Chapter Text
After two months in, the Elias-Clarke lobby no longer felt like a looming, foreign space to Andy. She’d gotten used to the relentless clacking of stilettos on marble and befriended the security guards who greeted her each morning. She knew which elevators were express and which stopped at every floor, and almost always remembered which one to take depending on the day. So far, she’d survived looming deadlines, embarrassing mistakes, larger-than-life egos, and the chaos of the publishing industry and come out unscathed.
Well, almost.
There had been that one incident two weeks in. Andy had arrived later than usual, owing to a networking brunch that her boss had sent her to. The lobby was surprisingly empty at nine forty-five, and there was only one other person heading into an open elevator when she reached the corridor. She leapt in just before the doors closed, and threw a grin at the woman inside.
“Thanks,” she said, a little breathless on account of the leaping. “Sometimes the next one takes forever to come, you know?”
The woman was a little shorter than Andy, but something about her regal stature made her seem eight feet tall. A silk scarf covered her head, likely protection from the rainfall that had turned Andy’s ponytail into a frizzy mane. It was knotted stylishly around large sunglasses, and the woman’s outfit could only be described as expensive: some sort of complicated trenchcoat, tapered pants, and shiny stilettos.
Her perfume was woodsy and sweet and strangely familiar, though Andy couldn’t place it.
The woman ignored Andy’s small talk, standing stiffly with her eyes on the door. Andy bit her lip before glancing over once more, feeling oddly nervous. The elevator dinged before she could say anything else, and she got off on the fourteenth floor for her first rotation of the day.
“Have a nice day,” she said to the woman, giving her a small smile before stepping off the elevator. She swore that she heard an exhale as she walked away, but by the time she turned around, the doors had closed.
Andy spent an unusual amount of time wondering about that encounter, and over the next few days she found herself looking for large sunglasses and a scarf every morning and afternoon in the lobby. She wished she had noticed which floor the woman was going to or had the sense to introduce herself — for what reason, she wasn’t certain, but the mystery was enough to keep her head on a swivel on her way to work every morning.
Over the last twelve weeks, she’d done stints at two of Elias-Clarke’s publications as part of her fellowship. She’d won the coveted position after receiving her Masters at NYU: a year-long, full-time role that rotated her through various roles and departments at the company, tailored for bringing in new faces in editing and journalism. Admittedly, Andy had been gunning for something a bit more prestigious — NPR, maybe, or The New Yorker — but she hoped to make enough connections during the fellowship to get her one step closer once it was over.
The first of each month ushered in a role at a different publication, and Andy was very aware that this month was one she hadn’t been looking forward to: Elias-Clarke’s fashion magazine. She’d tried to get out of it initially, offering to intern with accounting or the mailroom or anything but fashion, and had been entirely unsuccessful. Her supervisor, Todd, was insistent that she’d learn more at the magazine than she thought.
“Legends have walked these halls,” he reminded her that morning as they took the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor. “Even if you don’t care, many people do. Learn who they are and ask questions.”
“Got it,” Andy said.
Todd turned to her as the elevator approached their destination. “And listen: never, ever, under any circumstances, talk to—”
They were interrupted by the elevator’s announcement of its arrival, and the doors opened to a slim, scowling redhead carrying a stack of binders. Her thickly-lined eyes flicked down Andy’s body before she directed her glare at Todd.
“Really?” she said through clenched teeth. “This is the absolute last thing I have time for today. She’s on a tear.”
“When is she not?” Todd muttered. “Can’t you just bring her back to copywriting and set her up with Nicola or Randy?”
“If you don’t want me here, that’s okay,” Andy said quickly. The office was all glass walls and white marble floors and the skinniest, prettiest people she’d ever seen, and she wilted slightly at how out of place she felt. “I mean, I’m not sure I’m a good fit for fashion and all that stuff that you guys do here.”
Todd ignored her, still staring daggers at the redhead. “She probably won’t even notice.”
“Are you kidding me? She notices everything.”
“Careful, Emily,” someone said from behind Andy. “Or one might mistake that for an insult.”
Andy turned around slowly, her heart dropping at the cool, sotto voice that had been haunting her dreams for weeks. She was suddenly enveloped in that sweet, woodsy scent as she locked eyes with the person she recognized as both the woman in the elevator and the owner of the dog that she had never ended up walking.
Andy watched Miranda’s deep blue eyes briefly widen before flicking to the redhead called Emily with undisguised contempt.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry,” Emily gasped. “I was just showing the new intern, ehm—”
“Andy,” Andy supplied. She cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how warm her cheeks felt, and held out her hand. “It’s Andy. I’m the Elias Fellow.”
Miranda regarded her once more, her expression inscrutable, before stepping past her to press the elevator button. Andy dropped her hand at her side and hoped no one had noticed the slight or the way she had begun shaking slightly at the memory of her hands on Miranda’s skin.
Miranda looked over her shoulder. “I expect that you’ll have addressed all of this” — she waved her hand between Emily and Andy — “by the time I’m back from meeting with Georgina. I’ll need that brooch from that store for the run-through at two, and can only hope that your disastrous excuse for a seating chart will be ready for review as well.”
Andy’s heart pounded as she stared at Miranda’s back; next to her, Emily was nodding frantically as she scribbled on a notepad. “Of course, Miranda. And shall I—”
Miranda ignored her as the elevator doors opened, and stepped inside without another backward glance. The doors closed with a ding, and the office seemed to come alive at the sound, filling with chatter and bustling staff rolling carts of clothes and stacks of colorful bins through the halls.
“Right,” Emily huffed, rolling her eyes as she looked through the stack of binders in her arms. She thrust one at Andy. “Bring this to Nicola. She’ll have to keep you occupied until I figure out where to hide you.” She looked Andy up and down one more time before narrowing her eyes at Todd. “You should have known better.”
Todd patted Andy’s shoulder and gave her a grimace that was likely meant to be a reassuring smile. “You’ll learn a lot here, I promise. Just… keep your head down.”
“Keep my head down,” Andy said faintly, hardly registering anything he or Emily had said. “Right. Sure. Where am I going again?”
Nicola, one of Runway’s primary copywriters, turned out to be a charming Irish woman who took great interest in Andy’s experience and was mercifully kinder than Emily, who had refused to tell Andy where the office was and left her wandering around Runway for the better part of the hour.
“I did a lot of writing for the local papers around Dublin after university,” she told Andy excitedly. “But Runway was always the dream, wasn’t it? There’s nowhere as cutting edge as here, and there’s no one like Miranda.”
“Miranda, right,” Andy said, her chest going tight again just at the mention of her. She was desperate for a silent room somewhere to try to process all of this, or maybe just scream to let out her building anxiety. She took a deep breath and painted a small smile on her face. “And she does…”
Nicola raised her eyebrows. “Have you really never heard of Miranda Priestly? She’s the Editor-in-Chief, Andy. Nothing gets published in this magazine without Miranda’s approval. She’s the reason it’s the preeminent fashion magazine in the world.”
“Oh,” Andy said quietly.
Miranda Priestly, Editor-in-Chief. Miranda Priestly, the woman who had sunk all eight inches of herself into Andy until she saw stars. Miranda Priestly, who had kicked her out of her house the moment that Andy had mentioned her new job and never contacted her again.
At least now she knew why.
“Not sure if you’ll meet her while you’re here — she doesn’t grace the back offices very much,” Nicola was saying with a rueful laugh. “But if you ever have a chance to attend a meeting or listen to her speak, that’s enough. She’s practically a walking encyclopedia for the industry.”
“I have met her, actually,” Andy said, feeling herself blush again just at the thought of it. “Like, ten minutes ago at the elevator.” And a few other times, she thought, but no way in hell was she going to say that aloud.
Nicola’s eyebrows reached her hairline. “Don’t tell me you tried to ride in the lift with her.”
“What?” Andy said. “I mean, no, not today, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, I kind of rode with her a few weeks ago.”
“And she let you?” Nicola gasped.
Andy felt herself blushing again. “What do you mean, let?”
With a groan, Nicola lowered her head into her hands. “You have got a lot to learn, Andy.”
Andy didn’t see Miranda for the rest of the week, though Nicola spent every spare moment sharing everything there was to know about the woman: her tenure at Runway, her connections and influence, her Starbucks order, and more. Andy inhaled every word, her curiosity about Miranda snowballing with every subsequent fact.
“She’s got two daughters, Cassidy and Caroline,” Nicola told her in the cafeteria one day. “They’re twins, and apparently absolute terrors if you ask Emily. Though she’s also one for the dramatics.”
With her introduction to Miranda mostly being full of her career accomplishments so far, the idea of her having a family hadn’t even been on Andy’s radar. She took a sip of water and tried to hide her panic. “So, um… she’s married?”
Nicola shook her head and stuck out her lower lip. “Divorced.” She looked around before leaning towards Andy and dropping her voice. “Twice. The twins’ father first, though apparently they get on well enough, and then her second husband. They split up about a year and a half ago. It was a right disaster around here — she was on Page Six nearly every day.”
Relieved that she didn’t have to add adultress to her growing list of Miranda-related foibles, Andy changed the topic back to the edits that she and Nicola had been working on for a Givenchy feature. She let Nicola launch into a story about a past photoshoot disaster and gulped down her ginger ale to keep her mind from wandering back to the woman whose presence had kept her body in a constant state of fight-or-flight all week.
When she finally saw Miranda the following Monday, Andy’s heart practically leapt out of her chest. It was just past eight a.m. and, like the first office run-in, she was wearing sunglasses, their frames obscuring her eyes when Andy almost collided with her in front of the bank of elevators.
Their proximity brought Andy back to their final interaction, Miranda’s face pinched and pale as she sent Andy away. Andy had pouted for days afterward, both humiliated and angry that she’d let herself be kicked out and hadn’t fought back. Because really, it had felt like more than newspaper-ad sex near the end. She still got herself off on the memory of Miranda’s tongue between her legs, the way she hummed contentedly as she licked her own cum off of Andy, looking so pleased with herself. And the way she’d looked at Andy when she pressed her into the mattress afterwards, some flicker of care and interest crossing her face. It had felt like the detachment of their first encounter had left, only to come roaring back seconds later when she practically leapt off of the bed and left Andy fumbling.
She remembered Nicola’s disbelief — “No one ever takes the elevator with Miranda” — and took a few steps back as Miranda stabbed the call button. When the elevator doors slid open, Miranda stepped inside before turning around and looking at Andy, sliding off her sunglasses.
“Well?” she said, her voice as silky-smooth as the first time that Andy had heard it.
“Oh,” Andy said, tripping over her own feet to join her. “Sorry, I—”
Miranda pursed her lips slowly as their eyes locked in the reflection of the elevator door, and Andy shut her mouth, blood rushing to her cheeks.
The ride was silent as they zoomed upwards, and it was only once they’d passed the 20th floor that Miranda spoke.
“According to your resume, you’re an aspiring journalist,” she said. Andy bristled at the sarcasm that dripped from her tongue on the final word, and stood up a little straighter.
“Yeah, I” — Miranda raised an eyebrow, and Andy shriveled slightly — “I mean, yes. I just finished grad school, actually.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” Miranda said derisively. “I suppose it would be far below your pay grade to write an article for my magazine, then, wouldn’t it? This… ‘fashion stuff.’”
Andy blinked, immediately transported back to her calling Miranda’s… interests “stuff” when she’d basically propositioned her in her foyer. She realized that Miranda must have overheard her talking to Emily on her first day. “Miranda — I mean, Mrs. — or Ms.—”
The elevator doors opened, and Miranda left Andy behind without another word. Mortified, she stood frozen in place, only remembering where she was when the doors began to close on her.
She said nothing of the encounter to Nicola, and by noon had decided that she’d definitely be spending the next three weeks in hiding from her boss-by-proxy. It couldn’t be hard to keep her head down in copywriting, and she could move around her schedule to avoid Miranda in the mornings; it wasn’t like she had anyone waiting for her at home. Maybe she’d just take the stairwell, since she kept avoiding getting that gym membership that Lily was always bugging her about.
She was glaring at her keyboard as she thought this over when she heard the click of heels on marble.
“Miranda,” Nicola gasped, standing up quickly. “Do you—”
“Andrea,” Miranda said.
Andy’s chair squeaked as she swiveled around, and Nicola widened her eyes suggestively until Andy rose to her feet. “Um, Miranda, hi,” she said, her heart pounding.
Wearing sky-high stilettos that brought her to Andy’s eye level, Miranda’s gaze swept down her body, lingering on the chunky loafers she’d thrown on that morning. She felt more exposed than she had when she’d been on her knees for Miranda, and she pressed her legs together at the memory.
“I need one thousand words on the Bryant Park developments by tomorrow,” she said. “First-person accounts, none of the drivel from that useless City Council meeting.” Her eyes wandered around the small office space that Nicola and Andy occupied, and they only met Andy’s once she finished speaking. Her mouth curled into a dangerous smirk.
“If that’s suitable for you, of course,” she added.
Andy only realized that she hadn’t responded when Nicola poked her with a sharp nail. “Yes. Yes, of course. What do you—”
Miranda had already turned around and was heading back down the hall at breakneck speed. Andy moved to follow her, but Nicola pulled her backwards by her sweater before she could take another step.
“Don’t do that!” she hissed as Andy tripped backwards. “Oh my god. What the hell did you do that she’s having you write an article?”
“I have no idea,” Andy breathed, staring down the now-empty hallway. She could still smell Miranda’s perfume. Blinking quickly, she turned towards Nicola. “What’s the Bryant Park development?”
Nicola collapsed in her chair and buried her head in her hands. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
With no background knowledge and no deadline, blind adrenaline fueled the rest of Andy’s day. She used every NYU contact she had to dig up phone numbers for community boards, historic registries, the park board, and anyone with a byline related to the park in the last six months. Clearly sensing her panic, Nicola left Andy alone, whispering her goodbyes once the workday ended. Andy’s first interruption came a little after eight in the form of a bald, bespectacled man.
“Andrea Sachs?” he said.
She pushed her hair out of her face as she looked up. “Um, yeah, hi. It’s Andy, actually.”
“Right,” he said slowly, adjusting his glasses as he narrowed his eyes at her shirt. “Nigel Kipling. Stand up.”
After ten hours of staring at a screen, Andy wondered if she was hallucinating. “Huh?”
Nigel waved a finger at her. “Up, up. I don’t have all night.”
Once she was on her feet, he twirled her around, examining every inch of her. It wasn’t sexual; she felt more like a research specimen, if anything. He tugged at her sweater and narrowed his eyes at her shoes, bringing back the memory of Miranda’s examination that morning.
That hadn’t felt like research.
The look in Miranda’s eyes had been as hungry as when Andy had pulled off that coat in her entryway, which she had only realized later cost twice as much as her rent. Andy did her best to push that thought out of her mind, barreling back down to earth as Nigel tugged her away from her desk by her wrist.
“Where are you taking me? I have to finish this article!”
“You think I don’t know that?” Nigel drawled, keeping his hold on her wrist. “But let’s not pretend that Miranda’s going to let you actually publish something for Runway looking like… well.”
“Like what?” Andy cried, looking down at her sweater and slacks.
“Like you’re pulling the third shift at the nursing home. Get in.”
Nigel ushered her into the elevator, and a few minutes later she was following him into a cavernous, windowless room lined from floor to ceiling in shirts, shirts, shoes, and more. Andy felt her jaw slacken in awe as she looked around, but Nigel was already on the move, pulling hangers and boxes off of shelves at an alarming rate and tossing them Andy’s way.
“These are mostly sample sizes, so you’ll have to suck it in,” he said as he threw a leather skirt her way. “Where do you get your hair cut?”
“Sue,” Andy mumbled over the growing pile of clothes in her arms.
Nigel froze and turned on his heel. “Don’t tell me that’s…”
“She’s my downstairs neighbor, yeah,” Andy said with a sigh, finally resigned to Nigel’s relentless derision. “I get it. You hate my clothes and my hair and my—”
“I have no opinion, darling,” he said as he moved to examine a wall of shoes. “It would suit you, however, to dress the part, and not just for Runway. You can’t get away with the Mrs. Doubtfire look forever if you want to be taken seriously in publishing.”
Well, Andy wanted to say, I’m good looking enough that Miranda paid me to sleep with her… twice. Though enough to get a text back afterwards, I guess…
She bit her tongue, pushing down her seething anger to accept the remaining pile of clothes he handed her.
“Set them there,” he said, motioning to a table near a door. “Emily will messenger them to your address. Now, be nice to Serena and listen to everything she tells you.”
“Who’s Serena?”
Nigel opened the door with a smirk. “Your new Sue.”
Andy didn’t get home until past midnight, weighed down by garment bags and a weariness that she hadn’t experienced since her final semester of grad school. Only once she’d hung up the clothes and collapsed onto her couch did she allow herself to feel a small flicker of excitement.
She was writing an article, possibly to be printed.
In Runway.
By request of its Editor in Chief, who, by all accounts, was practically the queen of publishing. Whose motivations were, sure, extremely unclear, and who had refused to look Andy in the eye since she’d stepped foot in Runway’s office, but a byline was a byline. And if impressing Miranda could be a fringe benefit, who was Andy to say no?
“Was I a good girl for you, Miranda?”
She winced at the memory, but couldn’t stop herself from recalling the lust in Miranda’s eyes as she watched Andy perform for her and what had happened next. Miranda’s mouth had been the last thing she expected out of their arrangement, and the shocking intimacy that followed had stuck with Andy ever since. It felt nearly impossible to reconcile that version of Miranda with the cold, detached professional at Runway. But maybe, Andy thought, just maybe she could pull out that private version of Miranda if she proved that she was worth it.
By some miracle, Andy finished the first draft of her article at three p.m. the next day. Nicola read it over first, running her teeth over her lower lip as she skimmed it once, twice, then a third time on Andy’s computer. When she finally looked at Andy, she was smiling.
“For someone who didn’t know about Fashion Week until thirty-six hours ago, I’m impressed. The new look also helps.”
“Thanks,” Andy said, feeling something in her chest loosen briefly. She took a deep breath and fiddled with her bangs before looking down at the Chanel ensemble that Nigel had sent her home with. “Um… do you think Miranda will agree?”
Nicola laughed. “As if I’d ever pretend to know what that woman is thinking. I’m just glad I’m not in your shoes. Literally, because I don’t actually know how you’re pulling off those boots.”
Andy groaned before opening up her email and attaching the document. “Here goes nothing.”
Twenty minutes later, Todd arrived at her cubicle, looking slightly breathless. “Rumor has it Miranda asked you to write something?”
“It’s true,” Nicola said from Andy’s side. “Came and asked her personally, even.”
“Jesus,” Todd said, leaning against the glass partition. “What did you do to deserve that?”
Tried to walk her dog. Played call girl for a day. Rode in her elevator. Insulted her magazine. Rode in her elevator a second time.
Andy offered Todd a wobbly smile. “No idea.”
Even though she’d submitted the article, her nerves still hadn’t abated by the time she was packing up two hours later. She’d just begun to follow Nicola down the hall to the elevators when Emily appeared before her, carrying a folder and her signature scowl. She held the folder out wordlessly, pressing it against the button of Andy’s jacket when she didn’t reach for it quickly enough. Behind her, Nicola waved and practically sprinted away.
“She expects revisions by nine,” Emily said primly. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly; she was clearly enjoying her boss’s torture of someone else.
“Thanks,” Andy said cheerfully, not willing to give her any further satisfaction. Emily’s face dropped slightly, and she turned on her heel to leave Andy standing alone in the hallway.
With a sigh, Andy returned to her desk and turned her computer back on. As she waited for it to start up, she opened the folder to see a printed copy of her article marked up with elegant handwriting in red pen. Her heart sunk as she skimmed it, each critique more gutting than the last.
Too many adverbs.
Flowery.
Bordering on meaningless.
Poorly quoted.
Boring.
Dull.
She sniffed, surprised to feel tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, and immediately felt foolish. She reminded herself that she’d survived plenty of scathing edits all through college and grad school, and this should feel no different, especially considering that she’d been given no time to complete the assignment.
With a deep breath, Andy sat up straight, wiggled her mouse, and dove back into the article, doing her best to read each sentence through Miranda’s point of view. She tried to recall everything Nicola had told her: how Miranda reviewed a working copy of the upcoming issue every night, how she had a hand in the seasonal campaigns of nearly every major and emerging design brand, how seriously she took the integrity of the publication, from the placement of its page numbers to the angle of light on the photo of a model. Andy had always prided herself on her own attention to detail and commitment to perfection in her work as a writer and editor, and felt her frustration ebb as she hunted for what Miranda really wanted out of her article.
She fell into such deep concentration that, for the first time since she’d walked through the Runway doors, she was able to forget about any version of Miranda other than Editor-in Chief. As she made her final revisions, Andy felt a little foolish at how consumed she’d been by her past with Miranda. Miranda was clearly beyond it, a true professional, and Andy could be too.
She met the nine o’clock deadline by a hair, and in a moment of bravery, decided to print out the revised copy and hand-deliver it, figuring that there had to be an inbox on Emily’s desk somewhere.
The office halls were eerily quiet, and Andy followed the widest corridor to the office that Nicola had identified as Miranda’s the week prior. She froze when she heard the quiet tapping of a keyboard, and looked through the glass door slowly to see Miranda sitting at her desk, backlit by the Manhattan skyline. Andy couldn’t help but notice that she still looked beautiful even under the harsh glare of her laptop screen.
Really, she had admired Miranda’s beauty since the moment she’d seen her, but Miranda had all but gagged at Andy’s initial compliment. She’d tried her hardest to hold back during their second encounter, only answering when prompted and keeping herself from saying how blue Miranda’s eyes were and how gorgeous her skin felt and how perfect her nose was. Something had told her that it wouldn’t be received well, but she’d also hoped, foolishly, that she might have another chance someday.
Andy tried to tiptoe backwards, but she was in those goddamn boots that Nigel had thrust upon her, and Miranda looked up at the sound of her footfalls.
“Sorry,” Andy said, freezing in place. She looked around the anteroom, surprised to see two identical desks on either side of her, neither of which had an inbox.
“Bring it in here,” Miranda said quietly.
She was wearing reading glasses, and slid them down her nose slowly as Andy approached. Carefully, Andy set the paper on her desk, trying her best to give off a calm, composed presence instead of someone wholly consumed by the woman before her.
“Email didn’t suffice this time?” Miranda asked softly, touching the arm of her glasses as she reached for the papers.
Andy wasn’t sure what compelled her to talk back — maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the leather Chanel boots that were currently digging into her thighs — but the words fell from her lips before she could stop them.
“It didn’t suffice for you,” she said.
Miranda blinked slowly. Pressing her lips together, she leaned back in her office chair, holding Andy’s article by her thumb and pointer finger like it was a dirty sock. Her eyes traveled the length of Andy’s body once again, though the scrutiny from the last time she’d done so was replaced by something new — curiosity, Andy thought. The idea of it made her blush, and she was newly thankful for the room’s dim lighting.
“Well,” Miranda said softly. She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek as she met Andy’s eyes once again.
It was an obvious dismissal, and Andy dared to shoot her a smile before she left, feeling slightly encouraged by the look of clear interest on Miranda’s face. Maybe she did have a chance of worming her way back into Miranda’s life, or at least not torpedoing her career entirely.
“She edited it?” Nicola gasped the next morning when Andy gave her a brief rundown of the evening.
Andy raised an eyebrow. “I mean, she’s the editor, right?”
“Yes, but she usually throws out most of what gets sent to her, or kicks it back down to the editorial team to clean up. All of her edits to the Book go directly to Nigel and no one else.”
“Is Nigel her other assistant?” Andy asked, recalling the two desks outside of Miranda’s office.
Nicola laughed out loud at that. “You really need to start paying attention, Andrea. Nigel’s the Creative Director — anything that goes to Miranda goes through him first. Do you think anyone but him would have the authority to pull last season’s entire wardrobe from the Closet?”
She’d told Nicola about Nigel’s styling efforts in confidence — though it’s not like she could have kept it a secret anyway — and now flushed slightly, fearing that someone would overhear. It crossed her mind that if Nigel reported to Miranda, perhaps she was the one who’d asked him to take Andy to the closet.
She remembered the clothes that Miranda had sent her and the outfit that had been waiting for her in the guest room, all lovely, rich fabrics that clung to her body like they’d been tailored for her alone. Andy still had the dress, coat, and lingerie in her closet, carefully hung on one end to keep from being wrinkled. They still held the faint smell of Miranda’s perfume.
She took a deep breath and turned back to her computer to finish some edits for Nicola, hoping to put Miranda out of her mind for the rest of the day.