Jesus, can these people walk any slower?!
I dodge left, then right, trying to get around the gaggle of gawking tourists clogging the entire sidewalk. They’re craning their necks at the skyscrapers, phones out, walking three abreast like they own the place.
I grip the dozen garment bags tighter, fighting to keep my balance in stilettos that are absolutely not meant for navigating cracked pavement. Just a few more steps and I’ll—
Nope.
The woman on the edge of the group suddenly stops and pivots, her elbow hitting me square in the ribs as she lifts her phone for a photo. I stumble, the curb catches my heel, and the next thing I know, I’m sprawled in the bike lane.
Bike bells shriek around me like angry curses.
I barely have time to cover my head as a commuter swerves past, shouting something I don’t care to decipher. My chest tightens, my lungs refuse to expand. Maybe I’ll just stay here. Getting flattened by a Citi Bike wouldn’t be the worst way to go, would it?
Then my work phone starts to ring.
Adrenaline jolts me upright. I’m scrambling for the garment bags, dodging more cyclists, and sprinting toward the sidewalk as I answer the call.
“Miranda! Hi, I’m—”
“I’m moving the run-through up thirty minutes. I need the skirts from Versace.” Her tone is as sharp as ever, cutting through my frazzled nerves like a scalpel.
I almost stop in my tracks. Didn’t Emily arrange for the skirts to be couriered last night?
“Oh, I think Emily—”
“Get the skirts. Be here in twenty minutes. And bring coffee. That’s all.”
The call ends.
For a split second, I consider lying back down in the bike lane. But Miranda would probably hire a necromancer, drag me back from the dead, and demand a hundred years of unpaid servitude.
I shake off the thought and grip the garment bags tighter. Twenty minutes. Versace. Starbucks. Elias-Clarke. Totally impossible—but that’s the job.
Worst case, I get fired. But if I’m going out, I’m going out swinging.
I shove past the gawking tourists without apology. Don’t think. Just do.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m sprinting through the halls of Runway. I’m out of breath, my knees and elbows still bleeding from my tumble into New York bike traffic (arguably more treacherous than road traffic), but I’m already five minutes late, and rule number one of Runway is: do not keep Miranda waiting.
I slow my pace to something resembling a walk as I approach Miranda’s office, doing my best to look composed despite the fact that my body is screaming otherwise.
Emily smirks at me as I scurry past her desk, but I don’t have the bandwidth to care right now.
Nigel, Serena, and Jocelyn are already there, of course, and they snap to attention as I stumble in. They practically swarm me, grabbing the garment bags from my arms with practiced efficiency.
Amid the scramble, Miranda leans against her desk, exuding both impatience and unsettling stillness. Her only movement is the faint glide of her fingers along the chain of her necklace, but her eyes are locked on me, pinning me where I stand.
Nigel takes the last bag from me, hanging it on one of the racks in the room. Moving on autopilot, I walk forward to hand Miranda her coffee. It’s my last task before I can escape to my desk, toe off my heels, and spend some time answering emails until my brain bleeds.
The cup burns through the sleeve, but Miranda doesn’t take it. Her sharp blue eyes flick down, then up, cataloging every detail of my disheveled appearance.
“Did you forget your map?”
I blink, caught off guard. “My map?”
“Yes.” Her gaze is as calm as her tone. “One might assume you were traipsing through the wilderness, based on the condition of your knees. Did you find what you were looking for?”
I have no idea how to respond.
“I, um—”
Miranda takes the coffee from my outstretched hand and makes a faint shooing motion.
“Emily?” she calls out, her voice barely louder than usual. “Come take notes. Andrea, go bleed somewhere else. If I have to replace the carpet, it’s coming out of your paycheck. That’s all.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I collapse into my desk chair a few moments later, pulling a tissue from my drawer to dab at my knees.
Emily’s smirk has morphed into a glare as she hobbles on her crutches into Miranda’s office. How she plans to take notes while standing is beyond me, but it’s not my problem. Especially after her screw-up almost got me into hot water.
And to think, the day started off on such a positive note.
I’d arrived early, still riding the high of delivering The Book and my updated draft of the Chanel article less than eight hours ago. It feels like a lifetime since Miranda had waltzed in, tossing her bag and coat onto Emily’s desk without so much as a glance.
In the middle of rattling off her usual litany of demands, she caught my eye. Without slowing down, she dropped The Book and my article onto my desk—seemingly with less red ink than yesterday.
“And give the final revision to Antonio tonight. I expect to see it in tomorrow’s mockup,” she said, her tone as clipped as ever.
For a split second, she paused, and I could’ve sworn there was the faintest shadow of a smile on her blush-pink lips. Then she swept into her office, leaving me gaping in awe and Emily mentally throwing daggers at my neck.
I smile now at the memory of Emily’s fury, dabbing at my scraped knees with a tissue.
Here I am, suddenly the favorite—or at least the least hated—and I couldn’t even tell two distinct belt buckles apart when I started.
Well, Emily deserves it, I think. She just keeps dropping the ball—
And it hits me.
How did I miss this? Sleep deprivation? Stress? Maybe. But still!
My mind rewinds at a million miles an hour: every missing file, every misdirected call, every calendar glitch and forgotten Versace skirt. It’s Emily.
The bitch is trying to sabotage me.
I should’ve known. She’s obsessive, ruthless, and laser-focused on staying ahead—traits we both need to survive as Miranda Priestly’s assistants. But this? She’s trying to get me out of the picture.
I smirk, clicking through my inbox as my thoughts settle. Let her try. She’s been throwing everything she has at me, and I just keep succeeding.
If she wants to play games, fine. I’ll keep doing my job. But as I prioritize the endless flood of emails, one thought lingers: what happens when she realizes I’m not going anywhere?
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