeps her eyes straight ahead.
“Did what?”
“Partnered with Leah for Darin Rossellini and pitched it like some genius masterstroke. In front of everyone. You went behind—”
“Behind your back? No, Wendy. I went around your obstruction.”
“We had a conversation. I warned you—”
“Warned? Or threatened?” Boots snaps, striding into her office without a moment’s pause.
Wendy follows. The door eases closed behind them softly.
“I don’t work for you, Wendy. You work for me. Or did you forget that part?”
Wendy almost laughs. Wrong. So wrong. “Boots. Agents don’t work for clients. We represent, we advise, we negotiate. If anything, you work for me. I earn revenue. You… plan parties.”
“Plan parties?” Boots draws in a deep breath. “How dare you minimize my work. You’re just bitter because you failed at your job. You couldn’t sell my proposal. So, you know what? I’m pulling it. Tell Pegasus the book’s on indefinite hold.”
Wow. Off the hook already? Too easy.
“Fine. Happily.”
“Good. Thanks for understanding.”
“You’re welcome.” Wendy starts to leave, then stops. She glances over her shoulder, a sliver of a grin twisting at her lips. “Turns out publishers were right, by the way. No one wants a book about you. Not because I didn’t try, but because you’re not the brand or the talent you thought you were.” Wendy holds the smirk, eyes narrowing slightly. “Just a glorified party planner with delusions of grandeur.”
“That’s enough, Wendy. You can get the fuck out. We’re done.”
“Save it for the cater waiters, babe. You might enjoy bossing them around. But you’re talking to me now—the one who got you in this room. And if I have to? I’ll get you out of it faster than you can say ‘party’s over.’”
Whatever Boots says next, Wendy doesn’t hear it. She’s already turning. No glance, no pause as she walks out, done with it.
But not done entirely.
She storms down the hall, Gianvito Rossi boots striking the polished concrete. Robert Mitchell looks up just in time for her to toss him a clipped “hello” as she barrels past, barely slowing, then she rounds the corner and keeps going—straight to Leah’s door.
“You think this is funny?” she snaps, striding right in, straight to the foot of Leah’s desk. “If you want Boots, you can have her.”
Leah blinks up, caught mid-email, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “What? I offered Boots guidance. That’s not a crime, Wendy.”
“You’ll wish it were a crime. At least then you’d have due process.”
“Is that a threat, or just another tantrum?”
Wendy steps forward, fury coiled just beneath the calm, eyes flicking to the crystal paperweight on Leah’s desk, gleaming under the fluorescent light.
“It’s a warning. Am I clear?”
“Not really. I’m helping you, Wendy. I’m basically doing your job. And I’m not even asking for credit. Or a cut of the commission.”
“You’re not helping me.” Wendy inches closer, her voice lowering, tight with restrained fury. “You’re trying to sabotage me. And I won’t let you.”
“Gosh,” Leah says with an almost bored laugh. “You really don’t like seeing other women succeed, do you?”
That’s it. Before she knows what she’s doing, Wendy’s hand closes around the paperweight.
A sharp inhale. Then, with a low grunt—she hurls it across the room. Leah gasps, breath catching as it explodes against the concrete floor, shattering in a burst of glittering shards.
Then, silence. Leah doesn’t move. Just stares, frozen and wide-eyed as Wendy exhales, smooths her blazer, and collects herself.
“Well,” she says coolly, as if nothing just happened. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a client lunch.” She turns to go. Pauses in the doorway. Glances back over her shoulder. “And Leah? Don’t try to clean that up. You’ll cut yourself on the glass.”