@BootsByDesign
Meeting again on Darin’s turf felt like surrendering ground, and yet here she is, easing up the long gravel driveway, wondering: What the hell am I getting into this time?
Leah’s still surprised he even showed up at the Carina Zhao launch. It had been a long shot—but to her surprise, both he and Tamra came. And when Darin tagged the TikToks #CarinaCollab, it only made Leah angrier. Worse, it worked. The content exploded. Carina—Wendy’s client—racked up thousands of new followers, all thanks to Darin.
The negotiations since then had been hellish. Darin’s team initially declined to partner on the NDA Collective outright. Then, after a single cryptic message from Boots—some effusive flattery about his “curatorial eye”—they reversed course with a counteroffer: he’d participate, but only if he could host the event himself.
Leah had expected Boots to balk. Instead, she leaned in. From there came the demands from Darin’s camp: total control over lighting, final sign-off on hashtags, a ban on hard liquor unless it was small-batch and organic, and the most contentious of all: exclusive livestream rights. NDA wasn’t prepared to grant that. Negotiations were ongoing. Still, Leah and Boots secured Alan’s blessing.
Wendy, predictably, was livid watching Boots pivot to Leah and Darin. Meanwhile, the book proposal was on hold. Boots had pulled the submission. She wanted to start over—build visibility first, resubmit later. Darin’s involvement—and Leah’s—were crucial.
Leah had wasted no time filling Boots in: Wendy’s meltdown, how she’d hurled a crystal paperweight across the office like an Olympic shot put.
Boots’s mouth fell open before the words caught up. “That kind of outburst is fireable. It’s cancellable. You can’t behave like that anymore.”
“You don’t even know the half of it.” A flicker of satisfaction lit behind Leah’s eyes, but she let the moment hang, savoring the suspense. “The stories I could tell.”
Then Boots shared something of her own: “She said I’m too old to have kids. Basically called me infertile. And I hate how much it got to me.”
“Wow,” Leah replied, aghast but secretly delighted. “That’s low, even for Wendy. It’s like she’s the only one who hasn’t taken that compliance tutorial on workplace misconduct two million times.” She kept her voice smooth, almost neutral, careful not to sound too eager. “If I were you, I’d go straight to HR.”
“Well, I fired her ass as my agent. But I’ll still use it against her if I need to.”
But the truth was, as much as the pregnancy comment pissed Boots off, it paled in comparison to Wendy calling her a party planner. That was far more insulting than the fertility dig because Boots’s career was her baby.
She shrugged it off, but Leah saw it in her eyes—Wendy’s dig had landed harder than she let on. She still marveled at how quickly the tide had turned; how a shared enemy could forge something dangerously close to loyalty. LA’s reigning event queen—now Leah’s unlikely ally. Maybe Wendy, hated by nearly everyone, served a purpose after all.
Beside her, Boots shifts into business as Darin and Tamra greet them at the front door.
“We have a week,” Boots says, striding inside, past Leah. “I need to see how the space flows, where content gets captured, how we’re cueing movement.”
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She surveys the open living area, shifting her stance. “We’ll need to anchor this room with something. A visual hook. Maybe floral. Maybe projection.”
Leah watches Tamra lean in, whispering in Darin’s ear, as Boots tries to reel him back—
“Darin, can we walk through the guest flow?”
“Of course,” he says, pivoting from Tamra. “But first we start with the foundation.”
“Foundation for what?”
“Your voice, Boots. Isn’t that how all this started? You needing my help?”
And just like that, everything shifts. Tamra’s two silent companions materialize, tablets in hand, ring lights already flicking on, and before anyone can object, Boots is already being guided to a linen-draped chaise by the window, bathed in golden afternoon light.
Leah looks from Tamra to Boots, then back to Darin. “What’s happening?”
Darin’s face lights up with a grin. “We’re helping her set up her socials, per your request. Instagram. TikTok. All of it.”
Boots hesitates. She’s always scoffed at influencer culture, dismissed it as shallow, conformist, and deeply juvenile. But watching Tamra adjust the camera framing, hearing the effortless fluency—content strategy, engagement timing, audience segmentation—it’s… compelling. Tactical. Even artistic.
“You want to film at golden hour,” one assistant says, tilting the ring light. “Use your own voice but with rhythm. Pattern. Resonance.”
“Manifest virality,” another intones.
“Curate authenticity,” Tamra adds, like she’s doing ASMR. “Strategic vulnerability is your new brand asset.” Her gaze drifts over Boots, not quite judgmental, just quietly entertained. “But first, let’s start with your handle.”
Boots laughs under her breath, not quite convincingly. There’s something off about Tamra—the unnatural calm, the pale, unblinking stare.
“Well. Everyone calls me Boots. It started when I was ten, obsessed with Nancy Sinatra. I wore white go-go boots until they fell apart. Haven’t been Pamela since.”
They workshop names. @BootsOfficial is taken. So is @Boots.Plotkin. Finally, they land on a clear winner: @BootsByDesign.
Tamra’s handmaidens get to work with silent efficiency, one circling to fluff Boots’s hair, the other crouching slightly, angling the lens like a cinematographer prepping for an Oscar campaign. Another ring light clicks on. A makeup brush appears out of nowhere, smoothing what barely needs smoothing, then again, with more blush than she’d ever wear off-camera, and eyeshadow a shade too editorial for daylight. It’s a well-rehearsed ballet, polished to perfection—Boots at the center, luminous and still, like the subject of not just another content reel.
“Just start with your why,” Tamra coaches, each word trimmed like she’s editing in real time. “Try this,” she adds, texting Boots her script. “Make it yours.”
Boots exhales, blinking into the ring light’s soft glow as someone behind the iPhone calls, “Rolling!” Her hands fidget in her lap, then still. She shifts in her seat, sits a little taller, and begins reciting her lines from memory.
“Hey, everyone, I’m Boots Plotkin. And for a long time, I thought social media wasn’t for me. But lately, I’ve realized… the stories we tell shape the lives we lead. And I’m finally ready to tell mine.”
Tamra watches carefully, head tilted, expression unreadable. Then she nods. “Your tone’s off. Try it with a little more vocal fry. Less earnest, more… knowing.”
Boots blinks. “Uh, okay.”
“Reset. Roll again.”
This time, the lines land with quiet conviction. And just as Boots hits the final beat: “If you’re curious, or bold, or just ready to claim your narrative, follow along. I’ve got a lot to say—”
Darin steps forward. He positions himself just outside the frame, then tilts into view: one shoulder angled in, gaze calm, hand resting on Boots’s shoulder, as though he’s always belonged there.
“Boots has a message, and I’ve been called upon to help deliver it.”
The words hit Leah sideways. Called upon? By whom?
Click.
The post is saved. Leah watches as Boots seals the deal with a swipe and a smile. She watches Darin place his hand at the small of Boots’s back, claiming her. Watches the freshly posted debut story on @BootsByDesign—the angles, the filters, the performance of becoming. And not for the first time, she wonders: What have I gotten us into? Is this a launch? Or a surrender?
She almost laughs. Don’t be dramatic. Surrender to what, exactly? This was always the plan: lock in Darin, elevate Boots, land the book deals, deliver the win.
But as she watches the story loop again—Boots glowing, rehearsed, reborn—Leah feels it. That creeping doubt. Because maybe the only thing she’s really surrendered is the illusion she was ever in control to begin with.