I stare at the bottle—hard.
It taunts me. I bought it with the clear intent to drink and forget my problems. I still want to drink and forget.
So why am I staring at this unopened bottle?
I glance up at the clock above the sorry excuse for a mantle. My eyes go wide—if I’d been following through on my plan, I’d have done a spit take.
It’s been three hours?!
Three hours since I ran out of Elias Clarke, tear-stained and shaking, and found the first open liquor store I could.
Less than three hours since I set the bottle on the coffee table, placed a glass of ice next to it, and sank into this same spot on the couch.
I notice the ice has melted, leaving only a puddle at the bottom of the glass. That small, persistent feeling in the back of my mind tells me I know exactly why I haven’t broken the seal.
I know why, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
Fuck this.
Before I can think any further, I lash out, grab the bottle, and open it—pouring more than I should into the waiting glass. I clutch the glass to my chest as I settle back onto the couch.
I’m gonna take a drink now. Any second now.
Goddamnit!
I slam the glass on the table and hang my head in my hands.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, talking to myself.
I want to drown my sorrows—to drown out that hell of a day, to silence every cruel dagger she hurled at me, each one a perfect bullseye.
But I can’t.
I used to be a partier. What twenty-something isn’t, at some point? I once reveled in the freedom of drinking until nothing mattered, then tumbling into bed to pass out—waking up as a walking dead mess with no care at all.
Now, I care.
I don’t want to be hungover while navigating Miranda, Emily, and all the other dangers of Runway. I can’t afford to be off my game and let something slip.
I can’t risk Miranda’s pursed-lip look of disaster.
Why am I even worrying? After tonight, I’m as good as fired. She’s axed less expendable people for smaller mistakes, and she’s made it crystal clear that I’m entirely replaceable.
As that horrid reality TV dance teacher used to say, “Everyone is replaceable.”
As awful as she is, she’s not wrong.
I roll over onto my back, stretching out and staring at the popcorn ceiling.
If I’m fired, I might as well get shit-face drunk. I tilt my head toward the coffee table and reach for the glass again.
Except…
She didn’t say I was fired.
My fingertips hover mere millimeters beyond the tempting amber liquid. Miranda said a lot of horrible things, but she never said I was fired. Maybe she would have if I hadn’t run off like a child.
No, that can’t be right.
She’d said, “That’s all.” Her classic “I’m done with you, now be gone” dismissal. If I were fired, wouldn’t she have said so?
I let my arm drop, my fingertips grazing the dusty floorboards. I desperately need to vacuum, yet every day I come home, I just can’t bring myself to do it.
So I may or may not be fired—there’s no clear answer.
For the first time in a long while, I almost miss the old Andy—the one who only cared about keeping her job because her pride demanded it.
Now—
Nope. Not gonna go there. Not after today. Definitely not until I know whether or not I’m fired.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Were they right? My parents, Lily, Christian, even—god-forbid—Nate?
Should I just quit?
A knot twists in my stomach, my throat tightens, and my eyes burn.
No—apparently I can’t just quit.
I don’t want to think about why not.
I don’t want to think at all.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to drink the damn alcohol.
I stare up at the ceiling, doing my best not to think, hating that I won’t make it any easier on myself.
What the hell are you doing, Andy?
I sit with that question, staring at the freaking bottle until something shrill jars me out of the silence.
On autopilot, I scramble for my phone. It’s not pretty—one arm is asleep, and the rest of my limbs feel stiff from disuse. I probably look like a newborn giraffe. By the time I check the caller ID, it’s only a few rings away from voicemail.
5 AM? That might be a new record.
I hesitate—should I let it go to voicemail? Just this once?
I answer the phone.
“Miranda, good morning,” I manage, forcing on my usual professional, upbeat-but-not-too-cheery tone, though even I can hear the croak in my voice.
I close my eyes and brace for whatever comes next. Every scenario running through my mind is worse than the last:
Will she fire me? Summon me to the office just to tell me to leave and never come back? Make me do one last impossible task—and then fire me?
After an unnatural pause, she speaks.
“Andrea,” her voice is clipped and clear as always, “I need the latest issue of that magazine, uncreased, unmarked, hand delivered to the townhouse by six. That’s all.”
Miranda hangs up, leaving me clutching the phone as my brain whirs to life like my old MacBook struggling to boot The Sims 4. Not graceful, but it gets the job done.
That magazine can only be Vogue—Runway’s main competitor. She wants it delivered to the townhouse, either because she needs to pore over it before starting her day or because she doesn’t want anyone to know she’d deigned to look at it at all. Or maybe both.
Either way, this task isn’t impossible, but it has to be a test: deliver the contraband without anyone noticing.
This is fine. I can do this. Armed with a plan, I get ready.
I refuse to let fear rule as I walk up the front steps of the townhouse, using the assistant key to let myself in.
My original plan was to leave the magazine in the spot I usually leave The Book, but twin tornadoes halt me in my tracks.
“Andy!”
“Did you bring us more books?”
“When can we have the next Harry Potter?”
“We wanna know what happens next!”
I can’t help but giggle as Caroline and Cassidy dance around me like excited puppies on the hunt for treats.
They’re nearly identical—especially in their matching school uniforms—but it’s not hard to tell them apart. Cassidy is bubbly, welcoming every stranger and constantly dreaming up pranks, while Caroline is more reserved, slowly warming up to new faces. She’d probably be a rule follower if she weren’t always roped into her sister’s schemes.
These little terrors nearly got me fired once, but ever since I managed to score them the latest unpublished Harry Potter book, they’ve been my staunchest supporters—probably because they believe I can hook them up with more exclusives before anyone else.
A throat clears from the stair landing, and we all look up to see Miranda descending. Of course she’s dressed impeccably; even as the weather cools, she transitions from fashionable fall sweaters to winter warmth effortlessly.
“You want to know what happens next, Caroline. We must enunciate properly to be taken seriously.”
Caroline fights a roll of her eyes at her mom’s correction—good call, really.
Miranda reaches the bottom of the stairs and glances first at the magazine I’m holding, then at my face—the very moment I sense the beginnings of disappointment.
Before it can fully manifest, I peel off the faux New Yorker cover to reveal the real magazine underneath and hurry to hand it over.
“I didn’t think you’d want any paparazzi seeing you—or me—with it, so…”
Miranda looks from the magazine to my face again, this time thoughtfully. She tilts her head, and I cringe at the thought of what she might see: no amount of concealer could mask the dark circles under my eyes, still red and pinched from a sleepless night of crying and wondering if I even have a future.
Yet, I refuse to apologize for my appearance. I’m decked out head to toe in designer clothes and accessories. If I look exhausted, it’s because I am—and only a decent night’s sleep can fix that.
“Hmm,” Miranda hums, handing the magazine back and gesturing for me to replace the cover. “Girls, get your bags. Roy is pulling up.”
The twins scramble to obey, and I peek outside. Sure enough, the town car is pulling up to the curb and parking.
I’m gonna have to be quick and lucky if I want to beat Miranda to the office. If they drop the girls at school first–
“Andrea, quit dawdling. We need to get going.”
I snap back to attention, wide-eyed at the implication. I’m riding with them?
I’ve ridden with Miranda plenty of times—between shoots, run-throughs, and all sorts of appointments—but I’ve never accompanied her while she took the girls to school.
I guess it only makes sense, I think, as we walk out. I lock the door behind us; we’re heading to the same place anyway.
Miranda gets in the back with the girls, and I sit up front with Roy, who greets me with a smile and a raised eyebrow. I offer the tiniest shrug in return.
No dude, I don’t know any more than you do.
The drive to school is filled with the twins’ excited chatter, with Miranda soaking it all in. I steal glances at her in the rearview mirror—she’s utterly engaged in every word the girls say.
I’m not sure what I expected: detachment? Miranda ignoring everything in favor of work?
But no. Miranda loves her girls. I know that well; I was nearly fired once for failing to fly her back to New York in time for their piano recital. Apparently, hurricanes are beyond my control.
Seeing such a normal moment play out calms something inside me. For someone dubbed The Ice Queen, there’s a surprising amount of love in this car.
The twins say their farewells and get out of the car, and almost without a word, Miranda summons me to the backseat.
I can’t help but marvel silently—words are my bread and butter, my passion, yet here, Miranda’s effectiveness transcends them. Or maybe I’m just finally learning to read her better.
I slide into the seat beside her; her hand is already outstretched for the magazine. I uncover Vogue’s glossy cover once more and pass it over. Miranda accepts it, though her gaze remains fixed out the window, watching the twins disappear into the building—heads together, undoubtedly hatching some mischievous scheme.
After last night, I know I should keep my mouth shut, but something–a weird mix of masochism and a death wish?–propels me to speak.
“They’re really great kids,” I say.
For a moment, Miranda freezes, then turns her attention to the magazine. She starts flipping through the pages, and I think she won’t reply. I shift my focus to my phone, preemptively triple-checking today’s schedule.
“They are everything.”
I glance over; Miranda still hasn’t looked up—until she pauses and meets my gaze. In her crystal eyes, filled with something I can’t quite name, she says,
“I won’t lose them. Not yet.”
Before I can muster a response, she turns back to the magazine and scoffs.
“Dreadful,” she mutters. “That shade of blue? With that background? Editorial malpractice.”
A small, involuntary tug lifts the corner of my lips.
“Cerulean?” I venture.
Miranda glances at me again, and I brace for a biting remark—but instead, she just flips the page, though I swear I catch a slight twitch in her lips, maybe a hint of a smile recalling my disastrous first-day outfit.
The rest of the ride to Elias Clarke is quiet—interrupted only by Miranda’s running commentary on the subpar spreads before her and my own frantic phone calls to designers, departments, and restaurants.
I wonder how I’ll possibly make it to Starbucks and back before Miranda hits her desk, but then she surprises me.
“I told Emily to handle the Starbucks this morning.”
I let out a small sigh of relief; one less impossible task to worry about. I might have to learn to teleport someday, but today isn’t that day.
We pull up to the curb of Elias Clarke. I hop out as Roy opens Miranda’s door. Torn between racing inside to beat her and staying to catch any last-minute instructions, I decide to stay with her until the elevator arrives—then I’ll sprint up the stairs and hope to beat the elevator to my desk.
It’s a fool’s gamble, but it’s the best option I’ve got.
Inside, Miranda is already doling out a flurry of notes and tasks as we wait for the elevator. When the door finally opens, I start to leave—but Miranda gestures for me to follow. I’m stunned for a beat, then stride into the elevator before the doors close, determined not to embarrass either of us.
Miranda keeps talking the entire ride, giving us both a convenient excuse for why I’m riding with her. Efficiency, I think—since I’m already here, why waste time? She speaks too quickly for me to catch every word, so I scribble down her next commands as the elevator doors finally open onto Runway’s floor.
The sight that greets me—Emily smirking, and then gobsmacked—reminds me that I hadn’t even considered how this whole setup might look to anyone else.
Oh well, too late now.
Emily, mouth agape, manages to hand Miranda her coffee and then scurries out of our way as Miranda and I make our way down the hall. I continue furiously scribbling notes until we reach her office. Miranda tosses her coat and bag onto Emily’s desk, and something in me finally relaxes—whatever last night was, it’s as if it never happened.
I take my seat and get to work. In a brief moment of quiet, I wonder: Is this Miranda’s version of an apology? A silent reassurance? Whatever this morning has been, I’ll take it.
Exhausted and uncertain about how I’ll make it through the day without collapsing, I push it all aside and dive into my tasks. Because, at least for now, everything is fine.
The day is terrifyingly normal.
Miranda isn’t in a good mood, but she’s not a hurricane either—whatever was so wrong yesterday no longer hangs as heavily in the air.
And Emily? She’s been surprisingly… helpful.
It’s a strange about-face; as far as I can tell, there’s been no plotting, no scheming, no games of revenge. Emily’s doing her job—doing it well—and working with me to make things happen. I’m not sure where the shift in attitude came from, but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Sitting at my desk, I glance across the room to her. With the phone receiver tucked between her shoulder and ear, she types furiously.
“No, Miranda is not available to ‘catch up,’” she says brusquely. “Yes, I’ll let her know you called.”
After hanging up, she catches my eyes—and, if you can believe it, even rolls them good-naturedly. I shrug back with a small smile, and we both return to work.
I’m not foolish enough to take this new Emily entirely at face value; I’ll still be triple-confirming Miranda’s schedule for the foreseeable future. Yet I can’t shake that kernel of excited hope that Emily and I might finally find some common ground and actually work together.
I think back to this morning when I stepped out of the elevator behind Miranda.
Emily had seemed so sure of some victory before she saw me. Did she think Miranda had finally fired me? She hadn’t been around for my big chewing-out last night, so maybe she assumed I was gone because she was sent out to fetch the coffee.
Then, the way her face fell when she saw me—it wasn’t the look of someone ready to plan her next moves. She looked utterly defeated. I can only hope she’s realized I’m not going anywhere, and that her own shenanigans will eventually backfire. We’ll see.
Shaking off the thought, I dial Miranda’s lawyer’s office to confirm this afternoon’s appointment. Unlike the last meeting about her divorce details, Miranda didn’t instruct me to tag along and take notes this time—I’m trusting the legal assistants to do a good enough job.
After a few rings, a frazzled-sounding assistant picks up.
“Rogers, Rogers, and Rogers, this is Cindy—how can I help you?” she blurts, as if she’d just finished sprinting to the phone.
“Hi,” I say brightly, “I’m Andy, calling to confirm Miranda Priestley’s appointment for 3 PM today.”
“Oh!” Cindy exclaims. “Yes, you’re calling about the custody hearing—I mean, the meeting! The meeting with Miranda Priestly and Mr. Rogers, of course. Yes, 3 PM is still good—we’ll see you then.”
Before I can reply, Cindy hangs up. Did she think I wouldn’t notice her slip?
A custody hearing?
Why? How?
I don’t have all the answers yet, but pieces are beginning to fall into place: Miranda’s out-of-the-blue bad mood, her explosion when I pried too much, her ominous comment about not losing the girls.
Miranda is fighting a war, and nobody knows—no one but me.
As I set the phone back in its cradle, I make an easy decision. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure Miranda’s fight is as easy as possible.
I turn back to my monitor and dive into work with a renewed vigor.
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