Chapter Text
Emily opened her eyes with difficulty, only to close them immediately as a sharp pang of pain sliced through her temple and lodged itself behind her retinas. She cursed under her breath and took two deep breaths before attempting to open her eyes again. After blinking a couple of times to adjust to the blinding morning light, she paused for a few seconds—just enough time to recognize the ceiling of her room, illuminated by a sun that was already too high in the New York sky.
Struggling to catch her breath, she sat up abruptly in bed and lunged for the cell phone vibrating incessantly on her nightstand, demanding her attention. Serena, the screen read, allowing her to expand her chest enough to take the breath she needed to speak.
“Em, did something happen? Are you okay? Marketing’s been trying to reach you for half an hour.”
“I’m on my way,” she lied, a wave of embarrassment washing over her. It wouldn’t calm anyone’s nerves at Runway if they knew she hadn’t even left her bed. “Serena, please ask Julien to resend any inquiries that need an immediate response to my email so they’re marked as a priority. And could you keep an eye on the phones until I get there, please? If anything urgent comes up, send me a message…”
Emily felt as though she could continue making excuses and giving Serena instructions, but her friend’s voice gently cut her off, trying to reassure her—though it was to no avail.
“Hurry. But be careful, Em. I’ll hold down the fort.”
"Thanks." Emily replied in a trembling whisper before hanging up.
The alarm was supposed to go off at 5 a.m., with the second one ten minutes later, and so on, nonstop for two hours. They had gone off—every single one of them—but Emily had heard nothing except the distant whine of the very last one. Now, at 7:12 a.m., she found herself rushing around her apartment, trying to get ready in record time, while mentally reviewing the previous day’s to-do list and making contingency plans for the setbacks that brief messages from Serena announced every two or three minutes.
Thursday. Editorial meeting at 8:00 a.m., rescheduled to 8:30 a.m. at the request of the advertising team. The Fendi samples for the twins were still held up at customs. The driver assigned to the photography department had just cancelled. Finally, Miranda was scheduled to land from London at 10:45 a.m.; barring any delays, she would likely be at Elias-Clarke by noon.
You have time. You have time. You have time.
But her body moved as if that were a fallacy. As she finished putting on her shoes, Emily typed instructions to Serena: push back the fitting by an hour; no, the photographer has a 5:00 p.m. deadline, no later; confirm the Valentino Spring 2004 dress with Nigel. She was about to reach for her purse when she jumped out of bed so quickly that the room spun around her. She took a few hesitant steps until her hand found the nearest wall, waiting a few seconds for her vision to return to normal.
She wanted to complain, to curse under her breath, but only a sigh escaped her lips.
After sending a few more messages and stealing a quick glance in the bathroom mirror to ensure everything was in place, she grabbed her apartment keys and closed the door behind her. It wasn’t until she was in the elevator that Emily remembered she hadn’t had breakfast—just like the day before.
If she managed to get a break after arriving at Runway, she’d grab a coffee. She pushed the image of her almost empty fridge to the back of her mind.
If the watch on Serena’s wrist was to be believed, Emily arrived at her desk—with barely concealed haste—an hour and ten minutes later. All around her, the floor was already buzzing with activity, and everything seemed to be running as smoothly as ever. Which meant that control of the situation hadn’t yet slipped through her fingers. Almost no one looked up to see her crossing the hallways, which was a positive sign. Runway had survived her delay. Now, the only task left was to cover up any evidence that the incident had occurred at all.
“Thanks.” Emily gave Serena’s arm a quick squeeze before taking her seat at the computer and immediately opening the email with the marketing inquiries. “I owe you one. Sorry for taking up so much of your morning.”
“Don’t worry about it, Em…” Serena’s voice seemed to waver with uncertainty at the end, but Emily didn’t even have the energy to glance at her. It’s not like she even has the time, Emily thought; she had to make up for the lost hours. She was halfway through drafting a reply to Julien’s requests when Serena spoke again. “Everything okay? I have some ibuprofen in my desk if—”
“No need." The reply came so quickly that its sharp edges stopped Serena’s hand just as she was about to rest it on Emily’s tense shoulders. For a couple of breaths, the sound of Emily’s fingers tapping the keys stopped, but upon realizing her pause, she resumed her work, trying to ignore how Serena shifted a few inches away.
“I’m just a text away, okay?”
Emily just nodded, fighting the painful throbbing that tightened like a headband around her head, fueled by stimuli she thought she was used to. The clacking of stilettos echoing through the office, the ringing of phones filling the air, keyboards clicking away, a wave of conversations murmured in various tones and volumes; the mix of expensive perfume, fresh ink, and an overwhelming scent of coffee hanging heavily in the atmosphere. Her stomach growled in protest.
The next few hours passed amid that chaotic, high-productivity zone, where the flow of her thoughts and her body’s responses glided along the smooth path of autopilot. Emily was locked in: three successful international calls, a change of hairstylist for an upcoming shoot in three days, a new driver for the photography team, two samples from Fendi’s upcoming line located and on their way to the office, and a designer’s ego soothed—everything was resolved, everything was in its place.
But then it happened again as she stood by the printer, waiting for some contracts. The machine took longer than usual to eject one of the sheets, and Emily held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t have to call a technician as she had the previous week. The hum of the machine grew louder with every passing second, despite there being no apparent reason for it. Then, a faint ringing filled her ears, and just as earlier, the room began to blur.
Resting her hand on the machine, Emily unintentionally cancelled the printout of the latest contract. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and blinked a couple of times until her vision returned to normal. She glanced around; no one seemed to have noticed her slip-up.
“Breathe…”
She retrieved the finished pages and returned to her desk to reprint the last contract.
At 12:05 p.m., after replying to fifty-seven emails, the elevator announced Miranda Priestly’s arrival to the entire floor. A silence, charged with both fear and reverence, preceded the sound of her heels. Conversations either ceased or lowered in volume if they were work-related; footsteps altered their rhythm; and even those who didn’t work directly under Miranda’s orders straightened their posture as they watched her figure pass in front of their workstations.
Emily moved to meet her halfway down the hallway, folder in hand. With her free hand, she managed to catch the pearl-gray coat that Miranda was about to drop, maintaining her stride as she felt the weight of the editor’s purse follow the coat a few seconds later. Taking her place a couple of steps behind, Emily began her report without being prompted.
“Nigel has secured the Valentino you requested. The Fendi samples will arrive in four hours. The fitting has been rescheduled for 2:00 p.m. I spoke with Emmanuel’s assistant,” Miranda crossed the threshold of her office and, without even looking at Emily, took a seat to review the documents that Finance had sent and that Emily had meticulously organized by priority. “And the photos will be here two hours before the deadline. Patek Philippe…”
Suddenly, Emily was acutely aware of the agonizing passage of time. In her mind, she repeated the name of the watch brand three times, struggling to find the words to complete the sentence she needed to say. She had jotted it down in her notebook and repeated it dozens of times while waiting for Miranda, yet it had vanished in a moment of bewilderment.
Miranda’s index finger, which had been tracing one of the lines in the document before her, paused. She gave a slight nod, her grayish-blue eyes fixed on Emily. Emily couldn’t decipher anything from that gaze, but she swallowed anyway. For the first time that day, a small stroke of divine pity seemed to manifest itself.
“And Patek Philippe called, asking for a meeting since they weren’t entirely satisfied with the placement of their ad in the next issue,” she said, feeling relieved.
Miranda regarded her for a moment longer without commenting on what had just transpired. Instead, she pointed out an open slot in her Monday schedule that Emily could use to arrange a meeting. Emily quickly jotted down the instructions for the rest of the day and left once the editor dismissed her with a wave of her hand.
She was unaware of Miranda’s keen gaze fixed on her back, closely following her every move as she walked back to her desk. Nor did she realize that the observant woman had noticed the detail of Emily’s trembling hand gripping the folder of documents more tightly than necessary.
The following weeks proved just as grueling as the previous one, and Emily managed to be late a couple more times, with the most recent occasion being the only time Miranda had scolded her about it. To the surprise of both Emily and the rest of the office, she had managed to keep her job. Nigel insisted that there was no way the editor would let go of the only assistant who knew how to get the job done. Three months had passed since Andrea stepped down in Paris, and Miranda had yet to accept any of the candidates approved by HR, so Emily continued to handle her usual duties while trying to compensate for the absence of a second assistant.
The clock on her computer read almost 8:30 p.m. However, with the deadline for the magazine’s next issue fast approaching, Runway employees understood that those numbers merely indicated they might still have two or more hours of work ahead.
Emily was in the midst of her third review of the next day’s schedule when she noticed a discrepancy between the reservation time for one of her cars and the scheduled pickup time for a model who would be participating in part of a photo shoot they had to re-shoot. It was barely ten minutes, but to her, that simply meant a potential disaster waiting to happen.
She dialed the transportation service’s number and waited, already imagining possible catastrophic scenarios in her head—scenarios in which she would be willing to pay for a taxi rather than let the model arrive late for work.
“I need to move up the pickup time,” she announced as soon as she heard a voice on the line.
“Miss Charlton, this is the third time you’ve—” a man’s somewhat exasperated voice began, but Emily cut him off.
“Ten minutes.”
After a long pause and a sigh, the man confirmed the change.
“Thank you.”
As soon as she hung up the phone, another voice called out to her.
“Emily.”
Miranda didn’t even look up from the article she was editing as Emily stood on the other side of the desk.
“Evelyn’s contract?”
“Signed.”
“Did Edmund confirm?”
“He’ll drop by to get the twins on Friday at 7:00 p.m.”
“The Bulgari samples?”
“They’ll arrive tomorrow before noon.”
Emily waited for the next question or order, but neither came. Miranda silently turned to the next page of the article, making corrections halfway through before speaking again.
“Have you eaten today?”
The question took a moment to register for Emily, who blinked and momentarily lost her perfect posture in surprise.
“I think you know I don’t like having to repeat myself.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Miranda…” A knot formed in Emily’s stomach—painful and impossible to ignore. There was a correct answer, and although she knew what it was deep down, she didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of the editor. After letting out a faint sigh, she replied, “It wasn’t a priority.”
Miranda set the pen down on the table and leaned back in her chair to look directly at her.
“I didn’t ask if it was a priority or not.”
Emily’s fingertips tingled, but she fought the overwhelming urge to fiddle with the hem of her blouse. Miranda noticed the slight twitch of her fingers, and as if she had suddenly become that naive girl on her first day of work again, Emily moved her hands behind her back to keep them clenched tightly.
“No. I haven’t eaten today.”
Miranda’s impassive expression remained unchanged. Emily knew she had anticipated that admission. After a moment of silence, Miranda returned to the draft, jotting a comment in its margin before speaking again.
“There should still be food left in the cafeteria.”
Emily frowned. “Yes, Miranda.”
She waited for more to be said, but Miranda seemed to have communicated all that was necessary. Emily relaxed her fingers slightly, letting her arms fall to her sides, then turned to head for the elevator. Just as she was about to close the door behind her, Miranda’s soft, calm voice stopped her.
“I want you to stay there for at least 30 minutes.”
Emily turned around, barely noticing the door bump lightly against her shoulder.
“Bianca is about to…”
“Whatever Bianca needs from you can wait 30 minutes.”
It was a statement that left no room for discussion, even if Emily wanted to or had the courage to question Miranda’s decisions. It was delivered with the same calm determination with which Miranda might send her out for 20 Hermès scarves in the middle of the night or for a new coffee order, knowing that the nearest Starbucks had already closed—confident that Emily would comply.
“Yes, Miranda.”
“That’s all.”
Emily expanded her chest to breathe, forcing herself to take deeper breaths than necessary. The elevator walls loomed overhead, giving her the feeling that they would eventually come crashing down, trapping her under the weight of her self-doubt. Perhaps it would be easier than facing the uncertainty of why she was heading to the cafeteria, where the only remnants would likely be calorie-laden pastries that almost no one ate, ending up in the trash at the end of the day.
She was sure she had made a mistake. But what?
She carefully retraced her steps from the moment she had woken up that morning to the instant Miranda had asked her to leave her office.
Had she upset the Versace representative during one of her calls?
Had she forgotten to confirm a detail with the guys at editorial production?
Had she taken longer than expected to fulfill one of Miranda's requests?
Had she spoken out of turn or in an inappropriate tone?
The elevator doors opened with the annoying sound of a cheerful chime. Emily kept her stride steady as she walked down the desolate hallway, allowing her expression to falter only once the elevator’s light had faded behind her.
She reviewed every email, call, and conversation again. Something had slipped her mind, as if she were merely an intern again. Something had slipped through her fingers… and Emily hadn’t even noticed. She felt the urge to bite the nail of one of her thumbs, but she stabbed the palm of her left hand with the rest of them instead.
The cafeteria was empty. The only light illuminating the room came from the moonlight streaming through the large windows, the pale, artificial glow from the refrigerated display cases holding the untouched pastries, and a single warm-toned lamp casting light on a table where a tray of soup, bread, sliced fruit, and a cup of tea awaited her.
Emily walked a few steps until she stood beside the table.
Both the soup and tea were still steaming, indicating they couldn’t have been served long ago. The food containers weren’t labeled, but Emily recognized the dishes. They were from one of those restaurants with no prices listed on the menu—the kind Miranda used to order from when neither she nor Cara had time to cook.
She felt a flutter in her stomach, followed by a growl that embarrassed her.
She sat down but didn’t dare touch anything just yet. All she could think about was how Miranda had taken her off her assignments.
Maybe she no longer trusts me to do my job as effectively as she expects.
It could be a warning; it could be a taunt.
That idea seemed much more plausible and easier to accept than another, infinitely more absurd one: that Miranda Priestly was paying enough attention to her to notice she had been running only on coffee and cheese cubes for over 30 hours.
Emily pulled out her cell phone and set a timer for 30 minutes before reluctantly starting to drink her tea. How could she possibly say no to quality tea?
Nigel watched Emily head to the elevator with her distinctive stride, even more pronounced and hurried than usual. He let her go without making a single remark about it because something in her expression told him he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the speed at which her thoughts seemed to be racing at that moment.
Leaving the young assistant behind, he headed to Miranda’s office to present the latest mock-ups that needed approval.
“Did you terminate Emily's employment?” He asked by way of greeting, but Miranda barely acknowledged his presence. The only gesture indicating he could approach was the space she had cleared on her desk for Nigel to set down the third version of the photographs, which caused them so many problems.
“I gave her 30 minutes.”
“That’s practically a vacation around here.”
They worked on one of the photos for several minutes before Miranda mentioned Emily again, and this time it took Nigel a moment to realize she was serious.
“How long has she been losing weight?”
Nigel glanced at the solitary desk outside the main office, the only one still lit in the vicinity.
“A month, maybe a little longer.”
The signs of displeasure were barely visible on Miranda’s face, but Nigel noticed the tension in her jaw and the thin, almost invisible lines of a slightly furrowed brow.
“Do you know if anyone has talked to her?”
“Serena, maybe.” Nigel let out a brief laugh. “If I were the one asking her about it, she’d probably think it was a roundabout way of asking her to resign.”
“She already thinks that anyway.”
Miranda left her desk and stood in front of the large window overlooking much of Manhattan. Her gaze followed the lines of vehicles moving along the streets far below until it was lost in the sea of multicolored lights forming the horizon.
“Are you planning to do anything?” Nigel asked, his tone somewhat more cautious than usual.
Miranda turned to look at him for a moment, tempted to answer, but remained silent. It wasn’t the right time to confess—especially not to one of the few people who seemed to partially understand her motivations—that the idea of Emily, that little constant in the periphery of her eyes, disappearing from one moment to the next was, at the very least, unacceptable to her.
No, she wasn’t ready yet to let Nigel delve into whatever feeling lay at the root of it all.