Wendy
The follow request that popped up was from an account called @BootsByDesign—and there was only one Boots who Wendy knew. That passive-aggressive bitch. She scrolls past the glossy profile photo and the grid of filtered shots, her blood already simmering.
So, Boots had actually done it. Launched her “platform” with Darin Rossellini’s help. And now she’s rubbing it in Wendy’s face, fishing for a follow back like they’re still friends.
But it’s the video that makes her want to gouge her eyes out. “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. So if you’re with me, if you’re curious, or bold, or just ready to claim your narrative, follow along. I’ve got a lot to say.”
And then Darin steps into frame, grinning like a New Age televangelist. “Boots has a message,” he declares. “And I’ve been called upon to help deliver it.”
Wendy nearly throws her phone. She checks the metrics. 3,047 likes? Seventeen thousand followers? What the actual fuck?
She scrolls to the caption: Thank you to the brilliant @CallToDarin for believing in my voice. Couldn’t have done it without you. XO.
XO? @CallToDarin? Seriously?
TikTok is worse. A behind-the-scenes teaser. A “Get Ready With Me.” A #FitCheck. Even footage from an NDA Collective planning session with an animated DEFCON 3 graphic. Heart emojis everywhere. Viral pop songs that were long out of date. We’re still doing this? Wendy wonders, just as “Espresso” by Sabrina Carpenter blares from her phone. She swipes up.
The whole thing is gross. Boots had pulled the book proposal just over two weeks ago—but if the proposal was dead, then what was this rollout even for?
“Have you seen this?” she snaps, stepping through Alan’s doorway.
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“It’s a TikTok,” he remarks.
“Look closer.”
“Is that… Boots?”
“You bet your ass it is.”
“Okay… and?”
“She’s using NDA branding to launch her influencer career. On our dime.”
“Everyone has social media,” he says, eyeing Wendy, unconvinced.
“Not like this.” She taps the screen once, then hands it over like evidence. “Scroll through it. This is a full-scale production. Behind-the-scenes NDA Collective footage. That’s proprietary business. She’s co-opting Darin Rossellini—a paid partner—for her own promo. She’s not promoting NDA or our clients. She’s promoting herself.”
Alan leans back, expression shifting as he scrolls through. Still skeptical, but listening now.
Wendy continues: “You really think Darin’s doing this out of charity? No. Boots is leveraging our resources, our event, and our relationships to build her personal brand. And she’s doing it without transparency. It’s a financial and legal conflict of interest, for fuck’s sake.”
Alan hands the phone back without a word. Wendy takes it, picking up on the silence, trying to will his expression into something she can work with.
“Okay,” he says, grabbing his office line. He hits a button. “Get Boots in here.”
“Wait—” Wendy falters, just slightly. “You want to see her now?”
“Let’s hash it out. If it’s a misunderstanding, we’ll untangle it together. Just the three of us.”
“She’s going to spin this, Alan.”
“Spin what?” Boots says, already at the door.
Wendy turns, recalibrating like she’s the one who summoned Boots in the first place. “Thanks for stopping by,” she says, her tone cool, touched with just enough grave concern to pass as sincere.
“Wendy says you’re leveraging NDA to launch your personal brand.” Alan leans further back, too casual now. “Misusing company resources and whatnot. Any truth to that?”
“Seriously, Alan? That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
“Darin Rossellini’s endorsing you,” Wendy snaps before she can stop herself. “A sponsored NDA partner.” She turns from Boots to Alan, eyes flaring. “She’s using him to juice her follower count. At NDA’s expense!”
“Damn, Wendy.” Boots laughs, brittle with disdain. “Are you a conspiracy theorist?”
“It does sound like you’re overreacting,” Alan says like he’s already decided this isn’t worth his time.
“You can’t be serious. You’re siding with some analog event planner who’s been at NDA for five minutes… over the agency itself?”
“There are no sides. And don’t call her analog.”
Wendy cuts herself off, eyes darting from Alan to Boots, just as a slow, triumphant smile spreads across Boots’s lips.
“You heard him,” she says. “Don’t call me analog.”
In that instant, Wendy knows. She can’t win this. “Fine,” she says, forcing calm. “If you’ll excuse me.”
With a flip of her hair, she turns and strides through the door, disappearing down the hall.