The clock ticks closer to 8 AM, and I can feel Emily’s eyes burning into me.
I pay her no mind. I know what she’s waiting for–another one of her schemes to pop up and send my day spiraling into chaos.
Not today, Satan.
I catch my own smirk reflected in my monitor. The clock strikes 8, and ... nothing.
From the corner of my eye, I see Emily’s pursed lips, the faintest furrow of her brows. According to her plan, I should’ve gotten an alert telling me that Miranda’s facialist had taken an unexpected day off, leaving me to either scramble for a replacement in under fifteen minutes, or suffer Miranda’s wrath when she arrived early and pissed.
Three weeks ago, her plan would’ve worked.
Now? Not a chance.
I know her game, and more importantly, I can predict her moves.
These days, I don’t just confirm Miranda’s schedule the day before—I call the hour before, too. I have a backup plan for everything. And a backup plan for that.
When I called Eugenia, the facialist, at 7 this morning, she told me the lucky news: she had won an all-expenses-paid excursion on the Manhattan Architecture Yacht Cruise. It was only valid for today, and the nice woman on the phone assured her they’d take care of everything, including any necessary appointment rescheduling.
I wished her a relaxing day off, and phoned the backup facialist. Evelyn had worked with Miranda a few times when Eugenia wasn’t available, and while Miranda prefers consistency, Evelyn is acceptable.
By 7:45, Evelyn was ready. At 7:53, Roy confirmed that Miranda was in her chair, being attended to. Disaster avoided.
I won’t do a victory dance in the middle of the office, so I settle for watching Emily’s rising anticipation shift into confusion, then simmering frustration as she realizes her latest plot, like all the rest these past few weeks, has failed spectacularly.
At first, blocking Emily’s sabotage had been exhilarating–a challenge, a game.
But now? It’s just boring.
The office runs like clockwork. Miranda’s mornings are seamless. If she’s noticed, she hasn’t said a word—which is a victory in itself.
Emily doesn’t comment on her failed plot, so neither do I. But I catch the way she exhales sharply through her nose, the way her fingers strike the keyboard a little too aggressively, the way she adjusts her crutches with a precise, jerky movement like she’s barely restraining herself.
I allow myself one fleeting moment of satisfaction.
Then, just as quickly, I shove it aside and return to my inbox. This isn’t about Emily.
This is about doing my job. And anything less than excellence? Unacceptable.
Everything is completely prepared for Miranda’s 9 AM arrival. Not a hair out of place in the office.
Except for Miranda herself.
“Honestly, are you incapable of walking in a straight line?”
A familiar ice creeps up my spine. That tone–cutting, ice-pick sharp.
I rush into the hall to fix whatever has already earned Miranda’s ire, my pulse kicking up a notch.
“I–I’m sorry, Miranda,” I hear Jennifer, one of our interns, stammer as I round the corner. “I’m wearing these heels, and I tripped–”
Oh no. No, Jennifer. Never make excuses. It just makes things worse.
The usual hush that follows Miranda’s entrance is different today. No one is just working quietly–people are frozen, waiting, bracing. I catch the way an assistant across the room is gripping their coffee cup too tightly, the way a junior editor lowers their gaze to their desk, as if praying Miranda doesn’t look their way.
I school my expression into a neutral as I approach, already making a mental checklist of how to fix this.
Miranda is going to verbally eviscerate Jennifer, and she won’t want to see her for the rest of the day. Maybe I can take Jennifer to the Closet and find something more stable for her to–
“You’re fired,” Miranda snaps.
I know better than to react. But I want to.
Miranda is famous for firing people over nothing—but this? Even for her, this is extreme.
And it doesn’t make sense. She had her facial. She should be fine.
So why does she look like she wants to tear the whole office apart?
But I don’t have time to think about it. I need to act–fast.
“Of course, Miranda,” I say smoothly, reaching for Jennifer’s arm. The poor girl is in shock, her eyes wide and unblinking. I’m afraid she might fall over. “I’ll take her to HR, and–”
“No,” Miranda clips.
Her jaw clenches–just for a second.
“Emily.”
Emily comes hobbling around the corner, trying and failing not to look frazzled.
“Take the girl to HR and make sure she never steps foot in Elias Clarke ever again. Andrea, with me.”
No room for negotiation.
I fall into step beside Miranda, my brain scrambling for ways to defuse whatever this is before it escalates further.
But this is Miranda Priestly. A hurricane would be easier to manage.
“The articles in The Book were horrendous,” she declares. “I want all new ones by tonight. And redo the editing for the accessories on page 25. Where’s the sparkle? The color?”
She tosses her bag and coat onto Emily’s desk, the motion sharper than usual. I rush to hang them up in record time and follow Miranda into her office.
She’s already mid-rant, her words coming faster, harsher, relentless.
“–saw it last season. It simply won’t do. If these imbeciles would use their brains, they’d have realized that. Change the meeting with Burberry to this afternoon, and make sure my lawyer is available tomorrow.”
She exhales sharply–a rare, irritated sigh–then adds, almost to herself, “Why he chose to go out of town in the middle of all this I’ll never know, I have half a mind to fire him.”
Oh.
There it is.
That’s when it clicks–this isn’t just a bad mood. Something is wrong.
Miranda Priestly does not threaten to fire her lawyer.
Lunch orders, designers, assistants? Expendable. But her lawyer? One of the few people Miranda needs?
I tighten my grip on my tablet, absorbing the moment for exactly what it is.
“I want Le Bernardin for lunch,” she continues briskly, as if the outburst never happened. “And make sure it’s Chef Pierre, not Antony. I don’t care what you have to do, make it happen.”
When she finally looks up at me, her expression is unreadable.
Her hand is wrapped around a pen too tightly, as if she’s barely holding something back.
“That’s all.”
I turn on my heel, forcing myself not to sprint back to my desk. Today is A Bad Day.
And I refuse to be the one to make it worse.
I will not mess up.
I grit my teeth and get to work.
My exhaustion at the end of the day is unlike anything I’ve felt before.
I usually thrive in a crisis, but today? Nothing was good enough. The more I fixed things, the more furious Hurricane Miranda became.
Now, I’m trying to catch my breath–literally–after running around The Upper East Side to track down a singular, specific brooch for an upcoming shoot. Miranda had seen it in a display window weeks ago, and of course, it had already been sold.
That didn’t stop her from ordering me to “Find it, Andrea.”
So I did. I sweet-talked, bribed, stalked, and begged until I convinced a very confused elderly woman to sell it to me.
And now I’m back. Brooch in hand. Ready to be done with this hell of a day.
“Miranda.”
I hesitate.
She hadn’t even noticed me standing in the doorway. Her glasses are perched low on her nose, her gaze locked on the pages in front of her, her fingers tapping the desk in an irregular, impatient rhythm.
Oh. That’s new.
She finally looks up, and the irritation in her expression is like a slap.
“What.”
Not a question. A command.
Justify why you’re here. Make it good.
I resist the urge to gulp.
“I have the brooch you wanted,” I say, holding it up.
She tilts her head just slightly, so I take that as my cue and dart forward, gently placing it on the desk.
A beat.
She stares down at it.
“I don’t want it.”
Tires screech to a halt in my brain.
What? Is she kidding me?
No, Miranda Priestly never ‘kids.’
But what else am I supposed to think? She demanded that this brooch, only this brooch.
And now she doesn’t want it?
Something tightens in my chest, but I force myself to remain calm.
Breathe, Andy. Keep it together.
I straighten up, my customer service smile snapping into place.
“Alright,” I say smoothly. “I’ll return it.”
I reach for the brooch and turn to leave, counting the steps to the door, willing this day to just end already.
But before I make it two steps–
“Why are there all new articles?”
I pause. Slowly turn back around.
“Because,” I tread carefully. “You told us to do all new ones.”
Her nostrils flare. But–miraculously–she lets it go.
For the first time today, I think I might actually make it out of this alive.
Except...
Except I can’t shake the feeling that something is seriously wrong.
Today hasn’t been her usual frustration over incompetent staff. This is something else.
I hesitate, my better instincts scream at me to let it go.
But–
“Miranda,” I hedge. I know this is a bad idea. I know it.
But I can’t stop myself.
“Is there something wrong? Besides Runway?”
The shift is instant.
Her lips press into a thin, unforgiving line.
Her eyes turn glacial, sharp, slitted with warning.
And I know.
I have just blown up my career before it even properly started.
She stands, slow and deliberate, placing her hands on the desk.
And then—she tears me apart.
"What’s wrong, Andrea," she says, her voice low and lethal, "is that you seem to want to do anything other than your job."
I freeze.
"What part of your job description," she continues, voice cutting like surgical steel, "tells you to pry into my personal life?"
I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
My stomach drops, but I can’t look away.
Her fingers tap the desk once. Sharp. Precise. Final.
And then she goes for the kill.
"Are you that lonely and desperate for gossip? Not enough drama on The Real Housewives?"
My pulse pounds in my ears.
"Or are you looking for a bigger paycheck?"
Oh God.
"A story about me could earn you a pretty penny from Rupert Murdoch and that pile of trash he calls a publication."
I physically flinch.
"Is that the sort of journalism you want to do?" she asks, tilting her head in mock consideration. "Maybe I should hand you over to Murdoch and find an assistant who can actually do her job."
And just like that—
I disappear.
I search her face for any sign of hesitation. Any hint that she’s just angry—that she doesn’t mean it.
There’s nothing.
Nothing but cold, detached dismissal.
She turns away, staring out at the New York skyline, already done with me.
"That’s all."
I run.
I don’t care how it looks.
My heels clack against the marble as I grab my bag, bolt for the elevator, slam the button repeatedly until the doors finally—finally—open.
I step onto the quiet New York street, breath hitching in my throat, hands shaking so hard I barely register the cold air biting at my skin.
Stupid. So stupid.
How could I be so stupid?
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to feel it.
I stop at a liquor store.
I don’t even hesitate.
Tonight, I am going to drink until I can’t feel a goddamn thing.
I grip the paper bag in my hand, my own shaky reflection staring back at me from the darkened storefront window.
My eyes are wide, glassy, unrecognizable.
I swallow hard.
What would Miranda do?
A dry, humorless laugh bubbles up in my throat.
I already know the answer.
She wouldn’t have let this happen in the first place.
I squeeze my eyes shut, grip the bottle tighter.
God.
How pathetic can I be?
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