Little Red Sells Her Hood

They still call me Red.

Never mind that I’ve worn black for a decade now—sharp black, tailored, the kind that says "I bite back." Never mind the PhD in Behavioral Economics or the four zeroes on my corporate retainer. In the minutes of every meeting, I’m still "Red."

The wolves never forget.

They grin when I enter the room, those toothy smiles full of nostalgia and blood memory. “Red,” they purr. “So good to see you. Still wearing the hood?”

“No,” I reply. “I sell it now.”

Pause.

They chuckle, low and knowing. They think I’m joking.

I’m not.

I sold the hood to a luxury fashion house three years ago. Limited edition. Organic velvet. Worn by influencers, stylists, and at least one senator’s mistress. It retails for $1,480 and comes with a subtle scent of cedar and menace.

I kept the rights to the story, of course. That’s where the real money is. Trauma, neatly packaged and ready to stream. Everyone wants to be devoured these days—as long as it’s beautiful, curated, and monetized. We sold the rights to Netflix, then again to HBO when they offered a grittier reboot. In both versions, I wear red again. They insisted. Familiar branding.

In the HBO version, I burn the forest down. They gave me a flamethrower. Called it "empowerment."

The wolves watch me with old eyes and new suits. They are sleeker now, more polished. They shave their muzzles and hide their claws behind nondisclosure agreements. But I know. I remember. And they know I remember.

They used to chase me.

Now they pitch.

"Red," one says today, sliding a deck across the table. "We think you'd be perfect to lead our new division in 'Predatory Ethics.'"

How honest.

I don’t smile. I haven’t, not since I realized how much teeth can mean.

I flip through the proposal. It's all very polished. "Reputation laundering," they call it. "Narrative dominance." They want me to be the face of their next reinvention. A success story. The girl who outlived the wolf and joined the pack.

My assistant brings me mint tea. I sip it slowly. Wolves hate waiting.

I look up, finally. "Triple the equity share, remove clause 12C, and I want full veto power on all communications."

A pause. A twitch of a whisker. A sniff of the wind.

They agree.

Because they know: I may have taken off the hood, but I never stopped walking through the woods.

And I always carry matches.

What they don’t know is that I still visit the cabin sometimes. The original one. Charred, gutted, left to rot under moss and rumor. No one else remembers where it is.

I leave things there. Not offerings—warnings. The cracked lens from a hidden camera. A corporate lanyard, bloodied at the edge. Once, a wolf’s tie, knotted too tightly.

Sometimes the wind brings other girls.

They come in pairs or alone. They wear sneakers, not capes. They carry pepper spray and peppermints. They ask me questions like: "Did you really burn her?" "Was he really your brother?" "How did you survive the first time?"

I tell them the truth: Survival is not a climax. It's a habit.

I tell them: "Don’t follow the path. Blaze one."

I tell them: "Don’t wait for rescue. Eat the map."

I don’t teach them to be good.

I teach them to be memorable.

Because wolves don’t fear the meek. They fear the ones who can speak in contracts and silence. The ones who walk into the boardroom smelling like smoke and knowing the exit routes.

And I am not the only one anymore.

There are more of us now—women who rewrote their own fables and filed trademarks after. Who wear stilettos sharper than stakes. Who weaponize charm, and who laugh when they’re underestimated.

They want to turn us into parables again. But we’ve seized the pen.

And we don’t do moral lessons anymore.

We do mergers.

And if you want a piece of the story now?

You’d better come with teeth.