Chapter 1: New Horizons, Old Baggage
Wendy
There was something about the sun here she couldn’t trust. That was Wendy Deerwood’s first thought as she stepped off the plane into the deceptively quiet murmur of LAX. At baggage claim, she braced herself and adjusted her Fendi shades, annoyed that the feeling had stalked her across the country. She’d left behind the grit and glory of New York, but now, even that felt like a fever dream. Everything in LA was shinier. Trickier. Hungrier. She could smell the desperation beneath each designer fragrance.
Her new job, the reason for the whole cross-country move, was supposed to be a promotion: launching a literary division at NDA Management, a firm straddling the old ways and the new influencer economy. NDA had spent the better part of ten years clawing its way into the town’s inner circle. With Wendy at the helm, books were supposed to be another step toward world domination.
But the truth? Books here weren’t stories; they were products. This city didn’t care about novels or literature, and neither did she. She cared about content, about brands, about who could turn a memoir into a miniseries and a tragedy into a hashtag. Wendy knew one thing: she couldn’t afford to fail. Not even once.
She watches Los Angeles crawl past as the town car inches through never-ending gridlock, finally dropping her at the corporate apartment HR arranged at the last minute. She’s too laser-focused to care about the crappy accommodations—the white mini-fridge, the fake fern forgotten in the corner and coated in dust, the streaked window overlooking a dingy parking lot. Already plotting, already watching her back, she’s locked into a one-woman strategy session. In less than twenty-four hours, the battle will start.
Jet lag takes her, and morning comes fast. Within two hours, she’s showered, dressed, fully made up, still too glamorous for the bed she woke up in. By the time another town car arrives, she’s more than ready to leave the shithole behind.
This place is a fucking temple of simmering aggression, she thinks, striding up the towering office building’s front steps and into the gleaming, sunlit lobby with the swagger of someone who doesn’t give a shit. After a brief tussle at reception, security directs her through the turnstiles. Margaux bag in one hand, phone in the other, she rides the elevator up to NDA. She steps out, golden waves bouncing, Louboutins pounding the polished concrete like a metronome. Then she stops, taking it all in: the office is a war zone disguised as minimalism. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast an ethereal glow over glass-walled conference rooms. No receptionist. No welcome. Just the low hum of morning gathering its breath.
Another elevator opens behind her. A woman in leather pants and a perfect blowout steps out beside a man in oversized jeans and a knit polo. They brush past without a glance. But Wendy feels it—that unspoken dare braided into the silence: Fit in, or don’t.
“Are you Wendy?”
She turns to find a pencil-shaped woman emerging from down the hall, wearing a too-bright smile that suggests either boundless optimism or a terrible morning.
“Welcome to NDA,” she chirps, clutching her iPad a little tighter. “I’m Michelle Conklin, your designated onboarding buddy. Come on, I’ll show you your office.”
Onboarding “buddy”? Junior agent, clearly. Young enough to believe this kind of hand-holding matters. Eager enough not to ask why she’s the one doing it. Wendy lets her lead anyway, glancing into a row of glass offices, each one a throne for some self-important striver, until Michelle stops at a sleek, minimalist suite.
“This is you,” she says, smile tilting with mischief. “And meet Leah Cross, your assistant.”
Wendy squints slightly, like she misheard.
“Excuse me?”
And then she sees her. At the cubicle outside the office. Dark hair tucked behind one ear, composed down to the inch. Crisp Thom Browne blouse, high-waisted trousers, everything impeccably put together, with an edge that’s hard to place.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Leah says, rising smoothly, offering a smile. “I’ve heard great things.”
Wendy clocks it immediately—the poise is too deliberate. And behind those chestnut eyes, something flickers. Calculation, maybe. Or ambition, waiting its turn.
She returns the smile, polite but guarded. “Nice to meet you, too,” she replies, the smile already fading.
Forty-five minutes of mind-numbing small talk, a blur of overly friendly introductions, and one aggressively weak iced coffee later, Wendy levels Michelle with a look.
“So, what’s the deal with Leah?” she asks, too blunt. “I was supposed to hire my own person.”
Normally, she’d be mortified to be seen out for coffee with someone this low on the totem pole. But the strategist in her knows better. What matters is leverage. She has power to flex with this junior, and answers to extract.
“You really don’t know?” Michelle says, leaning in, barely containing the thrill of it. “Oh, girlie. NDA stuck you with a fixer-upper.”
Girlie?
“What does that mean?”
“She was Derek Landau’s assistant. You know the story, right?”
Of course she knows the story. Everyone does. Derek Landau, the influencer rep with a taste for grooming assistants, was fired in disgrace. And Leah? Leah stayed. Publicly. Right to the bitter end. Whether it was loyalty or strategy never got clear. The result was the same.
“NDA couldn’t fire her outright,” Michelle continues. “Too messy. Too many lawyers. So… they handed her off to you.”
Wendy sets her glass down, just a little too hard. “So now she’s my problem?”
“Welcome to NDA,” Michelle says, sipping her drink. “We live for the bait-and-switch.”
Wendy shrugs like it’s not worth the energy, a hint of amusement eclipsing her frustration. “Let’s see how long she lasts.”
By lunchtime, her patience is gone. Onboarding crawls at a glacial pace. Her office is worse than analog: no computer, no email, no desk phone. She stalks to Leah’s desk, controlled, but barely.
“Why is nothing set up?”
“I’ve opened IT tickets,” Leah says, not looking up. “But to activate them, your account has to exist. And to create your account, they need to process the ticket.”
“That’s completely backward.”
“It’s NDA. The process is… Kafkaesque.”
“No.” Wendy scoffs. “I need this expedited.”
“The head of IT’s in Hawaii. His team needs to file a ticket to authorize your ticket. We’re caught in a loop.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit here and wait?”
“Basically.”
She resists the urge to hurl her phone across the office. First-day chaos was one thing—but this? She’d pictured a warmer welcome; something catered, maybe comped at the Polo Lounge. But there’d been no big “welcome to NDA” town hall. Not even a bouquet from Alan, NDA’s elusive CEO. Just radio silence, bureaucratic quicksand, and an assistant she didn’t ask for.
“Great,” she mutters. “Just great. No office and no apartment.”
“Wait.” Leah glances up. “Really?”
“Really. Apartment search has totally flatlined. Came close. Offered a year up front. Still got outbid. Is that normal here? I thought LA was supposed to be about the ‘lifestyle.’”
“So where are you staying?”
“Stuck in fucking corporate housing. In fucking Westlake. There was a literal heap of trash in the hallway outside my room when I arrived.”
“Yikes.” Leah considers her for a beat. “You know… you should check out my building.”
“Where you live?” Wendy stifles a laugh. Taking apartment leads from some nobody assistant? Too humiliating. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“It’s not what you think,” Leah persists. “Luxury complex right here in WeHo. Super exclusive. When a unit opens up, it’s all word of mouth. Great neighbors too… if you like eye candy.”
“Eye candy?”
“Which I do. Oh, and Sandra Bullock’s therapist lives there. Kinda random, but so LA, right?”
Wendy arches a brow, almost impressed. “Really.” She’s listening now.
Leah scrolls through Instagram, angling her phone. “There’s the courtyard… the pool—it’s saltwater, of course. That’s my apartment, my kitchen…”
The images flash past. Not at all where she expected this girl to live. Lush, sun-drenched balconies. Sleek, spotless interiors. The pool glowing an otherworldly turquoise.
“All on an assistant’s salary?”
“I come from money.” Leah shrugs. “Midwest old money.”
Wendy files that away. The frankness—is it arrogance? Or is the girl testing her?
“There’s a unit open,” she adds. “Probably not for long. Word travels fast.”
Wendy pauses, weighing it. Then, against her better instinct: “Fine. Set up a meeting with the leasing agent.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
“Okay. Sure thing, boss.” A flicker of a grin crosses Leah’s lips. “Right on top of it.”
By late afternoon, Wendy’s done the unthinkable: followed someone else’s lead. She’s spent the entire car ride wondering what, exactly, Leah gets out of this, but by the time the UberXL turns off Sunset onto the private drive, she’s tired of caring.
She steps out of the SUV. Somewhere in the sycamores above, a bird coos into the afternoon hush. A breeze moves through the trees, blending with the hum of traffic from the boulevard down the hill.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Only then does the street name register. Corpse Flower? What the hell kind of flower is that? The address stares back at her, spelled out in ornate tile above the entrance, as if warning her not to ask too much. Easy to remember, at least.
She doesn’t ponder it further. Just pushes through the wrought-iron gate under the archway, still wary of everything.
Inside, the complex is a vision of modern elegance—two stories of dark stone, glass, and mahogany wrapped around a sculpted Spanish-style courtyard. Hanging gardens spill from the terraces, and at the center, the turquoise pool pulses with soft ambient light.
“Ms. Deerwood.”
She turns. Gareth Ferrentino is already waiting, suave and almost too good-looking, with slicked-back dark hair and perfectly manicured stubble across a strong, sculpted jaw. Beneath the obvious charm, there’s just enough calculation to make him feel a little dangerous.
Wendy catches the details: the snug fit of his shirt over well-defined biceps, his collar unbuttoned just so, the forearms, the relaxed confidence. Bet he looks good underneath.
“Welcome to your future home,” he says, extending a hand.
“We’ll see,” she shoots back, shaking it.
Gareth leads her through the property, his pitch delivered with unhurried precision: the glittering pool, the private gym, the sleek, quietly expensive interiors. She should be rolling her eyes, but the words hit their mark—curated exclusivity, quiet luxury—as she follows him up the stairs.
“It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets,” he adds. “And I’m not just saying that. I live here too.”
He swings the door open. For a second, Wendy says nothing. Then she steps inside.
The unit is pristine. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with golden light, spilling across polished hardwood and veined Calacatta marble. A set of glass doors leads to a private balcony overlooking the courtyard—sunlit, still, impossibly inviting.
Wendy takes her time, drifting from room to room, and finally, after her gaze has skimmed every surface, she remembers Gareth is waiting.
“So,” he says, eyes betraying nothing. “What do you think?”
She crosses her arms, considering. He senses the hesitation and moves in for the close.
“I’ve got a top UTA agent ready to sign. And a Netflix producer coming by tomorrow. This unit won’t last.”
That does it. A slow smile spreads across her lips. “Okay,” she says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Where do I sign?”
“Application first,” Gareth corrects. “Then the board review. Background check, income verification, three character references. And a social media scrub—standard, of course.”
Wendy nearly rolls her eyes. Of course she’ll pass. The rest is just for show.
“It’s not personal,” he adds, smile hinting at veneers. “Just policy. Not everyone makes it through. But you? I’ve got a feeling you’ll do just fine.”
The days blur after that—filled with paperwork, logistics, a constant flurry of emails. By the time the ink is dry, it’s already moving day.
Wendy strides into the courtyard, peering over her shades at the manicured façade of her new home. Movers in navy uniforms crisscross the space, arms full of boxes and garment bags.
Inside, she weaves through the living room, past half-unpacked furniture and bubble-wrapped art, surveying everything.
“Those don’t go there,” she snaps at a mover, not looking up. “Put them in the primary.”
For a moment, the frenzy quiets, and the place is hers. A flutter of something unfamiliar stirs. Excitement, maybe. Or fear.
She crushes both.
“Need a hand?”
She pivots. A man leans in her doorway, backlit by sun—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, scruffy. All easy confidence. And that smile… like the world’s already agreed to whatever he hasn’t said yet.
Her eyes trail from his chest down his frame. For a second too long, she appraises him the way men have done to her for years.
“Unless you’re insured, I’ve got it covered,” she says, arching a brow.
He steps forward anyway. “You sure?”
She laughs under her breath, barely in the mood. “I like things done a certain way.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, a challenge in his eyes. He turns, stoops just outside the doorway, and lifts one of the heavier boxes. “You look like someone who appreciates control,” he observes, biceps flexing as he steps back inside.
“Uh-huh. And you look like someone who thinks charm’s a free pass.”
“So far, so good.” He sets the box down, then offers his hand with a cocky grin. “I’m Shane Brodsky.”
Wendy doesn’t reply. Just watches him, like: That’s it? We good?
“So what brings you to 222?” he asks, ignoring the hint.
“Publishing,” she says, like it’s nothing. “Escape from New York.”
“Publishing? Like, books? That’s bold in a town that doesn’t read.”
“I rep influencers, mostly.” She shrugs, too tired to explain. “Books are just content now, right?”
He gives a quick nod, eyes sparking with interest. “You’re not wrong.”
“What about you?” she asks, looking him over in quiet judgment. “Let me guess… actor? Or, no, middle-aged influencer? Crypto meltdown survivor?”
“Close. I own Icons. Bar on Santa Monica.”
“The place with the leather banquettes and mood lighting?”
“And the $28 martinis. Industry types love it.”
She gives him a look, eyes narrowing with the barest tease. “Let me guess, where deals get made, and hearts get broken?”
“On a good night,” he quips, not missing a beat. “You should stop by tonight. First drink’s on me.”
“That’s generous.”
“Just being a good neighbor,” he says, heading for the door. “See you tonight?”
Wendy offers a flicker of a smile. “Maybe,” she replies, like she might mean it, even as she turns away.
For hours, she’d debated it. Ignoring Shane’s invitation would’ve been the smarter move. Keep the power, maintain the mystique. That’s her default: Make them want you.
But something shifted. Maybe it was the silence of her new apartment. Maybe it was the way Shane hadn’t pressed. Or maybe, just maybe, she didn’t uproot her life just to play it safe.
She surveys the crowd, past the sleek black bar, where golden orbs glow overhead, casting long shadows across deep emerald walls.
Ugh. Maybe I should go.
Then movement catches her eye: Shane, sleeves rolled, glass in hand, frustratingly at ease. His gaze flicks toward her, and just like that, she’s caught.
Then she sees her—the woman across from him. Honey-blonde, poised, effortlessly elegant. Draped in pale ivory chiffon, cinched at the waist with a slim gold chain. Hair spilling over one shoulder, framing luminous skin and eyes that scan the room with cool, measured detachment.
“Wendy Deerwood, meet Lili Miller-Stoneman,” Shane says. “Wendy’s our new neighbor. Just moved from the Big Apple.”
“I love New York,” Lili answers, shaking her hand. “I’m from Connecticut originally.”
Of course she is. Wendy knows her exact type—the kind who assumes they’re the same just because they both have blonde hair and flawless makeup.
She forces a practiced smile. “How nice.”
Then, of course, the husband. Casey Stoneman. Blond, boyishly handsome, his smile is built to disarm, but Wendy sees the calculation beneath it. His polo clings to well-defined biceps, and for a moment, she appreciates the aesthetic, even if she knows better. She’s dealt with his type before.
The conversation drifts—real estate nightmares, East Side vs. West, Casey tossing out a joke about WeHo HOA drama that actually makes her laugh. Lili mentions a designer she’s obsessed with. Wendy hums politely, recognizing the name from a recent spread in The Cut.
“Well, this looks painfully civilized.”
Wendy turns toward the voice just as a girl sweeps into view, platinum bob catching the amber light. She’s poured into a midnight-blue Saint Laurent slip, a cropped Mugler jacket hanging off her shoulders.
“Daphne Marks,” the girl says, offering a hand like she’s gifting it. “I assume you’re Wendy.”
Beside her, a statuesque, dark-haired woman in a copper-gold beaded Schiaparelli suit steps forward. Her gaze lands on Wendy, assessing, almost bored, like she’s appraising the resale value of a pawned Rolex.
“I’m Pamela,” she says, her voice a smoky drawl. “But everyone who matters calls me Boots.”
Wendy offers a small wave, just a touch unsure. “Nice to meet you, Daphne. And… Boots. Good to know I qualify.”
There’s something about Boots—tall, composed, eyes that miss nothing. For a moment, Wendy feels it: the rare flicker of being outmatched.
“Let’s wait and see,” Boots counters, passing her by to order a drink.
It’s clear now. Shane’s already talked about her. There’d been no hesitation in Lili’s greeting, no surprise in Casey’s gaze. Daphne already knows her name. Even Boots, cool and calibrated, nods like she’s been briefed. Already calculating Wendy’s utility.
“Hey,” Daphne says, slipping in beside her as the conversation drifts. “Don’t let all this overwhelm you. People here are very… involved with each other. You’ll get used to it.” She flashes a friendly smile, nodding toward the others. “I’m kind of the unofficial social director around here. I can help ease you in… if you want.”
Before Wendy can respond, Daphne launches into her life story like it’s an anecdotal TED Talk. Born in Beverly Hills and unapologetically connected, she knows every name worth dropping. She works part-time at a flower shop. “Not for the paycheck, obviously. Flowers don’t disappoint you like people do,” she adds, half-smiling.
Wendy notices the twitch in Daphne’s hand, the slight sway. She’s clearly drunk or high on pills, or maybe both. Yet there’s something magnetic about the manic brightness in her voice, the breathless chatter meant to drown out the noise. Against all internal warnings, Wendy can’t look away.
Daphne fills her in: Lili’s an aspiring fashion designer, talented, but eclipsed by her perfect-seeming marriage. The blond husband is a hedge fund adviser with a fancy title and powerful clients.
“But trust me,” Daphne says, lowering her voice. “Casey’s anything but perfect.”
Boots? A high-end event planner. The gatekeeper. The one you want on your side if you crave access to LA’s inner circles.
Wendy feels it again, that quiet ultimatum in the air. But she’s trained for this. Years in New York taught her how to slide into a scene, to offer just enough without showing her hand. She shares a curated version of her story: new to LA, reps authors and influencers, sells book rights. Just enough bait.
Shane watches from the sidelines, amused. Wendy sees Daphne clock it—the way he’s looking at her. Let them speculate.
By the time the night winds down, she leaves with a faint buzz and the quiet certainty she played it right. She tries not to dwell on it… on Shane. But the brush of his skin when he handed her that drink…
Some part of her already knows how it ends: her fingers in his hair, his breath against her collarbone, their clothes on the floor. She swats the image away.
The night has cooled by the time she returns to her apartment. Heels off, wine poured, she steps barefoot onto the balcony. Below, the courtyard glows in soft, dappled light. The hush of evening is laced with possibility… and something else. Is it ambition? Or yearning, maybe.
Weeks pass in a blur of strategy sessions, silent power plays, and well-timed smiles. The last garment bag hangs untouched in the corner of her apartment, a quiet reminder she hasn’t fully arrived.
The city doesn’t slow down. It circles. It waits. Turns out Hollywood isn’t just glossier than New York. It’s way more cutthroat. And Wendy? She’s expected to live up to the myth they’ve already written for her—an era-defining tastemaker in a world where influence is measured in followers, not instinct.
Then there’s Leah, far from the disposable assistant Wendy first assumed. She’s tenacious. Intuitive. Wendy’s schedule is handled before she even checks her inbox. Leah knows who actually runs each desk, who holds the real leverage, and she slips Wendy intel before every meeting. A passing comment about needing a crash course in LA had barely left Wendy’s mouth before Leah produced a curated list: restaurants where deals are inked, cafés where execs linger, bars where the real networking happens. Even the small things like Wendy’s coffee order and the fastest route through traffic are handled. It’s infuriating how good Leah is. The way she anticipates every move. The way she moves through the office, owning it like she’s not climbing the ladder, but building her own.
Wendy remembers it: twenty years old, fleeing a dead-end future on the East End for New York with nothing but ambition and spite. Her childhood reeked of saltwater and fish guts, the family trawling business a suffocating inheritance. For generations, it had been their lifeblood. To Wendy, it was a noose.
Novels were her oxygen—dog-eared thrillers, sweeping epics, anything that hinted at a world beyond the docks. She never expected them to be her escape route.
It was her mother, of all people, who cracked the door open. Terry Deerwood, a woman with a taste for luxury she couldn’t afford and a rotating cast of seasonal flings with wealthy men, had never been nurturing. But some of those men had connections. One happened to be the head of sales at Simon & Schuster.
Wendy got the interview. Then she got the job. She spent six years in the book-publicity trenches—fetching lattes, wrangling neurotic authors, surviving her boss: a woman infamous for her volcanic temper and impossible standards. One missed comma, one misdialed itinerary, and Wendy took the fall.
Padma Lakshmi once pulled her aside after a brutal meltdown, offering a quiet, sympathetic nod. Bret Easton Ellis and Lauren Weisberger consoled her in the bathroom at a launch party. Jodi Picoult’s assistant even sent her a handwritten note, calling her a saint.
She learned fast: success wasn’t about talent. It was about access. Timing. Narrative. But no one was coming to rescue her. If she wanted power, she’d have to take it.
Eventually, she quit, trading burnout for a server gig in Williamsburg that paid five times better. Still, she wasn’t finished. She’d watched how power shifted—who held it, who faked it, who seized it. She was one of the first to see what traditional publishing refused to: social media wasn’t just marketing. It was empire-building. Influencers weren’t personalities. They were brands. They were authors.
Then it happened. She found her way in through a finance-world dropout turned crypto-bro turned self-help guru who’d self-published a book called Psycho Rich: How to Build Your Fortune Like a Sociopath. It was forgettable… until TikTok got hold of it.
Wendy was ready. She embedded herself in his world. Not just as an agent, but as a strategist. A confidante. She reshaped the message. Elevated the image. Made the book inspirational.
One viral video changed everything. When the publishers came sniffing, Wendy pounced. The bidding war was a bloodbath. The deal closed at a record-breaking $3 million advance.
They called it a fluke.
She called it proof.
The royalties poured in. At last, she had money. Respect. Power. And now she knew why she ruled with an iron grip. Because she had been the girl absorbing abuse, made to feel disposable. She studied the women who hoarded power and vowed to become one, too. She understood what corporate America really rewarded: ruthlessness. The hunger to win, no matter the cost.
She blinks, refocusing on the office, on Leah, tucked inside her cubicle, laser-focused on her work. Now, that quiet efficiency Wendy once prided herself on reads like a warning shot.
Leah may be shrewd, but there’s still the matter of her former boss—a man accused of grooming assistants and crossing every professional line. Loyalty or blindness, it doesn’t matter. In this town, proximity to scandal is enough to stain you. And Wendy? If she needs to, she’ll see to it that the stain stays permanent.