It turns out Runway really can’t function without Miranda.
In the week and a half since Paris, Miranda scrapped the entire upcoming issue. Everyone’s scrambling to rework everything, and Miranda herself is no exception—staying late, skipping meals, and pulling fourteen-hour days.
I set her latte down an hour earlier than usual, thanks to a tip from Roy, and settle into my chair just as she strides in. Perfect timing, as always. Emily glances up, frowning slightly, no doubt frustrated that she hasn’t cracked the secret to my impeccable timing.
Coat and bag land unceremoniously on Emily’s desk as I grab my tablet and follow Miranda into her office.
“Schedule a meeting with my attorney for ten tomorrow. You’ll attend and take notes. Have Nigel arrange a shoot to replace the spread on page forty-three. The model we picked for the Valentino gown got food poisoning—contact the agency immediately for a replacement. Draft 800 words on Coco Chanel’s influence on modern women’s fashion, to be delivered with The Book tomorrow. Oh, and have Emily take Patricia to her grooming appointment at ten.”
I nearly falter at the Chanel request—me, write?—but I recover in time to jot down the rest of her instructions. Miranda glances at my outfit as she speaks. Coincidentally, I’m head-to-toe Chanel today.
“That’s all,” she says, her attention already back on glossy prints spread across her desk.
“Yes, Miranda. Good morning, Miranda.”
“Mm.”
I step out, head spinning. Write? Was this a test? A chance? Or just another impossible demand?
I don’t have time to overthink it. Miranda does what Miranda does for her own reasons, and I’m not about to ask for an explanation.
Emily is livid about Patricia’s grooming appointment.
“I heard,” she snaps before I can even finish relaying Miranda’s instructions.
I bite back a comment, letting her simmer. Patricia is notoriously difficult to handle. Still, I’ve taken her to the groomer more than once, and I know firsthand it’s a nightmare. I’m really not sure how Emily’s going to manage it with a cast and crutches.
“Want me to take her?” I offer, hoping to diffuse things.
Emily glares daggers. “What, so you can outdo me at dog-walking too? Don’t bother. I’ll figure it out.”
Fine. I let her be and dive back into work.
The rest of the day is a disaster.
Misfiled emails, misdirected calls, schedule blocks shuffled around—it’s chaos, and I’m spending more time putting out fires than getting ahead. By the time the office empties out, I’m so drained I can barely think straight, but I finally have a moment to start on the Chanel article.
Researching Coco Chanel is an eye-opener. I’ve always dismissed fashion as frivolous, but this? This is art. History. Culture. A little black dress isn’t just a wardrobe staple—it’s a symbol of independence, of class barriers breaking down.
I feel a thrill as I type, the words flowing faster than they have in months.
The next day is somehow worse.
Everything that could go wrong does, and by mid-afternoon, I’m ready to scream. Emily’s frustration is boiling over too, though she hides it behind clipped words and icy glares.
“Andrea,” Miranda’s voice cuts through the chaos.
I’m on my feet instantly, tablet and stylus ready, as I step into her office.
Miranda sits, gazing out at the skyline. “Do you come from a family of squirrels?”
I blink. “Um, no, Miranda, I don’t.”
Her gaze doesn’t shift. “Then why have the last two days featured you darting about like a caffeinated woodland creature?”
I gulp. “Things have been more... hectic than usual. I’ve been trying to handle it discreetly—”
“How so?” Her tone is calm, but the weight of her attention is unnerving.
I explain—misplaced emails, lost files, misdirected calls—all of it spilling out in a rush.
By the time I’m done, Miranda is staring at me with that inscrutable expression that always makes me feel three inches tall.
“And yet I had no idea,” she muses, almost to herself.
“I’m sorry—”
“That’s all.”
Dismissed, I retreat, my heart pounding.
At my desk, Emily smirks. “Packing your things, are you?”
“No, Emily.” I meet her gaze steadily. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her nostrils flare, but I’m too tired to care.
By the time I leave the office, it’s nearly midnight, and my feet ache with every step. But for once, I don’t feel overwhelmed by the chaos Runway threw at me today.
Instead, I feel steady. I handled it. I kept things running, managed Emily’s mood swings, and even started writing again.
Maybe Miranda sees it. Maybe she doesn’t. But that doesn’t matter.
I see it.
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