You’d think I’ve downed six cups of coffee from how antsy I am.
Emily keeps shooting me annoyed, frustrated looks, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Miranda read my work.
Miranda read my work.
Half of me is convinced she skimmed the first three lines, then tossed it in the trash. But there’s another part of me—small and still learning to stand up for itself—that knows I wrote something good. Something I can stand behind.
But Miranda isn’t just anyone.
She’s Miranda fucking Priestly. She makes and breaks careers as easily as most people decide what to have for breakfast.
And it’s not just her power that has me nervously tapping my pen against my desk.
Miranda is the Editor-in-Chief of one of the most successful magazines in the world. Her judgment is impeccable. She knows what’s worth publishing and what should be scrapped without a second thought.
Forget past professors or mentors. Miranda Priestly read my work, and now I’m stuck waiting for her verdict.
I’ve written papers for professors, op-eds for editors, even the occasional blog post that I was too embarrassed to share widely. But none of it feels as monumental as this. It’s not just an article. It’s a litmus test. Miranda doesn’t just read—she dissects, judges, and wields her opinion like a scalpel.
My nails are hovering dangerously close to my teeth when Miranda strides into the office, already issuing commands.
“Donatella has decided to alienate half of New York,” she begins without preamble, her tone cool and clipped. “Reevaluate the seating chart for the gala. The girls’ father is insisting on lunch this week—make it happen or make him regret asking.”
She tosses her coat and bag onto Emily’s desk without a glance, the heavy thud making Emily scramble to put them away.
Miranda turns to me, her gaze pinning me in place. “And tell Nigel to redo the holiday spread. I wanted inclusivity, not a Hallmark ad. Whoever thought the Christmas tree and stockings were appropriate? Fired. And Lucia needs to tone down the red and gold. I want a revised copy of the Chanel piece delivered with The Book tonight. The dry cleaners ruined one of my scarves—it’ll need to be replaced. And get the girls a few scarves while you’re at it.”
She places The Book and my article, marked up with sharp red edits, on my desk. My chest tightens. Miranda strides into her office, and I just sit there, staring at the inked-up pages.
Does she hate it?
I somehow know my career as a writer hinges on those edits. Once I look, there’s no going back.
Nigel’s office lights are off. Of course.
I pass The Book to one of his underlings from the Art Department and head back to my desk. My nerves are bouncing between dread and jittery impatience.
Part of me wants to lock myself in a bathroom stall just to read through the edits in private. But I know better. The second I sit down, Miranda will need something, and I can’t afford to waste even a moment of time.
The only real option is to keep the article with me and snatch moments to read throughout the day.
In the elevator on my way to Michael Kors, I pull out the pages and skim Miranda’s notes.
Too sentimental. This isn’t a memoir.
I cringe. She’s right, of course. I’ve always had a tendency to get a little... flowery. My lip curls as I read on, but the elevator dings before I can finish.
The doors slide open, and I step into the lobby, nearly tripping over my own feet. A few familiar faces—fashion icons, editors, industry power players—glance my way. I quickly adjust my expression, schooling it into neutrality.
I’m not a nobody anymore. I’m Miranda Priestly’s assistant, the gatekeeper to the fashion god of New York, maybe the world. People are watching, and I can’t afford to look frazzled.
Straightening my shoulders, I head out to Michael Kors.
An hour later, I’m clutching eight luxury handbags—unreleased Michael Kors prototypes—while trying to stay balanced on a hurtling subway car.
Between bumps and jolts, I manage to read a bit more of Miranda’s feedback.
Get to the point.
Apparently, what I thought of as “background information,” Miranda sees as “dancing around the bush.” My beloved analogies and metaphors? They’re distractions, according to her.
It stings, but she’s not wrong.
I sigh, clutching the straps of the bags tighter as the subway car screeches to a halt. If I want this article to be something Miranda is proud to publish, I’m going to have to tighten it up.
The train lurches forward again, and I focus on staying upright.
One thing at a time, Sachs. One thing at a time.
I should’ve been back at the office an hour ago, but everything has gone to hell.
Now, I’m power-walking through the Runway halls managing the Chanel article draft, eight luxury handbags, three garment bags, Miranda’s lunch, and another burning hot latte.
I may be barely keeping my head above water today, but I can’t help smiling. Six months ago, I would’ve already tripped over my own feet and sent everything in my arms flying down the hall.
Now look at me!
Of course, right as I’m congratulating myself, my heel skids, and I have to fight to keep my balance.
I win the battle and manage to avoid any other mishaps while plating Miranda’s lunch and getting the rest of my load to where it needs to be.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at my desk with a relieved sigh. My feet are killing me, but I don’t dare take off my shoes. As soon as I do, Miranda will have another errand for me, and I can’t waste time toeing my shoes back on. My feet will just have to deal with it.
Emily stands abruptly, shrugging into her coat with sharp, deliberate movements.
“I’m taking lunch,” she announces, her tone laced with challenge, daring me to say something.
“Sure, Emily,” I reply without looking up, already absorbed in Miranda’s edits.
Her heels snap against the floor as she stalks off, the sound fading down the hallway. For a moment, I let myself smile—small, fleeting, but real.
Six months ago, Emily’s tone might have sent me scrambling to second-guess myself. Now, I barely flinch. If anything, it’s flattering. She feels the need to try.
Maybe she finally sees me as competition.
I only have a few notes left to go over. So far, they’re not bad. Definitely not glowing praise, but it could be so much worse.
I search for the next bit of red ink, and when I find it, I’m glad Emily is gone. This is a moment I don’t want to share with anyone.
Good.
Just one word, written in Miranda’s sharp, elegant script, but it knocks the wind out of me. My chest tightens—not in panic this time, but with something warmer, lighter. Relief? Pride? Maybe a mix of both.
I let the moment settle, lingering over that single word.
Every day here is hard, with little reward beyond knowing I’ve survived another round. But this—this is something more. A spark of validation in a world that demands perfection.
I chuckle to myself. Sure, I’m being overdramatic. Miranda’s just doing her job and expecting me to do mine.
Still, I can tell I’ll be riding this high for a while.
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