Chapter Text
It started months ago, when Irv Ravitz was finally ousted from the Elias-Clarke board and replaced with someone younger, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous: Henry Campbell.
On paper, Henry was the kind of visionary investors adored: efficient, obsessively data-driven, and annoyingly good at projecting sincerity. In practice, he was a scalpel carving into the bones of the publishing empire.
Things shifted almost overnight.
Elevator access was rerouted: the left bank now reserved for executive floors, the right side limited to levels 1 through 20. Campbell called it flow optimization. Everyone else called it what it was, a demotion meant as a bureaucratic sabotage.
The cafeteria closed promptly at 1:30 p.m. Porcelain was replaced with paper. Legacy departments began shedding long-time staffers like snakeskin. In their place came eager new hires with ring lights in their cubicles and five-figure follower counts.
And now, Campbell was replacing the editors-in-chief, one by one. Friendly faces with approachable brands. Former influencers, podcasters, sons and daughters of billionaires who'd never held a proper corporate title but had mastered the art of a PR-safe reputation.
Every EIC began to feel the heat. And like his predecessor, Henry had a special interest in Miranda Priestly’s seat at Runway.
No one said it outright, of course. But everyone knew the signs.
Miranda saw them first.
Emily Charlton, however, heard them.
She had once been Miranda Priestly’s overworked, underfed assistant. Now, she was the Director of Talent & Brand Strategy for the entire Elias-Clarke network.
Her job? Control the narrative. Manage reputations. Anticipate fallout before it hits the press. She didn’t just dress the faces of the company anymore, she chose, cultivated, and repaired them when they cracked.
Her name was on every confidential memo. She briefed legal, advised PR, vetted public-facing executives. If someone sneezed wrong at a charity gala, she knew before the Kleenex hit their hand.
And Miranda? Miranda trusted her.
They no longer operated in the old hierarchy. It wasn’t assistant and editor-in-chief anymore. It was something more powerful and quieter. Emily advised, Miranda decided. It was a language built without words, almost a decade of storm fronts survived side by side.
Which is why Emily knew the moment the weather changed.
It was a Tuesday when she heard it. Two junior editors from a click-bait lifestyle publication gossiping too loudly in the executive restroom. The young, entitled, and reckless kind. One mentioned “fresh leadership” for legacy publications. The other whispered about Campbell’s comment regarding “Runway’s natural succession arc.”
They said it like Miranda Priestly was a brand being quietly rebranded.
Emily didn’t interrupt. She made a mental note of the floor, the time, and the shade of lipstick she’d wear to a meeting that didn’t yet exist.
An hour later, the alert landed in her inbox:
Elias-Clarke Executive Strategy Review – Attendees Confidential
Miranda Priestly’s name was not on the list.
But Emily’s was. Along with every current board member, the heads of HR and PR, and each of the newly installed Editors-in-Chief. Even the latest hire at Well made the cut.
Not Nigel, though. Not even with his recent and long overdue appointment as the editor of Men’s Runway.
Emily stood, straightened her collar, grabbed her iPad, and took the elevator straight to seventeen.
Because even if she now reported to the Elias-Clarke executive board, she still couldn’t shake the truth… She wasn’t going to be complicit in ousting her first queen.
Miranda’s office was unchanged. She was behind her desk, eyes skimming proofs, red pen in hand because of course she still edited on paper. Her white hair was sculpted to flawlessness. Her cufflinks were platinum. To be fair, she hadn’t aged, she had crystallized.
Emily didn’t pay attention to the first assistant seated on her old desk, she didn’t wait to be invited in. She walked in.
“There’s going to be movement,” she said.
Miranda’s pen did not pause. “Be specific.”
“They’re whispering about Runway. About image. About legacy...” She trailed off.
She took a pause before continuing, “Campbell is calling a closed-door strategy meeting. You’re not on the list.”
Miranda finally looked up. There was no panic in her face, only the slightest shift. Like pressure dropping before a storm.
“And what do you think they’re planning?” The editor asked, her focus solely on the girl in front of her.
Emily didn’t blink when she responded, “A replacement.”
Silence took the whole office, then Miranda set down her pen with delicate finality.
“From whom?”
“Two clackers in the bathroom,” Emily said, deadpan. “Then I received a notification not even an hour later. The said strategy meeting.”
Miranda’s face remained still, but the room changed. Only subtly, the one you can feel through the atmosphere.
“They’re not that bold,” Miranda said.
Emily met her eyes. “They are now.”
Miranda stood and walked to the window. Manhattan glittered beneath her, a city that once bowed to her every editorial instinct. Now, it felt distant. Like a battlefield already mapped for war.
“They want someone younger,” Miranda murmured.
Emily didn’t answer.
“They want someone with a curated home life. Wife, husband, children. In other words, they want someone relatable. Someone who could be vulnerable and use it as public charm.”
“And followers,” Emily added. “The new EIC at Well has a million.”
Miranda scoffed, “As if likes build legacy.”
“They’re trying to make Runway palatable to their children.”
Miranda turned, “I built this empire with instinct. With taste. With an uncompromising vision.”
“With terror,” Emily said, lips twitching. “And stilettos.”
Then Miranda’s laptop pinged.
Emily stepped forward, glanced at the screen. “It’s from Campbell.”
Subject: Long-term Brand Alignment.
Miranda walked over and read it herself.
“They'll be watching,” Emily said. “Your every move.”
“I know.”
“There’s a gala next week. Full house, board members, press, investors. Henry will be there.”
Miranda only nodded.
Emily hesitated before asking, “And you’ll be attending... solo?”
Miranda didn’t answer immediately. She sat back on her chair, crossed one leg over the other.
“No,” she said finally. “I don’t think I will.”
Emily’s lashes lowered just slightly. “You don’t think you’ll attend… or you don’t think you’ll be alone?”
A pause, the kind that tingled with unspoken meaning.
Miranda looked up, a flicker of amusement ghosting her features. “You’re not usually this subtle.”
“I thought I’d try diplomacy,” Emily replied. “Since sabotage might still be premature.”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed so slightly, “You think my presence at a cocktail hour will convince the board of my relevance?”
“I think your presence with someone unexpected might remind them they’ve underestimated you.”
Miranda gave the girl a long look before rising again, walking slowly to the window. She didn’t look back as she spoke.
“And who, exactly, do you propose I parade around like a show pony?”
Emily didn’t flinch. “Someone attractive, accomplished, discreet. Not married, of course. No scandals. Someone who doesn’t outshine you but doesn’t vanish beside you either.”
“Obedient, then.”
“Believable is what I’m going for,” Emily said.
The word hovered.
Miranda turned her head slightly, catching Emily’s reflection in the glass.
“You’ve given this thought.”
“I am getting paid to anticipate problems.”
Miranda looked back, “You no longer work for me, Emily.”
“But I work with you. And if they replace you, we both know that the magazine will suffer.”
There was a pause. Then Miranda moved to her desk and picked up her pen again.
“Very well. Put together a list.”
Emily blinked, trying to register what the editor just told her. “Really?”
Miranda’s voice was quiet, “I won’t entertain amateurs. No actors or influencers. No journalists.”
Emily nodded, just a breath too quickly.
Miranda looked up, tone silked in warning. “Don’t patronize me, Emily.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Emily said and walked out like she had started a war. In a way, she might’ve did.
Of course, Emily—being Emily—approached the task like she was styling an editorial spread, only this time, the fabric came with egos, résumés, and carefully curated press histories. Her office resembled the war room of a political campaign (which, frankly, she’d briefly considered as a career after surviving this industry).
Headshots and bios were printed on paper, color-coded Post-its clung to every surface, and a spreadsheet beamed onto the wall with categories like: Photogenic, Elegant, Discreet, Charitable Affiliations, Social Media Clean. Each name was scored, sub-scored, and mentally ranked.
By Thursday, she’d met five contenders in person, off the record, in settings so polished they could pass as brunch or coincidence.
By Friday, Emily had narrowed the list to five men. Each more polished, pedigreed, and perfectly presentable than the last, and yet… not quite right.
A philanthropist with bone structure, a concert cellist with haunting eyes, a startup investor with curated charm, a soft-spoken architect, and a British media lawyer who practically exhaled prestige. They all looked the part. None of them fit it.
Still, she printed the top three and slipped them into a sleek, unbranded matte-black folder, the kind that could be left on a glass desk without offending the decor.
She delivered it to Miranda’s office Friday morning at 9:01 a.m.
“Your shortlist,” she said crisply, placing it on the desk.
Miranda didn’t look up from her proofs.
“Three options,” Emily continued. “Clean records. Good angles. Publicly available, but not overexposed.”
She was answered with silence, but she did not squirm. No, she no longer did that. She’d known Miranda long enough to know that silence didn’t mean lack of attention, it meant calculation.
Miranda finally opened the folder and flipped through the pages like she was reviewing swatches she already hated.
“Daniel Jackson,” she read aloud, her tone like she was trying out a flavor she didn’t trust. “Didn’t he sit on the board of some flavorless NGO with three acronyms?”
“Exactly,” Emily said. “He’s beige enough to fade into the background, but good-looking enough to earn a headline photo.”
Miranda turned the page.
“Thomas Chen.”
“Attractive in a way that would trend, but quiet enough not to upstage.”
“I do not get upstaged, Emily.”
Emily lifted a brow and straightened her posture, “Of course not.”
Miranda’s fingers paused on the final profile. “Lucas Hollier,” she murmured.
Emily leaned forward slightly. “British and brilliant. He’s handled cases for Warner and Vanity. Discreet by trade. Gay, but not openly partnered. Nothing scandalous, nothing distracting.”
Miranda looked at her. “You’re suggesting I enter the gala on the arm of a man who might be more interested in my shoes than my politics?”
Emily didn’t blink. “I’m suggesting you enter the gala with someone polished enough to suggest intimacy, but unthreatening enough to avoid questions. And the ambiguity? The press loves it.”
Miranda sat back.
The folder remained open.
Emily waited.
But Miranda didn’t speak. Instead, she slowly closed the folder, then placed it to the side like a menu she had no intention of ordering from.
A few days later, Emily came in again bringing the second list. Which was worse.
Miranda barely glanced at it. “I said no journalists, and you give me a columnist from the Times? Do you want me to be photographed standing next to someone who thinks writing about weekend oysters is hard-hitting commentary?”
Emily gritted her teeth. “He won a Peabody.”
“So did Sesame Street.”
By the end of week two, Emily had turned to talent agents, boutique matchmakers, and two very expensive publicists who specialized in narrative optics. It made no difference.
No one passed.
It was now four days before the gala, and Emily was rapidly running out of acceptable human beings.
They were sitting in Miranda’s office again. The quiet tick of her Cartier desk clock and the low hum of sharp silence were the only things you could hear.
Emily cleared her throat, “We could pivot. Choose someone unexpected. A colleague. A friend.”
Miranda didn’t even look up from her proofs. “I don’t have friends.”
“Noted,” Emily said dryly. “Then maybe someone with the right… contrast. Someone with credibility. With independence. Someone whose presence says you’re not clinging to youth… you’re choosing power and intelligence.”
Miranda finally looked up. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Be more specific.”
Emily hesitated before saying, “Let me make a call.”
Miranda gave her a long, unreadable look. “Someone you trust?”
Emily straightened her spine, “Someone I’d bet your career on.”
A silence passed between them. Miranda gave the faintest nod.
Emily turned, heels sharp against the floor, already pulling out her phone as she exited. She scrolled to the contact without hesitating and tapped once when she saw the name and let it ring.
It was mid-afternoon in Washington D.C. and Andrea Sachs was on her third espresso, second interview, and possibly her fifth lie to federal security in a week. In her defense, it was not to conceal any wrongdoing, but to protect her sources.
She thrived in shadows now, not spotlights. Her work in human rights, corruption, and climate wasn’t glamorous. But it was hers.
She’d just wrapped a meeting with a whistleblower tied to a shell mining operation. Her notepad was coded, shorthand only she could decode. Her mind was already racing ahead to her next move when her phone buzzed on the table.
EMILY CHARLTON
Andy blinked.
She hadn’t heard from Emily in months, text messages here and there, occasional voice notes with gossip from fashion week. They were friends, sure, in that strange long-distance way that survived schedule conflicts and personal reinventions.
But Emily never called out of the blue.
Andy stared at the screen.
Something about that name, still in all-caps from her Runway days, pulled a string somewhere buried. A muscle she didn’t use anymore.
She answered. “Charlton?”
Emily’s voice came in crisp, amused, and possibly desperate. “Tell me, are you still devastatingly attractive, unmarried, and capable of walking in heels without embarrassing yourself?”
Andy paused. “…Did you just time-travel from 2006?”
A breath on the other end, then, too sweetly: “Miranda needs a date.”
“Miranda needs a date.” Andy repeated. The words hung in the air like a joke without a punchline.
She blinked, leaned back in her chair, and looked out the window like the answer might be written across the Washington skyline.
“I’m sorry, did you hit your head?”
Emily sighed, sharp and elegant even over the phone. “Not funny. Not a joke. This is life or death. Fashion death, but still.”
Andy laughed once, disbelieving. “That’s not a thing.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Emily snapped. “Because I seem to recall your exit from Runway being the most dramatic brush with fashion death in the last fifteen years.”
Andy rubbed her temple. “Emily—”
“She needs someone. For the gala. And the board. And the photos. You know how this goes.”
“No. No, I really don’t anymore.” Andy stood, restless, walking toward the window. Below her, the street pulsed with activity, people moving quickly in every direction.
She used to walk like that.
Emily’s voice softened, just slightly. “You do know. You just don’t want to.”
Andy closed her eyes. She could still remember the way Miranda’s voice used to sound when she summoned her across the office floor. Low, precise, almost bored, but always dangerous.
But that had been years ago. In practically another life of another girl.
“I’m not… that person anymore,” Andy said quietly.
“You’re exactly that person,” Emily replied. “You’re just taller now. With better shoes. And a reputation.”
Andy smiled despite herself. “You know I’ve been covering displacements and arms trade corruption, right? I don’t do galas, or any socialite activities.”
“Yes, and your Nobel Prize-worthy moral compass is noted and applauded. But what I need is for you to put on a tuxedo, or a dress, or whatever power-adjacent garment your ethically sourced wardrobe contains, and stand next to Miranda for two hours.”
“I don’t—why me?”
Emily hesitated. “Because you’re… known. You’re respected. You’re not some trophy. You’re your own empire now, Sachs. That’s the point.”
Andy didn’t speak. But she felt the quiet pulse in her chest.
“And,” Emily added, lighter, “let’s not pretend there’s zero poetic power in this. Come on. You? Showing up at Miranda Priestly’s side after all these years? The board won’t know whether to panic or applaud.”
Andy’s voice was low. “And Miranda agreed to this?”
Emily’s pause was too long. “She hasn’t said no.”
Andy laughed again, this time, almost broken. “Oh, that’s comforting.”
“She doesn’t know it’s you that I called, but I know that she respects you.” Emily said simply.
Andy froze.
Emily let that silence bloom for just a beat before speaking over it. “I’ll send over the invite. You have four days. You’ll be introduced as her guest. Whatever that means is up to you two.”
“I haven’t seen her in—”
“Ten years. Yes, and you look fantastic. Don’t let me down, Sachs.”
Emily hung up before Andy could say anything else. Andy stared at the phone, then at her reflection in the window.
Andrea Sachs, thirty-three. Two-time Polk Award winner. One-time Pulitzer finalist. Senior features correspondent at The New Yorker, known for her work in political corruption, climate crisis accountability, and international human rights.
Six different intelligence agencies had flagged her work as inconvenient. She’d been denied entry into three countries. She’s half fluent in Spanish, somehow Arabic, and could shoot a camera in the dark with one hand.
But this? This felt like walking into a lion’s den with an open, bloody wound.
She hated that her heart was beating faster. Andy stared at the darkened phone screen. Emily had hung up, like always, before emotions could complicate strategy.
For a few minutes, she just stood there, letting the weight of it settle.
Miranda.
That name still cracked open some part of her, uninvited. Not pain, exactly. Not attraction either. Something more like… unfinished business. An echo of a life she’d left behind so fiercely, and yet somehow, never truly escaped.
She sat back down at her desk, flipped through the notes from her meeting. Political pressure. Corporate interference. Environmental devastation. This was real. Because this was her life.
She wasn’t the girl who ran for coffee and got overwhelmed in couture. Not anymore.
And yet, the thought of Miranda, standing at that gala, with flashbulbs going off, board members watching, critics sharpening their knives, sat in her chest like a stone.
She reached for her phone again. Typed out the message slowly.
I can’t do this, Em.
A pause.
Then she added:
Tell her I said good luck.
Sent. The second it left her phone, she hated it. But she meant it.
Emily stood just outside Miranda’s office door, phone still warm in her hand. She didn’t knock.
Miranda was seated at her desk, reviewing the final mockups for the next month’s issue. Her glasses sat low on her nose, the pen in her hand moving with practiced precision.
“You’re early,” Miranda said, without looking up.
Emily stepped inside. “I heard from my contact.”
Miranda turned a page. “And?”
“They declined.”
Miranda didn’t flinch nor did she react. She set her pen down gently.
Emily waited.
“Did they have a reason?” Miranda asked, voice unreadable.
“No,” Emily lied smoothly. “Just a firm no.”
Silence settled over the office like velvet. The thick and heavy kind.
Miranda reached for the gala invitation on her desk, her eyes scanning it once more. “If the board wants a narrative,” she said, her voice calm, “then let them write their own.”
“You’re still attending?”
“I’m still Miranda Priestly,” she replied.
“Of course.” Emily said, a beat too late.
Miranda slid the invitation back into its envelope, her movements precise and untouched by sentiment. “I’ll go alone. Let them speculate.”
Emily nodded once and turned to leave, snagging Miranda’s untouched espresso on her way out without asking, just like old times.