Chapter 2: The Tangled Web
Wendy
She woke that morning with a sense of manifest destiny.
Each day arrived the same—a hazy sprawl, shimmering with possibility, waiting to be seized and bent to her will. But today, as she sifted through her makeup bin, selecting just the right shades of peach and nude, something—her purpose—finally crystallized.
It had been one month since Wendy landed at 222 Corpse Flower, and in that short time, she’d fully regained whatever balance the cross-country move had stolen. Los Angeles had consumed her. Her golden waves were lightened by the sun. Nearly everything in her apartment was exactly where it belonged. Everyone at NDA finally knew her name.
And as her Louboutins carry her down the corridor, her reflection flickering past, she lets the cadence steady her. Because no matter how many mornings she wakes half-expecting to find herself back in her New York apartment, no matter how often she braces for the floor to give way—
This is real. This is it.
She sets her Margaux handbag on her desk just as she hears it:
“Oh, hey. Did you check your email this morning?”
Leah’s in the doorway, eyes still glued to her phone. “Variety’s asking for an interview.”
At first, Wendy barely processes. The words are distant, an echo from a dream she’s replayed too many times.
“An interview? For what?”
“It’s their annual 40 Under 40. They want to include you.”
Wendy slides into her chair, fingers flying over Outlook, heart racing, until, finally, she finds it. An invitation to be featured among Hollywood’s next generation of power players.
A slow, satisfied smile ghosts across her lips. “Well, it was only a matter of time. This list? It’s not just fluff, Leah. Everyone who matters came through this list before they ruled the world. Ari Emanuel. Shonda Rhimes.”
“I had a feeling you’d take it well,” Leah says with a self-assured grin. “It’s huge.”
Wendy barely registers her voice, already swept up in visions of magazine covers, exclusive parties, photo shoots under hot lights.
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Leah gives a tight smile, too controlled to be sincere. “You deserve it, Wendy. No one works harder than you.”
“Of course, this is just a stepping stone.” Wendy smooths the lapel of her Gucci blazer. “But still nice to be recognized.”
“Totally,” Leah says, lingering. She offers a demure shrug. “Y’know, I’m aiming for 30 Under 30, myself. How cool would that be? My boss on the 40 Under 40, me on the 30 Under 30.”
She hears it as she says it. Too late.
Wendy stills. A slow, cutting turn of her head. “Excuse me?”
Leah pulls in a shallow breath. “I just meant—”
“There’s a difference between ambition and delusion, Leah. If you were the kind of woman who made this list, you wouldn’t be fetching me matcha.”
“Of course, Wendy. That’s not what I meant.”
“Good.” Wendy flicks her fingers dismissively. “Now go get me a matcha latte. Extra froth.”
Manage her, Leah reminds herself, as the elevator carries her toward the lobby café. That’s the trick. Treat Wendy like a tantrum-prone client, not a boss. Stroke the ego, absorb the blows, and one day, when the timing is right, claim what she deserves.
“By the way,” she says, fifteen minutes later, setting Wendy’s matcha on the desk, “I got a lead. True-crime podcaster wants to write a memoir. Julia Marr. Highly controversial, but insanely bankable. Massive following. Could be a bestseller.”
“Controversial how?” Wendy asks, inspecting the matcha with mild suspicion.
“Exploiting victims. Ex-friends accusing her of everything from lying to plagiarism, but none of it proven.” Leah shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “But the clicks are real.”
“Okay. Why not. Set the meeting. If the risk’s worth it, we’ll find out.”
Leah nods once, satisfied. She turns to leave. Then pauses. Looks back at Wendy. “Oh, and, random but… did you see that woman with Shane last night?”
“That redhead?” Wendy keeps typing, unbothered, or pretending to be. “I wasn’t paying attention. Why?”
“They looked pretty cozy. Rafaella Simonetti. Soon-to-be ex-wife of Ethan John Davies—the big tech guy? I read about their divorce in the Wall Street Journal.”
Wendy doesn’t recognize the name, but she remembers the woman—statuesque, immaculate, impossible to miss. The thought of a scandal-soaked ex anywhere near Shane needles something raw, especially after last night.
Her mind flashes back. His body pressed against hers, her back against the tile, arms wrapped around his neck. The rhythm of him thrusting inside her, the risk that anyone could’ve walked by and seen everything, caught them soaked, tangled, reckless.
Wendy banishes the thought. “And why should I care?”
Leah catches it, too quick to mean nothing. “I saw you watching them.”
“You can go now, Leah.”
She wastes no time. Drags her monitor forward, clicks the search bar, and types: Rafaella Simonetti.
The results flood the screen—tabloid leaks, deposition quotes, glossy spreads in Town & Country, W, Vogue, headlines in the Financial Times and the LA Times. An article in the Wall Street Journal about their ten-million-dollar Venice Beach house, the centerpiece of a bitter asset war.
Wendy swivels to the window, the washed-out expanse of LA stretched below. She files the information away into neat little categories: Useful, Dangerous, Forgettable. Weaponizable.
Just in case, she tells herself. If this Rafaella becomes an obstacle, Wendy will be ready to put her in her place—or push her out of the way.