Paris was chaos, but New York is colder.
I shove through the apartment building’s heavy glass door, hauling two overstuffed suitcases. The elevator has a big, yellow "Out of Order" sign taped to it. Of course.
My arms ache by the time I drag my bags up three flights of stairs, each step biting at the soles of my heels. Finally, I push open the door to... silence. It’s not the soft quiet I longed for on the flight home but the hollow kind, the kind that means something is missing.
Something—or someone.
The living room is bare. The couch is gone, along with the bookshelf Nate built out of spare planks. Even the coffee table—where we spilled so much wine over takeout nights—is missing.
For a second, I think I’ve walked into the wrong apartment. But no, the kitchen still smells faintly like burnt coffee, and the gouge I made in the floor last spring is still there.
He’s really gone.
It shouldn’t surprise me. We argued for weeks before Paris, and outside Lily’s gallery, it felt like we broke up. I just didn’t know it was for real. No call, no text, just... gone.
I sink onto the edge of the mattress—mine now, I guess—still in my coat, still wearing my Paris heels. My suitcases slump beside me, gaping open like wounds. My legs burn, my head throbs, and my chest... well, my chest is a mess.
What did I expect? That he’d wait for me to make up my mind? That I’d come back and things would magically feel normal again?
I glance around the room, empty shelves mocking me. For a moment, I imagine myself as a rock Nate picked up once upon a time. Not a shiny rock—just unusual enough to keep around. Then Runway happened, and suddenly that rock was being polished, shaped into something more. I thought that would be enough. That Nate would see the diamond I was becoming. But maybe he preferred me rough and dull.
The thought stings, but there’s no point crying over it now. He’s not here, and it’s not like I don’t have other things to focus on. I kick off my shoes and drag myself upright.
What would Miranda do?
The game keeps me moving. First, unpack. Miranda would never let expensive clothes sit crumpled in a suitcase. Half of them are for Emily anyway—a peace offering. Then there’s the rest of Miranda’s schedule to review. I dump Paris Fashion Week notes onto my desk and start typing, the rhythm of the keys a lifeline.
By midnight, the suitcases are empty, the notes are organized, and I’m ready for tomorrow. At least, as ready as I can be. Nate’s absence aches like a bruise I can’t stop poking, but I shove it aside.
She’d keep going. So I will too.
Early Monday morning, before the sun even considers rising, I’m already at my desk. The inbox is overflowing. Despite everything I tackled last night, a fresh wave of emails has arrived, each one demanding Miranda’s undivided attention. A dangerous thing to want—and my job to gatekeep.
Most of the time, that means saying no. Politely, or not so politely.
I’ve gotten much better at no since starting here. Well, with everyone except Miranda.
Emily limps in half an hour later, managing to look effortlessly chic even with crutches and a cast. Her outfit probably costs more than my rent. She takes one look at me, and I know—the clothes from Paris won’t be enough.
This isn’t her usual condescending once-over. This is the kind of glare that could set me on fire.
Still, I smile. Not too bright, not too hesitant. “Good morning, Emily.”
Her lips tighten, and she brushes past me without a word.
Fine. I turn back to my monitor and keep sorting through emails, pretending not to notice her icy silence. After a few minutes of nothing but furious typing from her direction, I decide it’s time for my olive branch.
“Emily,” I begin carefully, still watching my screen. “I know you’re mad at me, but I need a favor.”
Her typing doesn’t slow.
“You see,” I press on, “I have all these clothes from Paris...”
Her fingers falter just slightly, but she doesn’t look up.
“It was so nice of people to give me so many things,” I say, keeping my voice light, self-deprecating, just Midwestern enough. “But they’re just not me. When would I ever wear them? I don’t understand all this...” I pause for effect. “Stuff.”
Her typing stops. Dead silence.
“I was wondering,” I add quickly, “if you’d be able to take them off my hands?”
Emily turns her head slightly, just enough for me to see her nostrils flare.
“It will be a terrible inconvenience,” she says at last, still not meeting my eyes. “I’ll have to get everything taken in.”
I nod, holding my breath.
“Fine,” she sniffs. “I’ll take the clothes. You’d never appreciate them anyway.”
“Thank you, Em.” My smile turns genuine. “I really appreciate it.”
Her typing resumes, sharp and precise. But the tension in the room softens, just a fraction.
By 7:30, I’ve shifted my focus from Emily to Miranda. Roy texts to let me know she’s on her way. Thirty minutes out.
At 7:45, I place her coffee order.
At 7:55, Maria hands me the cup at the back entrance in exchange for a $50 bottle of gin. I hustle up the stairs, careful not to spill what might as well be liquid gold, and set it on Miranda’s desk.
By 7:58, I’m arranging mockups in precise increments when I hear the telltale click-click-click of Pradas on marble.
She turns the corner, all sharp edges and command, and I barely manage to slide into my seat before she sweeps past me.
“Good morning, Miranda,” I say, bright but not too bright.
She shrugs off her coat and bag—onto Emily’s desk.
I blink. It wasn’t a fluke.
Emily’s glare could cut glass as she gathers the items and hangs them up, but I don’t have time to dwell on her fury. Miranda is already issuing commands, and I scramble to follow, taking furious notes.
“Move my lunch with Donatella to 12:30 and make it at that new place I like. The run-through is now at 11. Make sure everyone is aware. Schedule a massage for 5:30. The girls have a recital Friday at 7; ensure I can attend. And get me Patrick.”
She sits, immaculate as ever, and glances up. “That’s all.”
“Yes, Miranda.” I pause, my smile softening. “Good morning, Miranda.”
Her gaze lingers for half a second before she turns back to her work.
My heart races. It wasn’t a fluke.
I return to my desk, ignoring Emily’s burning glare. If Miranda trusts me more than Emily, that’s her decision. I’m not about to apologize for being recognized for my work.
The day blurs—errands, rescheduling chaos, and whispered complaints from stressed designers. Nigel stays mostly in his office, a storm cloud hanging over him. Even he’s not immune to the fallout from Paris.
Alone, waiting for The Book, I think about Nigel. He’s been here almost twenty years. He’s always been loyal to Miranda. But even loyalty has its limits. If he stops believing in her, what happens to Runway? To them?
What happens to Miranda?
She doesn’t have many friends. I wonder if she even considers Nigel a friend anymore after everything. I hope so. She needs people she can trust.
Part of me wants to be one of those people.
The thought catches me off guard.
What would Miranda want?
Miranda would want me to stop daydreaming and focus.
I turn back to her schedule. Daydreaming won’t pay the bills—or bring me closer to what I really want. Whatever that is, I’ll figure it out. Eventually.
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