Chapter Text
Back in college, Andy once heard a rich girl complain that Paris smelled terrible and that everyone in it looked miserable. She couldn’t speak for the rest of the year, but during Fashion Week, Paris smelled like cigarettes, rain-soaked pavement and expensive perfume, and everyone looked impossibly polished. The whole city felt slightly unreal, like it had dressed itself up for the occasion.
But unfortunately, after fourteen-hour workdays in heels, Andy barely had the energy to appreciate any of it.
By the time she stumbled out of the final event of the afternoon, her feet had officially gone numb. The entrance of the venue still swarmed with photographers, editors, models, assistants and publicists moving in frantic currents beneath bursts of camera flashes.
And somehow, in the center of all of it, Miranda Priestly still looked completely untouched.
Andy stood halfway down the marble steps balancing two garment bags, three phones and Miranda’s spare sparkling water while trying not to lose sight of her boss in the crowd.
People moved around Miranda like the sea parting around a ship.
A stylist rushed forward with a coat before the cold could even reach her. Someone kissed her cheek. A designer practically abandoned a conversation midsentence the second Miranda glanced in his direction.
“Miranda! One picture!”
She barely slowed.
The photographers still lost their minds over it.
Andy watched Miranda remove one glove with elegant precision before shaking someone’s hand, silver hair glowing almost white beneath the camera flashes. Calm. Impossibly composed. Like she had not spent the last twelve hours changing outfits, attending shows, criticizing collections and terrifying half of Paris.
Andy could barely remember her own name anymore.
“Andrea.”
Although startled, she immediately hurried forward and Miranda handed her an empty water bottle without sparing a glance.
“Where is Nigel?”
“He’s inside talking to James Holt.”
“Mm.” Miranda adjusted the sleeve of her coat. “Tell him we are leaving in five minutes. But if he attempts another long goodbye with the Valentino people, leave him here.”
Andy laughed before she could stop herself. Miranda’s eyes flicked toward her briefly. She didn’t seem annoyed, but not amused either.
“Sorry,” Andy said automatically, already smoothing her expression back into something professional.
Miranda had already looked away.
“Five minutes, Andrea.”
“Yes.”
Andy adjusted the garment bags against her shoulder and turned back toward the venue entrance, weaving through clusters of editors and models still lingering around like souls in purgatory.
Inside, the event had begun to thin out, though no one in fashion ever seemed capable of leaving quickly. Conversations stretched endlessly beside champagne trays and towering floral arrangements.
Nigel stood near the back of the room beside James Holt while listening to something a Valentino executive was saying.
And he noticed her almost immediately.
“That expression worries me,” he said as she approached.
“Miranda says we’re leaving in five minutes.”
James Holt laughed softly under his breath.
Nigel sighed with quiet resignation rather than dramatics. “Then I suppose we’re leaving now.”
The Valentino executive touched Nigel’s arm lightly. “Dinner next month in New York?”
“Of course,” Nigel replied warmly. “Call me.”
Then he turned smoothly toward Andy, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.
“She’s tired,” he said quietly as they walked back toward the entrance together.
Andy blinked. “Miranda?”
“She starts getting quieter when she’s tired.”
Andy glanced toward the doors automatically, where Miranda still stood surrounded by people and camera flashes, looking as immaculate as she had hours ago.
“She doesn’t look tired.”
Nigel smiled faintly. “That’s because she’s Miranda.”
Outside, the air had grown colder. Thankfully, their car waited at the curb while photographers still called Miranda’s name from behind barricades.
“Miranda! Over here!”
“One last photo!”
She acknowledged none of them directly, though somehow every movement still appeared deliberate enough to belong in a magazine spread.
Miranda got into the car, Nigel settled beside her and, when Andy finally climbed inside, she let out a sigh she tried very hard to keep internal.
No one spoke during the drive. Paris drifted outside the windows in streaks of gold and rain-dark pavement.
When the hotel finally appeared ahead of them, relief flooded through Andy.
Miranda and Nigel had a very important dinner Andy had, fortunately, not been invited to. Which meant that, for at least a couple of hours, Miranda Priestly would become someone else’s problem.
Andy had just shoved the last notebook into her tote bag when someone knocked on her hotel room door.
She abandoned the mess spread across the desk and crossed the room, opening the door to find Nigel leaning against the hallway wall, one elbow propped beside the frame.
“Hi,” he said, “I need Miranda’s itinerary for tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Andy shook her head, “come on in.”
“All right? Thanks.”
Nigel wandered inside while Andy headed back toward the chair where she had dumped her bag. Papers stuck out everywhere. One heel from yesterday had somehow ended up beneath the desk. She bent down to dig through the folders scattered beneath her purse.
“Who put that together for you?” Nigel asked behind her.
Andy looked down at herself before turning around. The outfit had been assembled in approximately forty seconds – after she had overslept – from the pile of clothes she had hidden in her luggage.
“This?” She laughed lightly. “Oh, it’s just something I threw on.”
She handed him the itinerary folder. Nigel barely glanced at it before tossing it onto the nearest chair.
“Turn around. Let me see.”
Andy laughed again but obeyed, doing a quick turn in the middle of the room.
“Mm. Incroyable.”
A smile immediately tugged at her mouth before she hid it by scratching at the side of her nose. A compliment from Nigel Kipling about fashion felt dangerously close to being knighted.
“It’s really just… no, it’s… gorgeous.” He said finally. “Really, I think that my work here is done.”
Andy grinned. Nigel reached over and pinched her cheek affectionately before wandering toward the minibar.
“We’re going to celebrate,” he announced. “I’m going to get some champagne.”
“Okay. What are we toasting?”
“We are toasting, my dear, to the dream job.” She heard the sound of glass. “The one that a million girls wanted.” Nigel walked back to her, now with two glasses and a bottle.
“Which I got months ago.” Andy smiled as he sat the glasses on a table.
Nigel looked down at the champagne bottle while working the foil loose. “I’m not talking about you.”
“Mnhm.” Andy stretched the sound out, waiting for him to continue.
“James Holt.”
The cork popped loudly.
“Massimo Corteleoni,” Nigel continued as he poured champagne into her glass first, “is investing in James’ company and taking it global. Bags, shoes, fragrances. The works.”
“Mnhm.” Andy accepted the glass carefully.
“And James needs a partner.” Nigel filled his own glass before reaching for a cashew from the untouched snack tray beside him. “And that partner would be me.”
Andy straightened immediately. “Does Miranda-”
“No, no.” Nigel laughed. “Miranda knows. She put me up for it.”
“Oh!” Relief flashed across Andy’s face so quickly it made Nigel laugh harder.
“God, no. Can you imagine?”
Andy smiled into her champagne glass. Nigel practically glowed standing there. She had never seen him look this happy before.
“But…” She lowered the glass slightly. “You’re leaving.”
Nigel nodded once, still smiling.
“I can’t imagine Runway without you.”
“I know, I know.” He waved one hand dismissively, though excitement kept breaking through every movement. “But I’m so excited. This is the first time in eighteen years I’ll actually get to call the shots in my own life.” He laughed breathlessly and crossed toward the window overlooking Paris. “I’m going to come to Paris and actually see Paris.”
Andy watched him for a second, smiling softly to herself.
She got up, grabbed his untouched champagne glass along with her own, then carried the bottle over and set it closer to where he stood by the window.
“Well,” she said, handing his glass back to him, “congratulations. You deserve it.”
Their glasses clinked together lightly.
“Cheer-”
The sharp buzz of a phone interrupted her.
“Yours?” Andy asked.
“Mm-mm.” Nigel took a sip of champagne. “But I have a fairly good guess who it is.”
Andy dug through her purse until she found her phone. Miranda. Obviously.
Come to my room.
Need to talk about the next events.
And bring the boxes.
Andy knew what boxes she was talking about, but did not even dream what was inside them. Probably something worth more than what she paid for rent in a year.
She turned the screen toward Nigel with an exaggerated pout.
“Sorry. I’ll have to cut the celebration short, but I think I’ll be done in–”
“No!” Nigel finished the rest of his champagne in one dramatic gulp. “Miranda and I are leaving for the dinner in an hour. I still need to get ready.” He set the empty glass down. “Tomorrow’s when the announcement happens. After that, I’m buying every bottle of champagne in Paris.”
Andy laughed and stepped forward to hug him quickly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She pulled away and reached for her purse again. “I need to run. Her Majesty calls.”
Nigel snorted. “What are you, her lady-in-waiting?”
“Mm.” Andy walked to the corner where she had left the boxes Miranda wanted. “More like court jester.
Andy opened the door to Miranda’s suite carrying two heavy boxes, an enormous purse slipping down her shoulder, and the hotel keycard pinched between her fingers. She warned herself very seriously not to drop anything. If one of those boxes hit the floor, she would absolutely hear about it.
The suite looked like Fashion Week itself had exploded inside it. Garment bags draped over chairs, bags from half the luxury houses in Europe stacked against the walls, boxes everywhere. Hermès orange. Dior white. Prada black. Andy’s own room had slowly started resembling a much sadder, smaller version of this over the last few days, though the sheer amount of free things still occasionally made her stop and wonder how much money she could make selling all of it.
She dropped the keycard onto a console table near the entrance and carried the boxes deeper into the room, setting them carefully beside yet another violently orange Hermès bag before turning around.
Andy stopped.
She had expected the Miranda from earlier. Perfect posture. Perfect makeup. Probably standing over a table covered in pictures from the fashion shows from earlier.
Instead, Miranda sat on the corner of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, staring blankly at absolutely nothing. Barefoot. Face scrubbed clean. Wrapped in a soft gray robe that looked absurdly casual on her.
“Oh,” Andy said before she could stop herself.
Miranda’s eyes snapped toward her immediately. She adjusted the reading glasses in her hands with quick, restless fingers.
“Oh, there you are.” Miranda cleared her throat. “We need to go over the seating, uh… chart for the luncheon.”
“Okay.” Andy walked toward the armchair opposite the sofa and reached into her bag. “I have it right here.”
“By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.” The words had the usual sharpness, but exhaustion dragged underneath them like a weight.
Andy immediately started digging faster through the avalanche inside her tote. Notebook. Another notebook. Receipts. Pens. Something from Dior. Finally, the correct folder.
“Okay. Miranda grabbed the folder from her hands and perched her glasses on her nose, peering through them. “So…”
Andy sat on the armchair, notebook in hands, ready to write all of the demands down.
“First of all, we need to move Snoop Dogg to my table.”
“But your table is full.”
She knew it was full because Miranda had rejected eight different versions of the seating chart she made with nothing more constructive than a “No” before finally approving the ninth one. There physically was no seat available.
Miranda’s gaze shifted slightly away from her.
“Stephen isn’t coming.”
“Oh, Stephen isn’t…” Andy immediately reached for the notebook containing the Paris schedule. “So I don’t need to fetch Stephen from the airport tomorrow?”
Thank God. She had not been looking forward to waking up at three in the morning to collect Miranda’s fully grown husband from Charles de Gaulle like an extremely underpaid chauffeur.
“Well, if you speak to him and he decides to rethink the divorce, then, yes, fetch away.” Miranda turned another page without really looking at it. “You’re very fetching, so go fetch.”
Andy’s pen paused.
Miranda kept flipping through the folder, though her eyes no longer seemed to process any of the words on the page. It unsettled Andy more than anger would have. Miranda unfocused felt wrong. Human in a way Andy had never really seen before.
“And then when we get back to New York,” Miranda continued, “we need to contact…” she closed her eyes for a second, “Leslie to see what she can do to minimize the press… on all this.”
Andy looked down at her notebook, her pen moving more out of a need to escape the moment than a need to record it. Seeing Miranda Priestly this exposed felt like a transgression, regardless of the fact that Andy was there by invitation, simply fulfilling her role.
“Another divorce,” Miranda murmured, shaking her head once, “splashed across Page Six. I can just imagine what they’re gonna write about me. The ‘dragon lady’, ‘career-obsessed’.” She paused for a second. “‘Snow queen drives away another Mr. Priestly’. Rupert Murdoch should cut me a check for all the papers I sell for him.”
Andy looked up slowly and Miranda met her eyes. There was no performance in her face at all.
“Anyway, I don’t… I don’t really care what anyone writes about me.” Andy could see the honesty in her expression. “But my…” Miranda’s voice suffered the lightest crack, “my girls, I just… it’s just so unfair to the girls.” She closed her eyes, taking off her glasses. A single tear ran down her cheek. “It’s just…” she shrugged, “another disappointment, another letdown, another father… figure… gone” she chuckled bitterly.
Andy did not know what to do with the sight of Miranda crying.
“Anyway, the point is…” she cleared her throat. “The point is, we really need to figure out where to place Donatella, because she’s barely speaking to anyone.”
The abrupt shift back into work almost gave Andy whiplash.
For a second she stayed completely still, notebook balanced uselessly in her lap. Miranda clearly did not want comfort. She probably already regretted saying any of that out loud. But the sadness sitting behind her eyes felt too enormous to ignore.
So Andy stood.
The rug softened her footsteps as Andy crossed the room and sat carefully beside her on the sofa. Miranda startled slightly at the movement.
“I’m so sorry, Miranda.” She started. “If you want me to cancel your evening, I can.”
Andy almost reached out to hold her hands, but she held back for a moment.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would we do that?” Miranda turned her face and gave out a brief, dry laugh as she set the folder on top of the center table in front of them.
“Is… is there anything else I can do?”
Miranda did not answer immediately. She simply turned her head toward Andy.
The lighting in the suite was dim and warm, softening everything. The faint redness around Miranda’s eyes only made the blue of them look brighter somehow.
Andy’s eyes shifted ever so slightly to Miranda’s mouth. Her lips were lightly pierced, and very rosy, just like her cheeks and nose. Andy lifted her hands from her own lap and , this time, allowed them to be placed on top of her’s, brushing lightly on her robe. Her body leaned towards Miranda’s without her even noticing and Andy closed her eyes.
She would spend almost the entirety of her next few hours – and the better part of the coming weeks – wondering who had initiated it. Who crossed the line? Who was the one responsible for the first spark? She couldn’t answer that question, but the fact remained, she did kiss Miranda.
Their lips met with a feather-light touch, and for milliseconds that felt like hours, neither of them moved. Then, Miranda did. She brushed her closed lips against Andy’s, a tender left to right motion, before her hand found the back of Andy’s neck.
Andy inhaled softly against her mouth before kissing her back properly. Miranda responded immediately.
It felt nothing like any of Andy’s previous first kisses, those had been ferocious, almost desperate. Kissing Miranda was the opposite. It was calm as a spring breeze. It felt almost… chaste? But it couldn’t be, there was nothing chaste about kissing your boss in a locked hotel room while she wore… God… almost nothing.
It felt right in a way it really shouldn’t – and wasn’t.
Andy’s hand lifted slightly, hovering near Miranda’s waist beneath the robe, when a sharp knock at the suite door shattered the moment apart.
They jumped away from each other instantly, Andy practically threw herself to the opposite end of the sofa, heart pounding. Miranda stared at her with the exact same stunned expression Andy was certain she herself wore.
What. The. Hell.
The knocking came again, louder this time.
“Mrs. Priestly?” a muffled voice called through the door.
Andy shot to her feet automatically.
“Coming!”
The second the word left her mouth, regret hit her like a truck. Wonderful, she had just answered Miranda Priestly’s hotel room door like a suburban wife.
What would Miranda think of that? God, would she think it was intentional? Andy really didn’t mean…
Mortified, Andy hurried across the suite, narrowly avoiding kicking several boxes in the process.
When she opened the door, a hotel employee stood outside holding a garment bag with the Runway logo across the front.
“Hello. These are Mrs. Priestly’s clothes for tonight. Is she here?” the woman asked in a soft French accent.
“Yes. Just give them to me.” Andy grabbed the bag almost aggressively and turned back into the room.
“Wait, madame, I need a signature.”
Andy turned, only for Miranda to step smoothly around her.
“I’ll do it. Put the dress in the closet, Andrea.”
Andy nodded immediately and escaped toward the bedroom area without looking directly at Miranda again. Behind her she heard the scratch of pen against paper and the employee’s soft “merci.”
She hung the garment bag carefully inside the closet, closed the door, then leaned her forehead against it with a silent groan.
Okay.
What the fuck had that been?
Footsteps crossing the carpet made her straighten instantly. Miranda walked past her toward the desk area, not looking directly at her either. She picked up the small clock sitting among piles of papers and shopping bags.
“Where the hell are the hairstylist and makeup artist?” Miranda snapped. “Did they go on strike? Again? The French are just so-”
She stopped mid-sentence when their eyes met.
“Are you waiting for an invitation? Go call them.”
That finally shocked Andy back into motion. She hurried to the armchair where she had left her purse and dug frantically for her phone.
Andy squeezed her eyes shut while it rang, breathing slowly through the lingering panic still pounding through her body. She genuinely wondered if Miranda could hear her heartbeat from across the room.
“Hello, Andy,” the stylist answered at last. “Sorry we’re late. Gabriel and I are getting into the elevator now.”
“Okay,” Andy said quickly. “Just hurry. Thanks.”
She hung up immediately.
Then she picked up her purse, trying her best to be slow about it. Normal-slow, not slow-slow, she just didn’t want to seem flustered.
Miranda stood near the desk now, absentmindedly reorganizing piles of papers and brightly colored boxes.
“They’re in the elevator,” Andy said. “Do you need anything else tonight?”
Please say no.
“No,” Miranda replied after a moment. “That’s all.”
Thank God.
“Okay. Have a good dinner!” she said far too brightly.
Andy crossed the room, grabbed the keycard from the console table, shoved it into her purse, and wrapped her hand around the doorknob.
But before leaving, she glanced back one last time.
Miranda stood exactly where Andy had left her, now reading through one of Andy’s notebooks with that familiar tiny frown she wore whenever something work-related displeased her. The sight felt strangely comforting after everything else, at least this was familiar.
Andy decided not to wait around long enough to discover what she had done wrong this time.
She slipped out of the suite and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for one brief second before pushing herself away and heading down the hallway toward her own room.
Even without her husband – and whatever that had just been – Miranda Priestly still had the thing she loved most.
Her job.
When Andy walked into her room, she was relieved to find the champagne bottle abandoned on the table beside the two half-empty glasses and Nigel gone. She would not want him to see her like that, perceptive the way he was.
Andy grabbed the nearest glass. She did not even check whether it had been hers or Nigel’s, and filled it almost to the top before drinking it down in one swallow. The champagne barely touched whatever frantic thing had lodged itself inside her chest, so she skipped the glass entirely after that and drank straight from the bottle.
She crossed the room and collapsed backward onto the bed, carefully keeping the bottle upright. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the gold detailing curling across the plaster overhead. She forced herself to focus on it. One swirl. Another. Tiny painted flowers. It lasted maybe twenty seconds.
Then Miranda pushed back into her thoughts again.
Her hair. Her eyes. Her mouth.
Andy groaned softly and dragged one hand over her face.
Could that possibly have been real?
She sat up abruptly, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. Maybe exhaustion had finally broken her brain completely and produced some sort of stress-induced hallucination.
Honestly, it would not have been unprecedented.
Once, during finals week sophomore year, Andy had gotten so little sleep that she became fully convinced her roommate transformed into a tiny pony wearing glasses at two in the morning and started explaining Communication Theory to her.
That, unsurprisingly, had not happened. Andy had simply fallen asleep face-first onto her notes and dreamt the entire thing. Though to be fair, dream-pony had actually been very helpful and Andy still got an A-.
But she was exhausted now. She had barely slept since leaving New York. Fashion shows, parties, fittings, errands, impossible schedules. Miranda had consumed every available hour of the trip, including most of Andy’s sleeping ones.
Maybe her brain had simply snapped.
Except, the pony thing violated several laws of nature and kissing Miranda Priestly, unfortunately, did not.
“Fuck,” Andy muttered into the empty room.
She took another long drink straight from the bottle.
And because apparently her brain hated her, it replayed the kiss again immediately afterward. Slow and vivid and impossible to shut off.
The worst part was not even the kiss itself, it was wondering what would have happened if they had not been interrupted.
Would her hand actually have touched Miranda’s waist? Would Miranda have pulled her closer? Would they still have been on that sofa five minutes later? Or the rug?
Andy immediately drowned the thought in more champagne.
Absolutely not. Thinking was clearly the enemy tonight. Maybe the best possible decision she could make was drinking enough to forget her own name.
She had just lifted the bottle again when someone knocked on the door and Andy stared toward it in disbelief.
Jesus Christ, did everyone in Paris suddenly communicate exclusively through dramatic knocking?
She pushed herself off the bed, but then froze.
What if it was Miranda?
The thought alone nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. Maybe pretending not to exist was the safest option. Honestly, she was probably getting fired tomorrow anyway, or murdered.
Andy crept toward the door on tiptoe and pressed one eye to the peephole.
Relief hit first. Not Miranda.
Then confusion immediately replaced it.
Christian Thompson stood outside her door, hand resting on top of a cross-body leather bag, staring directly into the peephole like a man fully aware she was hiding behind it.
“I know you’re in there, Andy,” he called through the door
Andy jerked backward from the peephole like she had been caught committing a crime. She waited several seconds before finally opening the door.
“Christian?” she said, going for casual surprise. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Already forgot our conversation from earlier?” He smiled easily and gestured toward the room behind her. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Andy stepped aside automatically.
Christian walked in.
“Champagne by yourself, huh?” He laughed softly. “I was thinking we could go out for dinner, since you’re free tonight, but…” His eyes lingered on her for a second too long. “Maybe we should stay here and share another bottle instead.”.
Andy let out an awkward little laugh and immediately turned away from him, carrying the champagne bottle toward the table before she could do something humiliating like visibly panic.
“No, Christian, I actually don’t think-”
“No.” He dropped comfortably into one of the armchairs. “You owe me for the Harry Potter thing. And honestly, do you have anything better to do tonight?”
Andy briefly considered answering: yes, spiral psychologically in the bathtub until dawn.
Instead, she sighed. “I don’t.”
Then another thought hit her and she turned back toward him suspiciously.
“How are you even here, anyway? Aren’t you staying at a completely different hotel? How do you know my room number?”
“Oh, you know.” Christian shrugged lazily. “I had a short conversation with one of the women at the front desk and…”
“Spare me the details.” Andy lifted a hand immediately and Christian laughed.
Andy looked toward the champagne bottle again, then back at him. Honestly, getting aggressively drunk somewhere outside this hotel suddenly sounded like a fantastic idea.
“You know what?” she said after a second. “Fine. Let’s go out. Do you know Paris well?”
“One could say so.”
“Great.” Andy grabbed her purse from the bed. “Take me to the bar with the strongest liquor this city has.”
“Okay, I just wanna say that yes, there are things Miranda does that I don’t agree with, but-”
“Come on. You hate her.” Christian interrupted. “Just admit it to me.”
“No!” Andy gave a dramatic, slightly unsteady shake of her head. Between the champagne from earlier and the wine served with dinner, she was far past merely tipsy.
“She’s a notorious sadist, and not in a good way,” Christian laughed.
“Okay, she’s tough, but if Miranda were a man, no one would notice anything about her, except how great she is at her job.”
Christian chuckled at that.
“I’m sorry, I can’t believe this. You’re defending her?”
“Yeah,” Andy shrugged and took another bite of her food.
“The wide-eyed girl peddling her earnest newspaper stories?” Andy swallowed the desire to roll her eyes at that. “You, my friend, are crossing over to the dark side.”
“I resent that.”
“You shouldn’t, it’s sexy.”
“Sexy?” She asked with a sudden spark of interest.
“Yeah, you’re sexy.”
That, Andy had to admit, sent a small flutter through her stomach.
And then she remembered the thought she had been trying so hard to shove to the very back of her mind. Had Miranda thought she looked sexy too? After all, she had been wearing the exact same clothes.
Did she want Miranda to think she was sexy?
Did she find Miranda sexy?
Well. Yes. She did.
Was it really so terrible to admit that?
“Are you done with your food?” Christian asked.
“Yeah.
“Wanna go somewhere else?”
“Finally taking me to that bar you promised? Because I asked for hard liquor and you brought me to a restaurant to drink wine.” Andy drank the last remnants in her glass.
“I was thinking we could go to my hotel.”
Christian let out a low, flirtatious chuckle, tilting his head just enough to look at Andy through his lashes from an angle that had probably charmed plenty of girls before, but was not going to work on her. A brief pause followed before he let out another small laugh.
“But, sure, I can take you to a bar instead.”
She smiled, scrunching her nose, and Christian hurried to pay the bill. Less than five minutes later, they were out of the restaurant and walking through the darkened streets of Paris.
A silence had fallen between them, and her mind hurried right back to the same thought. It was getting old, honestly. But now, intoxicated, things did not seem quite so terrible. Sure, they were terrible – there was no denying that. Facing Miranda the next day would be a nightmare, whether she mentioned what had happened or not – Andy personally thought the second option was far more likely.
Still, there was something strangely enjoyable about thinking of the kiss. About the closeness of it. Before that night, she never would have considered that an option – and she probably would go back to being completely certain it was not once the alcohol left her system – but for now, it was nice to let herself entertain those ridiculous thoughts.
“You’re very quiet.” Christian broke the silence. “Care to tell me what you’ve been thinking about?”
God, no.
“Mm-mm.” Andy murmured, the refusal softened by the slight drunken happiness in her tone. “But you’re also quiet, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
“I can.”
Christian stopped walking. Andy, who had been slightly ahead of him, stopped too, turning around to look at him.
“I think,” he walked closer to her, “I really want to kiss you.”
That hit her with a wave of near sobriety.
But, oh, wasn’t that a stellar idea? Maybe kissing Christian would help untangle whatever weird feelings Miranda’s kiss had left behind. And besides, this was supposed to be normal. Easy. Maybe if she kissed him, everything would fall back into place.
Andy crossed the distance between them in two quick steps, cupping his face before pressing her lips against his. Christian responded instantly, kissing her back as he guided her backwards until her shoulders met the wall behind her. The kiss deepened quickly, his mouth growing rougher in a way that made discomfort prickle beneath her skin.
Yeah. No. This was definitely not it.
Andy pulled away gently, masking it with a playful peck and a light shove to his chest. Not because she had enjoyed it, but because she did not want him realizing she hadn’t and asking her about it.
“Hell yeah, Andy!”
“Go for it!”
The sudden shouting startled her so badly she nearly jumped. Turning her head, she spotted a group of about six people gathered across the street, all grinning at her. Two of them worked at Runway, while the others she recognized vaguely from Paris or industry events she had attended for work. Every single one of them, however, was unmistakably part of the fashion world. And unfortunately, they had recognized her.
Heat rushed to her face almost instantly. She tried to laugh through the embarrassment.
“Haha! Are you guys out having fun?”
“Not as much as you are!”
The reply came from someone whose name she couldn’t quite remember. The entire group burst into laughter. Christian included.
“Well, you should be!” Andy waved quickly before immediately starting to walk away at almost concerning speed.
Christian hurried after her, laughing under his breath.
“Where the hell is this bar?” she asked, annoyed.
By the time they stumbled into their fourth bar, it was already past five in the morning. Empty glasses crowded their table, and the conversation had long settled into safer territory. Journalism, bad interviews, impossible deadlines. Those things came easily between them.
Christian laughed at something she said and excused himself a moment later, disappearing toward the bathroom. Left alone at the table, Andy stretched her legs under the chair, and accidentally kicked the one beside her much harder than intended.
Christian’s bag bag hit the floor with a heavy thud, spilling all sorts of things across the sticky bar tiles.
“Shit,” she muttered, crouching down to gather the mess before someone stepped on it. Pens rolled beneath nearby stools, receipts stuck to the damp floor, and loose papers scattered in every direction. One of them caught her eye immediately.
Runway.
Andy paused mid-motion and pulled the paper closer.
It was the mock-up of a magazine cover. A model’s back faced the camera and her head was turned to the side in front of a greyish-purple background. She had never seen that cover – it was most certainly not the next issue –, and it looked nothing like any of Miranda’s work.
“Do not go to the bathroom, it stinks.” Christian said, sitting back on the chair across from Andy.
“What is this?” Andy turned the mock-up so that Christian could see it.
“What does it look like?” He laughed and took a sip of his unfinished drink. “It’s a mock-up.”
Andy looked at him, still confused.
“Of what American Runway will look like when Jacqueline Follet is the new editor in chief.”
Jacqueline Follet? The editor in chief of French Runway?
“What!?” Andy dropped the mock-up on the table as if it burned. “They’re replacing Miranda?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “And she’s bringing me in to run all the editorial content.”
Andy couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You’re really surprised?” Christian looked almost shocked. “Jacqueline’s a lot younger than Miranda. She has a fresher take on things.” He finished the rest of his drink. “Not to mention American Runway’s one of the most expensive books in the business. Jacqueline does the same thing for a lot less money. And Irv’s a businessman, you know.” He shrugged.
“Miranda will be devastated.” Andy said, finally being able to muster up words. “Her whole life is about Runway. He can’t do that to her.”
“It's done.” Christian signaled to a waiter. “Irv’s gonna tell Miranda after the party for James.” he glanced a quick look at her before the waiter made it to their table. “Yes, another Negroni, s'il vous plaît.”
“And she has no idea?” Andy leaned in closer to him, trying to get his full attention.
“She’s a big girl. She’ll be fine.” Christian chuckled.
Andy shook her head and got up, trying very hard to not stumble and fall.
“I have to go.”
“Andy…” Christian got up too. “Andy, it’s done.” He said as she picked up her things from the table and threw them mindlessly into her bag. “Baby, it’s done.”
“I’m not your baby.” Andy said before turning on her heels and leaving the bar in quick drunken steps.
Outside, the sun had begun to rise, washing the streets in pale orange light. Andy dug through her purse as she hurried back in the direction she and Christian had come from, crossing streets without fully checking for cars, trying to retrace turns she barely remembered making in the first place. There was absolutely no chance she would find the hotel on her own. She tried looking at her phone, but it had no battery left.
Andy stopped for a second, breathing hard. The exhaustion hit her all at once, heavy and nauseating after days of nonstop work followed by an entire night awake. Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. And somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline, one thought kept pounding at the front of her mind: she had to get back to Miranda. Fast.
She looked around for someone to ask. Paris was still awake. But unfortunately, populated almost entirely by drunk people stumbling home or men standing around in ways that made her instinctively avoid eye contact.
So she kept walking.
Then, suddenly – salvation.
The girl who had delivered Miranda’s dress earlier was leaning against the wall near an alleyway, cigarette balanced between two fingers. Her hotel uniform peeked out beneath a long black coat. Beside her stood a man around her age, also smoking, while she gestured wildly with her free hand.
“–and the worst part?” Andy heard as she approached. “I have to fake a stupid French accent whenever I speak English. Dude, I was born in Toronto. I’ve lived here for, like, two years. Hospitality is absolutely not my calling.”
“Hey – hi,” Andy blurted out, hurrying toward them and nearly tripping over the curb in the process.
“Excuse m- oh!” The girl straightened immediately at the sight of her.
She crushed the cigarette beneath her shoe and stood up properly. “Miss, uh…” Her eyes squeezed shut. “Uh…”
“Sachs. Andrea Sachs.” Andy threw both hands into the air, smiling with the frantic energy of someone one inconvenience away from collapse. “Listen, I need help. I have no idea how to get back to the hotel.”
“The hotel?” the girl repeated blankly.
“Yes. Please. It’s kind of urgent.”
“That way,” the guy beside her said, pointing down the street. “Walk a block and turn left. You’ll recognize it from there.”
“Oh my God, thank you so much.” Andy spun around so quickly she almost lost her balance again before pausing mid-step to look back at them.
“Oh, and your French accent when you speak English?” she said, pointing at the girl. “Terrifyingly convincing.”
And then Andy took off running.
Thankfully, the man had been right. Andy found the hotel almost immediately after turning the corner.
She stormed through the lobby doors and hurried across the reception area, slowing only long enough to glance at the massive clock behind the front desk. 6:15 A.M.
Okay, that was manageable.
The James Holt party was supposed to start at ten, some horrible brunch-style event, which meant she still had a little under four hours to get to Miranda. Four hours was not nearly enough time to actually fix the problem – Andy was fairly certain the problem was beyond fixing at this point – but if she could just tell Miranda, then she would know what to do. Probably.
Or she would somehow make it Andy’s problem too. Which, realistically, was much more likely.
Andy got out of the elevator at a near run and crossed the hallway so fast she nearly slipped on the polished floor. She knocked on Miranda’s door once, twice, then abandoned all dignity entirely and started banging on it with the flat of her hand.
“Miranda!”
Nothing.
The silence on the other side of the door began feeling almost personal.
For one brief, insane second, Andy considered running to her own room, grabbing the emergency key Miranda had once forced her to carry, and letting herself in. But if Miranda was asleep, Andy genuinely believed there was a possibility she would wake up and kill her with her bare hands.
A door finally opened behind her, but not Miranda’s.
The small staff room beside the suite cracked open instead, and a sharply dressed man stepped out, already perfectly composed despite the hour. Miranda’s personal butler.
“Bon matin, Miss Sachs,” he greeted smoothly, though his eyebrows lifted the slightest bit at the sight of her. “Is zere… a problem?”
Andy caught her reflection in the gilded mirror across the hallway and almost answered yes automatically.
Mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Lipstick half gone, half smeared. Hair looking like she had survived a small electrical accident.
Christian, she decided bitterly, was partially responsible for at least two of those things.
“Not exactly,” she said, turning back to him. “But I really need to speak to Mrs. Priestly.”
“Oh.” His expression shifted immediately into polite regret. “I am sorry, miss, but she is not here.”
Andy blinked. “She’s not- what do you mean she’s not here?”
“She left perhaps twenty minutes ago.” He gave a tiny shrug. “I do not know where she went.”
Okay. Fine. No reason to panic yet.
“Right. Okay. What was she wearing?”
The butler stared at her. “Pardon?”
“Like- was it exercise clothes? Did it look like she went for a walk? Or was it business? Fancy? Threatening?”
“I…” He frowned slightly, clearly trying to understand what qualified as threatening clothing. “I am not certain, miss.”
“Okay. Great. Thank you.”
Andy spun around and headed back toward her room before he could say anything else. Miranda’s butler was excellent at things like obtaining impossible dinner reservations and somehow always providing the exact candle scent Miranda wanted, but his understanding of fashion was arguably worse than Andy’s had been on her first day at Runway.
Maybe calling Miranda would get her somewhere faster.
Andy got into the room fast. Her phone hit the nightstand first, charger shoved into it before she lunged for the hotel telephone and dialed Miranda’s number from memory.
One ring. Two. Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
By the sixth attempt, Andy lowered the receiver very, very slowly, staring at absolutely nothing while the dull buzz of the disconnected line filled the room.
“Great,” she muttered. “Fantastic.”
Her chest already felt tight enough without spiraling further into whatever nightmare this was becoming, so instead of continuing to pace holes into the carpet, she marched into the bathroom and turned the shower handle all the way. Water crashed loudly into the marble stall.
Maybe this would somehow be survivable.
Jacqueline Follet would still need an assistant, right? Or maybe Miranda would leave Runway and take half the industry with her. People would follow Miranda Priestly anywhere. Andy probably would too, honestly. Maybe this whole disaster could even become proof of her loyalty somehow. Perhaps it could even win her a career boost?
God, she was exhausted.
By the time Andy stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in steam and hotel towels, she almost felt like a functioning human being again. Almost.
Then her phone started ringing.
Andy lunged for it instantly, already expecting Miranda’s name on the screen. Instead: Emily C.
Andy frowned. What time even was it in New York right now? And why was Emily calling her?
She answered quickly and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Do you have any idea what time it is in New York?” Emily snapped without preamble.
“I- not exactly?”
“Too bloody early, that’s what time it is.”
Andy could hear rustling on the other end, hurried movement, followed by one long, exhausted breath.
“And do you know why I am awake at this ungodly hour?” Emily continued. “Because Miranda tried calling you, who apparently vanished off the face of the earth, and then she rang me – all the way from Paris – to find you, who are in Paris, where I was supposed to be.”
“I’m… sorry?”
“You should be!” Emily nearly screeched. Then, abruptly calmer in the deeply threatening way only she could manage, she continued, “Anyway. Miranda needs you to go to Louis Vuitton and collect something for her.”
“What thing?”
“Oh, I haven’t the faintest clue,” Emily replied sharply. “Miranda didn’t tell me because apparently I am not worthy of information anymore. Just say it’s for Miranda Priestly and they’ll hand it over.”
“Right. Okay.” Andy dropped to the floor beside her open suitcase, digging frantically through wrinkled clothes. “Which Louis Vuitton, though? There are, like, a hundred.”
Emily let out a long, deeply offended sigh.
“Honestly, Andy, sometimes I wonder how you survive daily life. 101 Champs-Élysées. Obviously.”
Andy sighed too, tugging a Chanel skirt Nigel had smuggled to her from beneath a shoe.
“It really should be you here.”
“I know,” Emily said miserably. “Trust me, I know.”
Andy had a brief moment of panic on the way there, wondering if the Louis Vuitton store would even be open at this hour. It was nearing eight in the morning by the time she arrived. God, two hours left.
Then again, this was Miranda Priestly. Of course it was open.
A sales associate was already waiting by the entrance when Andy rushed inside, and the second she mentioned Miranda’s name, the entire atmosphere of the store shifted into terrifying efficiency. Still, between signatures, careful packaging, and someone disappearing into the back to retrieve the correct box, precious minutes kept slipping by. Andy bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet the entire time.
By the time she finally left with the enormous Louis Vuitton box in her arms, she felt like screaming at everyone to move faster.
Ten minutes later, Andy was back in a taxi with the box balanced awkwardly on her knees, bouncing her leg so fast it shook the packaging. Then, she dialed Miranda’s number again.
The line rang. Slowly.
“Allô.”
Andy nearly collapsed in relief. “Oh! Oh, thank God. You’re there.”
A pause. Then Miranda’s dry voice: “Excuse me?”
“I need to talk to you right away!” Andy said, leaning forward in the taxi like it would somehow make the conversation move faster. “It’s about Jacqueline Follet-”
The line went dead.
Andy stared at the screen.
“Shit!”
The taxi driver glanced at her through the mirror. Andy ignored him completely.
The second the car stopped in front of the hotel, she threw cash at the driver, grabbed the box, and sprinted through the lobby again. By now the staff had started recognizing the sound of her approaching at dangerous speeds.
She barely had time to raise her fist toward Miranda’s door before the side staff door opened once more. Miranda’s butler stepped out looking deeply prepared to prevent another public incident.
“Miss Sachs,” he said with a smile so polished it became threatening. “Allow me to take zis to Mrs. Priestly’s room.”
He smoothly removed the Louis Vuitton box from Andy’s arms before she could object.
“She’s back?” Andy asked immediately. “Tell me she’s back.”
“Well, yes.”
Relief lasted approximately half a second.
“But she is not here.”
“Fuck.”
The butler’s expression twitched almost imperceptibly.
“She requested coffee to be delivered to Monsieur Ravitz’s suite,” he admitted after a moment, sounding like a man betraying state secrets. “Please do not tell anyone I told you zis.”
“What room?”
“The Suite Royale. Next floor.”
Andy could have kissed him. Instead she thanked him about twelve times and hurried toward the elevators again.
The Suite Royale was impossible to miss. The doors alone looked more expensive than Andy’s college education. She knocked once, then again when nobody answered. Then harder. Then with both hands.
At this point, any sane employee would probably remember they were standing outside the chairman of Elias-Clarke’s hotel suite making enough noise to wake the dead. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Andy currently feared Miranda Priestly far more than Irv Ravitz.
Eventually, the door swung open.
Irv stood there looking deeply unimpressed. “Yes?”
“Oh- hello, Mr. Ravitz.” Andy straightened immediately. “I’m so sorry, I was just wondering if-”
Miranda appeared behind him before she could finish.
And just like that, the woman from the night before vanished entirely.
Her makeup was immaculate. Hair perfect. Clothes razor-sharp. Every inch of her looked controlled again, polished back into place so flawlessly Andy almost wondered if the previous night had happened at all.
“Have you completely lost your mind?”
Miranda’s eyes swept over Andy in one brutal glance. Andy suddenly became painfully aware of everything at once: the exhaustion sitting beneath her eyes, the wrinkled clothes thrown on in a rush, the fact she probably still looked vaguely hungover despite the shower.
“I need to talk to you.” Andy said quietly, trying to keep the panic out of her voice and failing.
“Do not disturb me again.”
Miranda stepped backwards into the suite and shut the door directly in Andy’s face.
“But it’ll just take one second- Miranda!”
Andy stared at the closed door, breathing hard.
Honestly? At this point, she was beginning to question why she was even trying this hard. She had spent the last hours running across Paris on zero sleep trying to save Miranda’s job, and Miranda would not even spare thirty seconds to hear her out.
Then another thought hit her.
Oh, God. Miranda probably thought Andy was trying to talk about the kiss.
Which she absolutely was not. Never. Not even close. She would rather fling herself directly into the Seine.
For one glorious moment, Andy considered giving up entirely. Just letting the whole thing happen. Miranda could find out at the party like everyone else.
But when she pictured it, Miranda learning she was being pushed out in the middle of fashion week, after years of building Runway into what it was. The very idea twisted unpleasantly in Andy’s chest.
No, she would try one last time. Miranda would not be able to avoid her at the party. Andy would corner her somehow and make her listen.
But first, she needed to get dressed properly.
Andy paced the hallway in tight, restless circles, the sharp click of her Prada heels bouncing off the marble floors. She kept twisting the rings on her fingers until her skin hurt, stomach turning harder every time someone walked past without being Miranda.
Then she saw her.
“Miranda!” Andy straightened immediately, hurrying down the corridor after her. Miranda was already fully dressed for the party, draped in elegance and composure like the morning had not even touched her. “Miranda, wait. I need to talk to you.”
Miranda did not slow down.
Andy followed anyway. “Irv is making Jacqueline Follet editor-in-chief of Runway. Christian Thompson told me. He’s going to work for her. Irv’s planning to tell you today, so I thought maybe if you knew, you could fix it.”
The words came rushing out breathlessly, all at once.
Finally.
After hours of carrying the information around like a bomb in her chest, Andy had handed it over. She waited for something. Confusion, anger, panic, disbelief, anything at all.
Miranda kept walking.
“Do I smell freesias?” she asked flatly.
Andy blinked. “What? No.” Her brain stalled for half a second before panic immediately replaced it. “I specifically told them-”
“If I see freesias anywhere,” Miranda said, slipping her fur shawl and gloves into Andy’s stunned arms without breaking stride, “I’ll be very disappointed.”
And then she was gone.
Andy stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, clutching the shawl against her chest while her mind struggled desperately to catch up to what had just happened.
Then she slowly turned her head.
A floral arrangement stretched along the wall beside her. Small white flowers woven carefully through the display.
Andy stared at them in horror.
“Are those freesias on the wall?” she nearly shouted.
Andy barely heard half of Nigel’s speech. Her attention kept drifting toward Miranda’s table across the room, where her boss sat composed beneath the warm ballroom lights, smiling that small, elegant smile she always wore when she knew people were watching her.
She also made a very deliberate effort not to look at Christian for longer than two seconds at a time. At this point, she genuinely believed that if he smiled at her wrong, she might grab the floral centerpiece off the table and throw it directly at his head.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miranda Priestly.”
The room erupted into applause, snapping Andy back into the present. She clapped automatically with everyone else as Miranda rose from her seat and crossed the stage with effortless confidence. She leaned down to kiss Nigel’s cheek before stepping in front of the microphone.
“Thank you, my dear friend.” She started. “Bonjour. Thank you very much for coming today to help celebrate our friend, James Holt.”
Nigel slid into the empty chair beside Andy while the applause started up again. Andy glanced at him briefly before looking back toward the stage.
Miranda looked beautiful.
The realization landed strangely hard. Normally, Andy would not have thought twice about admitting that Miranda was beautiful. It was simply an obvious fact, like acknowledging expensive shoes or good lighting. But now the thought made something tighten awkwardly in her chest.
But then again, she had already spent half the previous night admitting to herself that she found Miranda sexy, so acknowledging she was beautiful hardly felt like the shocking part anymore.
“But before I talk to you about James,” Miranda continued without waiting for the claps to stop, “and his many accomplishments, I would like first to share some news with you.” She smiled. “As many of you know, recently Massimo Corteleoni has agreed to finance the expansion of the James Holt label, transforming the work of this visionary artist into a global brand, which is really an exciting enterprise.” Andy felt Nigel move around next to her, anxious. She started smiling at that. “Runway and James Holt share many things in common, chief among them, a commitment to excellence. And so, it should come as no surprise that when the time came for James to choose the new president of James Holt International, he chose from within the Runway family. And it’s my great happiness today to announce to you all that that person is my friend and longtime esteemed colleague… Jacqueline Follet.”
Andy’s and Nigel’s smiles dropped instantly. She looked down; then at Jacqueline, who got up to thank people for their applause; to Christian, who looked confused; to Nigel, who seemed disappointed, but not exactly surprised; and finally, to Miranda. She continued with her speech announcing the beginning of the event, rehearsed smile, no regrets, nothing.
“When the time is right, she’ll pay me back.” Nigel said, forcing a small smile onto his face.
Andy kept staring at Miranda. “You sure about that?”
“No,” Nigel admitted quietly. “But I hope for the best. I have to.”
“You thought I didn’t know.”
Andy turned her head sharply toward Miranda’s voice. The city moved outside the tinted windows in blurred gold and gray as the car carried them away from the James Holt event and toward Miranda’s next appointment.
“I’ve known what was happening for quite some time.” Miranda continued calmly. “It just took me a little while to find a suitable alternative for Jacqueline. And that James Holt job was so absurdly overpaid that, of course, she jumped at it. So I just had to tell Irv that Jacqueline was unavailable.”
She chuckled and Andy, who had looked away, turned her head back and stared at her.
“The truth is, there is no one that can do what I do, including her. Any of the other choices would have found that job impossible, and the magazine would have suffered. Especially because of the list.”
Miranda spared a quick glance at Andy before turning her head back to the moving streets of Paris. “
The list of designers, photographers, editors, writers, models, all of whom were found by me, nurtured by me and have promised me they will follow me whenever and if ever I choose to leave Runway. So he reconsidered.”
The silence stretched for a second.
“But I was very, very impressed by how intently you tried to warn me. I never thought I would say this, Andrea, but I really-” she swallowed, “I see a great deal of myself in you.”
Andy looked back at her immediately.
“You can see beyond what people want and what they need, and you can choose for yourself.”
“I don’t think I’m like that.” Andy blinked quickly. “I- I couldn’t do what you did to Nigel, Miranda. I couldn’t do something like that,” her eyes avoided Miranda again.
“Mm. You already did.”
Andy frowned.
“To Emily.” She said in an almost whisper.
“That’s not what I-” Andy shook her head. “No, that was different. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Oh, no, you chose.” Miranda nodded. “You chose to get ahead. You want this life, those choices are necessary.”
“But what if… this isn’t what I want?” Andy’s voice cracked slightly. “I mean, what if I don’t wanna live the way you live?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Andrea. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us.”
The car slowed to a stop and Miranda slipped her sunglasses on with practiced elegance. She offered Andy one final smile before stepping out into the chaos outside. Cameras flashed instantly. Voices called her name from every direction. People surged toward her like waves.
Andy stayed inside the car.
On her side of the window there was only the fountain across the street, tourists passing by, traffic moving normally through Paris. No cameras. No glamour. No Miranda.
Her hand drifted toward the door handle.
She could leave.
She could step out onto the quiet side of the street and walk away from all of it before it swallowed her completely. And for one brief moment, it almost felt noble. Holding onto the morals she had once guarded so fiercely. Refusing to become the kind of person who could sacrifice people the way Miranda did.
But then her chest tightened painfully.
Because last night, watching Miranda break apart in private, it had hurt. The kiss had hurt too, but in a completely different way.
And the thought of Miranda losing Runway had sent Andy racing across Paris like her own life depended on it.
At some point during the last twenty-four hours, something had shifted in her.
Andy lowered her forehead against the back of the driver’s seat and squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
This was the moment. One choice or the other.
She inhaled sharply and, without allowing herself another thought, slid across the seat and bolted through the door Miranda had recently closed, lunging into the crowd to catch up with her.