Daphne & Boots
Jesus, Shane. Take a motherfuckin’ hint. Daphne flips her phone facedown as it buzzes again.
“You gonna answer that?” Boots nods at the phone. “Or just trying to piss off Shane?”
Daphne exhales, staring out at the hills. Up on Boots’s balcony, the air glows gold as dusk settles in.
“Is this job at Icons even real, Boots? Or just another distraction? Another way to pretend I’m normal. That I’m not some—”
“A spoiled Beverly Hills rich girl with absentee parents and two failed reality shows? Yeah, babe. That’s you. Own it. But you’ve got to stop this habit of bailing on everything.”
Daphne waves it off, flippant. “I’m not bailing. I’m prioritizing. I’m spending time with my best friend.”
Boots sucks in a breath. This conversation? Again?
“But it’s about commitment,” she says, straining to make her point. “To yourself. To anyone. Sure, it’s just a gig. But how are you going to get anywhere in life if you never show up? You remember when we first met? You had so much ambition back then.”
“That wasn’t ambition, Boots. That was youth.”
“Exactly. You’re what, twenty-five? That’s still young. Way too young to be giving up.”
Was it ever ambition? Daphne can’t even tell anymore. She was fifteen when it all started. She and her crew were scouted early. That led to a few runways. A campaign here, an editorial there. They weren’t It Girls yet—they were still rehearsing. But no one wanted to work, not when the internet handed out shortcuts. They didn’t need to model anymore. Because they were the brand: Daphne, Aerin, Fallon, Kiki.
They’d grown up watching Olivia Jade—yes, that Olivia Jade, their classmate since kindergarten—turn YouTube GRWMs into a personal empire. Back then, her career was the blueprint. Her brand deals, her makeup tutorials shot in perfect lighting—she was already doing what they were only just beginning to imagine.
They didn’t need dreams. They had followers. Their Instagrams were mood boards. Their lives were product placements. Their weekends were sponsored by tequila brands and skincare lines they never used. They were hot, rich, bored, and always lit in golden hour.
The first show was supposed to be the one: Beverly Hills Bombshells. A producer called it a mix between Pretty Wild and The Hills, only with more Birkin bags and less shame. It almost sold. But the network passed, saying the concept felt too familiar, too safe. Fine. Whatever. They didn’t need a show.
Until Brunch Bitch.
It started with brunch, as all disasters do. Mimosas at Cecconi’s, then back to their usual pad off Laurel Canyon. That afternoon, a friend-of-a-friend floated an idea—he had a camera crew, a budget, and a thing for beautiful people making bad choices. The pitch was simple: brunches, breakdowns, betrayal. They thought it was ironic. Cheeky. They were in on the joke. Daphne even wore a tiara in the confessionals.
She’d thought: This is it. This is where it starts. She remembered the cutaways of her sipping a Bellini in a fur jacket, side-eyeing Fallon while talking about “branding fatigue.” She remembered saying something about how Kiki’s boyfriend was “low-tier rich,” and thinking the line would slay.
She didn’t remember being a monster. But someone had footage. Some earnest, nineteen-year-old PA who probably worshipped AOC and socialism—someone she’d definitely screamed at one time too many.
Daphne had made her cry. Apparently, she made a lot of people cry. And someone, probably that same assistant with a busted iPhone and a moral compass, showed the girls the footage. All of it: the confessionals, the mic’d-up side comments, the shady shit Daphne said about everyone when she thought the cameras were off.
Fallon blocked her first. Aerin changed the group chat name to Sans Daphne. Kiki posted a cryptic TikTok about “fake friends” that hit fifty thousand views.
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The whisper campaign began. Brands started to hesitate—first a delayed payment, then a collab quietly shelved. Her name began disappearing from group PR emails.
The show never even made it to air. But it didn’t matter. She was already a reality-TV villain, and outside of her 230,000 followers, no one even knew her name.
Then COVID hit. LA shut down. With the world on pause, her social reach collapsed. Events were canceled. The invitations stopped. And just when it felt like things couldn’t get quieter, they got worse.
Because that’s when the video surfaced. Poolside, slurring her words, it happened while ordering cocktails—mocking the server with some half-baked line—
“Shawty need her spritz, ASAP,” she said, in the most offensive Blaccent imaginable.
It was old footage, shot during one of the Brunch Bitch weekends, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. In the thick of the Black Lives Matter protests, it exploded across social media.
Her last remaining sponsor dropped her by nightfall. PR reps ghosted her. Collaborations vanished for good. And the follower count that had once defined her drained by the hour.
She stared at her own reflection and realized: no one was left watching. So… she deleted everything. And now, here was Boots, so self-made and overachieving, telling her she could still “make something” of herself.
“It’s not that I hate the job,” she says, gulping the last of her wine as the light fades behind darkening clouds. LA twinkles to life in the distance. “I might even like it. I get tons of attention.”
“Now that’s the spirit,” Boots says, casual as ever.
Daphne rolls her eyes with a laugh. “I just don’t feel like working tonight.”
Boots doesn’t get it—this loop Daphne’s stuck in. The need to sabotage anything good before it asks for something real. She’s seen it before: Daphne mistaking chaos for meaning, self-destruction for spontaneity. The cycle had been playing out for years, ever since they met, seven, maybe eight years ago. Before COVID. Before her events business collapsed in the fallout. Before she had to rebuild in a world that no longer played by the old rules. Before she fully understood who Daphne Marks really was.
Back then, Boots was at the height of her career, running one of the most sought-after event firms in LA. Sony had tapped her for a premiere party: massive tentpole, massive pressure. But the film was tracking poorly, and in that special Hollywood way, saving it somehow became her job.
That’s when inspiration struck. Daphne Marks was in her peak socialite era—one of the last unapologetic rich girls standing. It was still the age of Paris, Lindsay, Britney—the end of the messy icon era, before they were rewritten as feminist redemption arcs. Back when they were punchlines. And Daphne wanted to be just like them.
Boots had a vision: recreate that photo. The infamous tabloid shot of Paris, Britney, and Lindsay crammed into a car, wild-eyed and young. She called her contacts, orchestrated the moment, cast the girls: Janis, a scandal-prone pop star; Ruthie McKee, an indie darling with a flair for drama; and Daphne.
The stunt was flawless. They arrived together. The photo hit every blog by morning. And the movie scraped out a number-one opening. Sony sent the biggest bouquet Boots had ever seen.
And somehow, she and Daphne became friends. Because Boots saw someone no one else did. The loneliness behind the glitter. The girl with the dark humor, who felt too much and pretended she didn’t. Who lashed out, then came back, mopping up the wreckage with a joke and a kiss on the cheek. That was the girl Boots took in. Not the one on social media who everyone despised.
So when Daphne invited her to check out 222 Corpse Flower, she didn’t hesitate. After too long slumming it in North Hollywood, she was ready for something better. She signed the lease. And on February 1st, she moved in… just before COVID hit.
It was during that strange, suspended pandemic year that Boots really saw Daphne. The cracks. The way the drugs weren’t for fun anymore—they were for function. How the line between party girl and problem had long since vanished. But by then, Daphne had already pulled her in. And for better or worse, Boots had stayed.
She shakes off the memory. “Who cares if Icons is a distraction? It’s still work. And work’s how you prove you give a damn.”
“You’re great at pep talks, Boots. You know that?”
“Only when the problem’s this easy to fix.”
Daphne’s phone buzzes. It’s Shane. Again.
“Now get out of here,” she says, flicking her hand, waving Daphne off. “Tell him you’re almost there.”
“I don’t know why I ever take your advice,” Daphne says, letting out a laugh. “You always find a way to make me do the right thing.”
Boots watches her go, the last gasp of sunlight spilling over the balcony. If only the right thing ever lasted, she thinks, a quiet smile curling as she finishes her drink.
An hour later, Shane’s not laughing when Daphne stumbles in.
“I told you I wouldn’t be in until late. And when I’m not here, there’s no backup hostess. This can’t happen again, Daphne.”
“I know, babes, I’m sorry. I needed a little mental-health break.”
Shane shakes his head, not budging. “Uh-huh. Did you even get my texts? You’re two hours late. I had to cut my meeting short to get back here.”
He glances toward the bar. Daphne follows his line of sight. And there she is: Rafaella Simonetti. The redhead socialite. Alone with her wineglass.
Daphne takes a quick drag from her vape before Shane turns back. She grins, wicked. “Ah. I get it now. You were with her.”
“That’s none of your damn business. But this?” He gestures around the bar. “This can’t happen again. Understand?”
“Yes, geez, I understand. I’m here, aren’t I? I said I’ll work.”
Shane studies her: mascara smudged, eyes glassy, charm hanging by a thread. “Fine. But one more screw-up, and you’re gone.”
“I promise, Shane. No more screw-ups.”
She flashes a smile, too forced, too bright.
For now, at least, she thinks.