Leah
This should’ve been my moment.
The thought echoes as Julia Marr, the podcaster she’s been chasing for weeks, finally settles across from them. Instead, Leah’s been benched. Reduced to a glorified secretary.
“Julia,” Wendy begins, all polished warmth, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. We’ve admired your work for a long time—the voice you’ve built, the way you’ve shaped the conversation.”
Julia eyes Wendy, vaguely curious from across the coffee table. “So. Why do you think I need a book when I already have one of the top true-crime podcasts in the country?”
That’s her cue. Leah leans in, voice brightening. “Well, with your engagement metrics—”
“Yes, engagement,” Wendy cuts in, eyes sharp with warning. “I’m so glad my assistant brought that up. Because what you’ve built isn’t just a podcast, Julia. It’s a brand. It’s currency. A book doesn’t compete with that. It cements the story. Expands your reach, your authority, your legacy.”
My assistant? Leah keeps scribbling, Wendy’s voice blurring to static, grating as the meeting drags on. At some point, she sets the pen down. Just listens. Lets the pitch run its course.
When it finally ends, Julia rises, and Wendy stands with her. “Julia, thanks for coming in,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m excited to keep the conversation going.”
Still on the couch, Leah closes her notebook and looks up. She’s never felt so small in her life.
“No pressure. Sleep on it,” Wendy adds. “We’ll follow up soon.”
Julia shakes her hand. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.” Then she leaves without so much as a glance in Leah’s direction.
By the time the afternoon staff meeting starts, Leah, shoved to the perimeter with the other assistants, has stewed so long she’s practically boiling. Wendy commands the floor, eyes lit with cool confidence and just a little too much satisfaction as she makes her pitch.
“Julia Marr—some of you know her—is a force in true crime. Millions of listeners. Fiercely loyal audience. Serious cultural footprint.”
Leah endures it, steadying her breath while Wendy barrels on.
“She ranks top ten consistently. Forty percent audience growth this year. Cross-platform potential. We’re talking bestsellers, spin-offs, streaming. Thoughts?”
“I agree.”
Wendy glances over, recognizing the self-assured voice immediately: Felicia Mercer. Senior agent, broad-shouldered, cool-eyed, always in a tailored navy blazer over an ill-fitting blouse—one color for each day of the week. Felicia doesn’t posture. She doesn’t have to. Her loyalty to upper management is ironclad. Her deals, ruthless. Her instincts, sharper than most people’s ambition. At NDA, she’s less a colleague than a quiet enforcer.
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“Marr’s a potential goldmine,” she says, meeting Wendy’s gaze, sharp and steady. “If she’s serious, we should move fast.”
“Thanks, Felicia. The conversation went well. If we’re careful, we’ll have a hit memoir in the works and a streaming deal before summer.”
Leah takes another breath. One. Two—
But this was her lead. Not Wendy’s. Leah’s research. Her persistence. The weeks of calls, emails, scheduling, nudging Julia’s team toward yes. All of it. And yet, no one even spares her a glance. No one says her name. The credit flows cleanly to Wendy.
Felicia taps the table once. “Keep pushing, Wendy. Looks like you’re on your way to a big win.”
The meeting moves on. Leah doesn’t. She just watches Wendy in silence. Already calculating the cost of letting this slide.
Hours later, she still can’t shake it. From her cubicle, she watches through the glass walls as Wendy clicks into the waiting Variety interview link. Leah clocks every immaculately curated detail: Wendy’s blonde camera-ready waves, her leopard-print Dolce blouse, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves framing her in the background, a gold lamp casting the perfect glow. Wendy has rehearsed every line, trimmed the fat. The script gleams.
Leah turns back to her screen. To Wendy’s golden mug staring back at her. To the black square in the corner where her own face should be. Camera off, she’s been reduced to silent note-taker. She listens, dutiful but numb, as a woman with a sharp black bob appears onscreen: Taylor Marsh. A millennial in purple-framed glasses, composed to the point of blank. She gets right to it.
“Wendy, thanks for joining. First question: what was your big break?”
“Great question, Taylor.” Wendy flashes the biggest smile Leah’s ever seen. “I started in Simon & Schuster’s publicity department, back when it was still the Big Six, and that’s where I spotted a shift no one else wanted to admit.”
She tucks a lock of hair behind one ear—calm, but in control. “Traditional publishing was stagnant. So, when I struck out on my own and crossed to the other side, I wasn’t just another agent. I built a brand. One that amplified voices in ways the old guard couldn’t even fathom.”
A steady, assured pause, long enough to land. “Maybe it sounds self-important, but I consider myself one of the first true trailblazers of the social media era in book publishing. A mentor of mine—name withheld for confidentiality—once called me ‘a future luminary of the literary world.’”
Taylor just nods. Still blank. Still unimpressed. “Favorite power-lunch spot?”
“That’s easy. The Bungalows. Duh! Yes, I’m a member. Their wagyu burger is, in a word, divine. In case that’s helpful for your readers to know.”
Taylor blinks. Gives nothing. “And your greatest role model?”
“So many,” Wendy says, pensive. “But if I had to choose, Anna Wintour. Anna’s a visionary. She didn’t just shape an industry, she built it. She commanded it, without compromise. Just like me.”
“Great. Thanks, Wendy.”
“Can I give you my runner-up?”
Taylor betrays the slightest hint of a grin. “If you’d like.”
“Bethenny Frankel.”
“Fascinating. Tell me more. Let’s unpack that.”
“Bethenny’s never been the most connected or the most polished. But she’s the smartest broad in the room—always. The way she handled Jill Zarin in Season Three? A masterclass—”
“Thanks,” Taylor says, cutting her off. “We’ve got plenty.”
The call clicks off. Wendy stares at the screen, her reflection barely visible in the glare. Then she’s on her feet, striding into Leah’s cubicle.
“That must’ve been a great learning experience,” she says, voice brimming with sunshine. “Watching a real pro work.”
Leah forces a brittle smile. “Oh, absolutely. Unforgettable.”
Wendy sweeps past. Leah turns back to her screen. Swallows a breath. Highlights her notes, then deletes them with a single, satisfying click. Gone. Goodbye. And it feels even better than expected.