For the first time in weeks, I have a handle on everything, and the day is going great.
It’s a big day—four separate shoots happening at once to stay on schedule for next month’s issue.
Knowing about Emily’s shenanigans, I didn’t trust her to organize this. It had to run perfectly, and yeah, I pulled a few sixteen-hour days to make it happen. But I did it. With Emily out of the office getting her cast removed, nothing can derail this.
That’s me, Andrea Sachs, accomplishing the impossible.
I hum to myself as I fire off emails, the day already falling into place.
My phone dings. It’s a text from Julia Laurent, Runway’s minimalist queen of styling. She’s at the Effortless Elegance shoot today, working with The Row, Max Mara, and Loro Piana.
Julia: Andy… what is this?
My confusion lasts only a second before a photo follows. Racks of soft, neutral garments sit awkwardly beneath LED-lit walls, metallic fixtures, and sci-fi props.
Oh no.
The phone is already at my ear. My perfectly crafted plan is unraveling with every answer.
Everyone and everything is in the wrong place: garments, accessories, stylists, and photographers—all rerouted to the wrong locations. Emily’s not even here, and she’s somehow managed to ruin everything.
Honestly, I’d be impressed if I didn’t have to fix this before Miranda notices and either fires me or kills me then raises me from the dead to work in necromantic servitude for the next hundred years.
No time to dwell on that. I have a disaster to fix.
Two hours later, I’m hiding in the restroom at Runway. My hands grip the sink, my head hangs low, and I’m trying not to throw up.
I did it. My God, I actually did it.
Dozens of frantic calls, apologies, emergency couriers, and enough ego-stroking to last a lifetime—and somehow, the shoots are back on track. The worst is over. For now.
But I can’t think about my next task. I feel hollow, my chest tight with exhaustion.
Is this worth it? Emily wants it so badly, and she’s willing to make my life hell worse than Miranda ever has. Should I just let her have it?
Maybe I’ll quit, let Emily win. I could move in with five roommates and work at Java Joe’s. Surely customers can’t be more demanding than fashion editors.
The door swings open. I instantly straighten, smoothing my blouse and fixing my hair.
Nigel stops mid-step, arching a perfectly styled eyebrow. “Oh, child. A breakdown? Again?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, though my voice betrays me.
Nigel steps closer, tilting his head. “If the office gossip is to be believed, you were Superwoman today. What’s got you looking like you lost a battle?”
I force a smile. “I got it done. I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”
His expression softens, and for a moment, I see something raw behind his polished veneer.
“You’re not the first to wonder. I’ve been wondering that every day for the last eighteen years. But let me ask you something: are you really going to let someone whose greatest achievement is holding a grudge push you out of the job you’ve killed yourself to master?”
The words hit harder than I expect. My job. Mine. Am I seriously considering letting Emily take it from me?
When I meet Nigel’s eyes, my smile feels real.
“Thanks, Nigel. I needed that.”
He pats my cheek with a small, knowing smirk.
“You’d fumble through without me, darling, but I’ll admit—I make it easier. Now, back to work. We’ve got a world to conquer.”
Sometimes, the dichotomy of Runway freaks me out.
Today was unquestionably the hardest day of my career, and now, at 10 p.m., the lights are low, the phones are silent, and the office is almost empty. It’s just Marco waiting to deliver The Book, Miranda, and me.
I know from her schedule that the twins are at their father’s house tonight. When they’re away, Miranda often stays much later at the office, working until exhaustion takes over.
She’s the hardest-working person I’ve ever met. If she’s taught me anything, it’s this: women can’t win.
Childless and career-focused? We’re accused of rejecting our womanhood.
Mothers without careers? Anti-feminist, giving into the patriarchy.
And if we try to do both? We’re failures in two arenas instead of just one.
But Miranda does both. She’s MVP in my eyes, as a businesswoman and a mother. And yet, Irv Ravitz gets more respect than she does, even though he’s half as competent and not nearly as successful.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. Dwelling on systemic sexism while climbing the corporate ladder is like mourning the Titanic while you’re stuck in a lifeboat.
My fingers toy with the edge of my book: The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir’s unabridged English translation. Lately, it’s been fuel for this unformed ball of thoughts tumbling around my brain. Maybe an essay series on feminism in the fashion industry—an industry largely geared toward women yet run predominantly by men.
“Andrea.”
I blink and look up. Somehow, I’m already standing in front of Miranda’s desk, notepad in hand, before my brain catches up.
Miranda gestures vaguely at the chair across from her. “Sit down. Your perkiness is giving me a headache.”
For a second, I nearly sit on the floor—an absurd combination of exhaustion and Pavlovian instinct to obey—but I catch myself in time and lower into the chair properly.
I don’t ask what she wants. You don’t ask Miranda Priestly questions. If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.
Without a word, she slides a folder across the desk.
“Read through this. Mark it up. Let your thoughts be known.”
I open the folder cautiously, my heart thumping as I scan the title: The Rise of Sustainable Luxury: Chic, Conscious, and Coveted.
A million questions flood my brain, but I clamp down on them. Don’t think. Just do.
I uncap my black pen, but Miranda interrupts.
“Use a red one.”
A sleek red pen appears at my side as if conjured. I gulp. Miranda wants me to edit the article.
My hands tremble slightly as I start. There are minor spelling issues—easy fixes. Beyond that, I hesitate. Who am I to critique a well-researched argument on fast fashion? Still, my journalist brain kicks in: What’s the alternative? Two-thousand-dollar Prada heels?
My thoughts ignite. Soon, the article is filled with red marks and notes.
When I look up, Miranda is watching me, reading glasses dangling in her fingers. Her expression is inscrutable—not disapproving, but not soft either.
I swallow hard, handing her the article. Her gaze lingers on me for a second longer than expected before she takes it.
I watch her read, unable to look away. The intensity of her focus is mesmerizing. Despite the million demands on her attention, she gives this article the full force of her intellect.
“You need to be more concise in your notes,” she says without looking up. “No one has time to read a novel of a comment, no matter how accurate it may be.”
She puts the folder aside and slides another one toward me.
I don’t hesitate this time. I uncap the pen and dive in.
For the next hour, we work in companionable silence. There’s no tension, no chaos—just the rhythmic scratch of pens and the occasional shuffle of papers.
It’s... soothing.
This is nothing like what I imagined working with Miranda would feel like.
When I finally stand to leave, I glance back at her. She’s still working, her focus entirely on the task at hand.
Somehow, after the day I’ve had, this is the moment that makes everything feel worthwhile.
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