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After Paris, Miranda became even more of a mystery. She was always inscrutable, but now there was something softer beneath the surface. Subtle. A shift only the most observant at Runway noticed. She wasn’t exactly warm but she was calmer. Occasionally, she was even… pleasant.
The staff lived in quiet dread, bracing for the inevitable explosion. This couldn’t last. Not with her. Emily didn’t complain, of course. A less volatile Miranda made her life easier. Still, she watched every serene smile like it might detonate.
So when Emily dropped off the dry cleaning and the Book that evening, she let her guard down. She really needed to use the restroom, and Miranda's recent mood lulled her into thinking the guest bathroom just down the hallway wouldn’t be off-limits.
She had just dried her hands when she heard the front door open. Loudly. That startled her. She hadn’t even realized Miranda had gone out. Frowning, Emily tried to recall Miranda’s schedule but came up blank.
She considered slipping out immediately. But then—thud.
A heavy noise echoed through the hallway. Something slammed against the wall. The bathroom door shuddered slightly in its frame. Emily froze, breath caught in her throat. Then, from far too close:
A moan.
A very familiar moan.
Miranda.
Emily’s eyes went wide in horror.
The low thrum of a voice, sultry and teasing, answered Miranda—too muffled to make out clearly. Then Miranda, breathless, almost desperate: “Are you going to torture me all night, or are you finally going to fuck me?”
Emily’s whole body locked up.
She wasn’t hearing this. She couldn’t be hearing this. But then came the unmistakable rhythm of skin on skin, the slick, wet sounds that left no room for denial, and Miranda’s increasingly urgent cries of “harder” and “right there.”
Emily backed into the farthest corner of the bathroom, as if that might protect her from what she was hearing. Her face burned. Her ears burned. Her soul burned.
Then Miranda moaned, low and guttural, “Fuck, baby, you fill me so good,” the sentence trailing off into a high whimper as a wet pop echoed—mouth on skin, sucking.
Emily nearly dropped dead on the tile floor. She could not believe it was her boss, usually so composed, who just uttered those words.
It didn’t last long, though she wasn’t sure how long she’d been frozen there. Miranda's final cry rang out, raw and unrestrained, the sound of someone completely undone.
For a long moment, everything was quiet. Then, Miranda’s voice, rough and satisfied: “Bed. Now.”
Two sets of feet climbed the stairs.
Emily didn’t breathe until they were out of range.
Much, much later, she slipped out silently, still dazed. Still reeling. If anyone asked her at the office why Miranda had been so radiant lately, she wouldn’t say a word.
And if Emily had been thinking clearly, she might have noticed the briefcase left in the foyer. The initials etched into the leather: A. Sachs.
But she didn’t.
She’d just listened to Miranda Priestly being fucked senseless against the hallway wall.
And she was still in shock.
The next morning, Emily had done everything right.
She woke up early. She did her ten-minute grounding exercise, twice. She told herself it’s fine, she’s fine, people hear things all the time. People don’t accidentally overhear their boss getting railed against the hallway wall, but still. Fine.
She even applied extra concealer. No one could know. She had control.
Until Miranda stepped off the elevator.
Emily’s face flushed instantly. Heat bloomed from her chest to the tips of her ears. Her brain short-circuited. It was happening all over again—the sounds, the moans, the voice saying fuck, baby, you fill me so good—and no amount of deep breathing could rescue her now.
She trailed after Miranda like a broken Roomba, unable to look away. Miranda looked impeccable as always, but now… Emily noticed everything. The slight delay in her steps. The faint, almost imperceptible grimace as she sat down at her desk.
And that was it. Emily's brain combusted.
She’s sore. From sex. From being absolutely ruined. Upstairs. After she said “bed, now.” Did she get fucked again? On her back this time? Or—oh my god—
“Emily.”
Emily blinked. Miranda was staring at her. That usual, piercing stare—irritated, sharp.
“I said, confirm the 11 a.m. with Caldwell and get the Bottega proofs from Art.” A beat passed. “Are you unwell?”
Emily made a sound. A sound that was not words. Her mouth opened. Closed. Her face was on fire.
Miranda tilted her head slightly. A warning.
“That’s all.”
Emily turned on her heel and walked out—fast. She didn’t even bother to pretend she wasn’t panicking.
She had to tell someone. For her own survival.
That Friday night, Emily was already two drinks in and dangerously close to a third.
She, Nigel, and Andrea were tucked into a velvet-lined booth at a dimly lit cocktail bar downtown. The music was just loud enough to blur the edges of their conversation, the lighting soft enough to make everything feel like a secret.
Miranda had pulled strings to get Nigel a lead editorial position at a brand new, gender-inclusive fashion and lifestyle magazine—something bold, something relevant—and he’d been glowing ever since. It suited him. He laughed more now. He ordered cocktails with names like The Bitch Goddess without a hint of irony.
Andrea, for her part, looked good. Calmer than she used to be. She and Emily had found a cautious friendship after Andrea reached out first, though Emily still pretended she didn’t like her.
It was that third drink—the one Emily probably should’ve skipped—that loosened her tongue.
She leaned forward across the table, eyes darting around like someone about to commit treason.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I have to tell you something. But you cannot repeat it.”
Andrea raised an eyebrow. Nigel sipped his drink with interest.
Emily continued, her voice barely above a scandalized hiss. “I heard Miranda. Having sex.”
Andrea choked.
She coughed violently into her drink, sputtering as her eyes widened in abject horror.
“Oh my god,” Andrea wheezed, wiping her mouth. “You what?”
“I didn’t mean to!” Emily whisper-shrieked. “I was just dropping off the Book and needed the bathroom. And then she came in with this mystery person and next thing I know—she’s moaning, the wall’s shaking, and I’m trapped listening to her being thoroughly handled.”
Nigel blinked. “Handled?”
“She begged, Nigel. Begged.”
Andrea visibly shrank in her seat.
Nigel’s mouth dropped open. “Our Miranda? Begged? For what? Who is this sex god?”
“I don’t know! That’s the thing! I didn’t see them. But there was a briefcase by the door, and I didn’t get a good look—”
“Oh my god,” Nigel breathed. “It’s a power play, isn’t it? Some high-powered CEO type. Probably younger. Tatted. Knows how to manhandle her in just the right way.”
“Womanhandle,” Emily corrected with a pointed look.
“Right,” Nigel nodded solemnly. “Of course. Womanhandle.”
Emily smirked. “Maybe it’s some mysterious art curator. Or a celebrity?”
Andrea looked like she wanted to crawl into the wall.
“Okay!” she said a little too loudly. “Can we not do this?”
“What, can’t handle the idea of your old boss getting topped?” Nigel teased.
Emily snorted.
Andrea blinked
“It was me!”
Silence.
Absolute, dead silence.
Andrea stared at them in frozen horror, as if the words had just flown out of her mouth without permission.
Nigel’s mouth fell open. Emily’s drink paused mid-air.
“Oh my god,” Emily said, staring at Andrea like she’d never seen her before.
Andrea could see it happen—right there in Emily’s eyes. The recalibration. The moment Emily rewound the memory of that night, inserted Andrea into the scene, and—
“Oh my god,” Emily repeated, breathless this time.
Nigel, for once in his life, was speechless. His jaw hung slightly open. He blinked. “You did what?”
Andrea groaned and buried her face in her hands.
“We’ve been seeing each other for four months,” she said, voice muffled, then looked up at them, cheeks flaming. “We met at some press function in May. I don’t know—it just… felt natural.”
Emily blinked. “Natural? Natural? You climbed Miranda Priestly like a jungle gym!”
Andrea groaned again. “Please don’t say it like that.”
Nigel was still frozen. “Four months?”
Andrea nodded miserably.
“Four months,” Emily echoed, stunned. “Oh my god, I heard you—I heard Miranda say—”
“Don’t.” Andrea threw a hand up. “Please, don’t repeat it. I am already dying.”
Nigel finally found his voice. “Wait. But why didn’t she tell anyone? I mean, not that she owes anyone anything.”
“She wanted to keep it under wraps,” Andrea said, quieter now. “At least until the girls feel settled. She didn’t want them back in the spotlight. Not again.”
There it was—that softness. That aching little vulnerability that cracked right through the scandal and heat of it all.
“She’s being careful,” Andrea added. “And I—I just blew it.” She ran a hand through her hair. “God, she’s going to kill me.”
Emily was still processing. “You mean to tell me that you—Andrea Sachs—have been sleeping with Miranda Priestly… in secret… for months…”
Andrea didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Because the look on her face said everything.
And now, it wasn’t just scandal anymore.
It was something real.
Something that might actually get broken.
Andrea sat still for a beat, the half-empty glass in front of her forgotten. Her jaw was tight, eyes unfocused like she was already somewhere else—somewhere upstairs, in Miranda’s penthouse, whispering apologies between still-warm sheets.
She reached slowly for her coat, her bag. “I think I need to talk to Miranda,” she said, her voice low but certain. “If I blurted it out that quickly… it’s her I need to talk to right now.”
Emily, who had been basking in the shock just minutes ago, suddenly felt a pang of guilt settle in her stomach.
“I didn’t mean to—” she began, but Andrea gave her a soft look.
“No, I know. It’s not your fault. I just…” She exhaled sharply, shoulders curling inward like she was trying to protect the thing she’d let slip. “She trusted me. She’s been so careful. With me. With this. And I just—threw it out into the world like it was gossip.”
Nigel, for once, said nothing. Just reached across the table and squeezed Andrea’s wrist gently. There was no teasing in his eyes now—only something strangely close to pride.
Emily swallowed. “She won’t… she won’t hate you, you know. Not for this.”
Andrea gave a small, humorless laugh as she pulled her coat over her shoulders. “You don’t know her like I do.”
Then she paused, corrected herself. “At least, not like this.”
Emily felt sick to her stomach all weekend. It was like she’d spilled coffee on her vintage Westwood—panic, cleanup, denial—but the stain had already soaked through the fabric. Permanent. Unforgivable.
She had heard Miranda Priestly mid-coitus. And then she had accidentally forced Andrea Sachs to confess it in public. It was catastrophic. She considered faking a flu. Or moving to Spain.
So when her phone rang on Sunday afternoon and Andrea’s name lit up the screen, she lunged for it.
“Hello?!” she answered, already breathless with dread.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Andrea said instantly, almost too calm. “Everything’s fine. Really.”
Emily didn’t respond right away. Her brain short-circuited somewhere between fine and everything.
“What?” she managed.
“I talked to her,” Andrea said, her voice gentler now. “She was… annoyed. But not furious. We’re okay. And actually, she’d like to invite you and Nigel for dinner on Wednesday. If you’re free.”
Emily blinked. “Dinner?”
“Dinner,” Andrea confirmed. “At the townhouse. The girls are going on their school trip next week, so… she said it’d be nice.”
Emily was silent for a beat too long.
Andrea chuckled, just a little. “Hope you can make it!
And just like that, the call ended.
Monday morning, Emily stood stiffly at her desk, prepared for some kind of subtle punishment. A look. A colder-than-usual command. Something.
But when Miranda swept through the glass doors, coat fluttering behind her like a cape, she barely glanced at Emily.
“Call the location about the November shoot,” she said. ”
“Yes, Miranda,” Emily replied, heart pounding.
Miranda paused just long enough to meet her eyes.
Her gaze was cool. Controlled.
Indecipherable.
Then, Miranda released Emily with “That’s all.”
As she glided into her office, Emily collapsed into her chair, hands trembling.
She had no idea what Wednesday night was going to be.
But one thing was certain:
Miranda Priestly was watching Emily.
On Wednesday evening, Emily and Nigel stood stiffly on the pristine steps of Miranda’s townhouse, both dressed as if they were attending a state dinner rather than an intimate gathering. Emily clutched a bottle of wine like it was a shield. Nigel adjusted his cufflinks for the fourth time.
They were braced for Andrea to open the door. To give them a sheepish grin, maybe a warning glance. But when the door swung open—
It was Miranda.
Hair immaculate. Linen shirt with the sleeves casually rolled. Barefoot.
The sight hit them like a freight train.
“Good evening,” she said, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Nigel and Emily, both momentarily robbed of language, just nodded and stepped inside.
There was a warm smell drifting from the dining room—rich, savory, fragrant with herbs and slow-roasted meat. Like a home.
They followed Miranda through the hall in stunned silence, exchanging a look that screamed: Are we in an alternate timeline? Did we die? Is this gay heaven?
And then they saw her.
Andrea Sachs.
Carrying a serving dish in from the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, wearing dark jeans and a roomy, half-unbuttoned oxford shirt—barefoot, like Miranda. She looked like she belonged here. Like Andrea actually felt comfortable here.
She glanced up and beamed. “Hey, you two. I tried a new recipe for the duck roast. Hope you're hungry.”
Emily nearly dropped the wine.
Nigel made a soft choking noise that could’ve been a laugh or a prayer.
They sat around the table set with bone-white china, crystal glasses catching the golden light. The duck smelled incredible, the roasted vegetables artfully arranged, the wine perfectly paired.
And Miranda Priestly looked like she’d rather be undergoing oral surgery.
Her back was straight, her gaze fixed on some invisible middle distance between her wine glass and the candlesticks. She nodded politely when Emily complimented the flatware. She gave Nigel a dry “Mm” when he made a joke about how domestic bliss looks good on you, Miranda. But her shoulders were taut, her jaw tight, her answers clipped.
It was painfully obvious. Miranda was bracing. Holding herself still, composed, one wrong word away from snapping the evening like a twig. Like a child trying to carry a mug of how cocoa across the room.
Then Andrea reached out.
Casual. Natural. Like she'd done it a hundred times before.
She let her hand skim lightly down Miranda’s back, from shoulder blade to waist. It was a simple touch. Barely there.
But Miranda exhaled.
Subtle. Quiet. But real.
She blinked once, then let her spine soften just a touch as she picked up her wine glass. She didn’t look at Andrea, but her posture changed.
And that was Andrea’s cue.
Andrea turned to Emily and Nigel with a small smile, warm but measured. “It’s actually… kind of nice. Having someone know about us. About this.”
Miranda sipped her wine but didn’t interrupt.
Andrea glanced at Miranda briefly, like she was checking in before continuing. “We’ve kept it quiet for a lot of reasons. Mostly the girls. And… I think Miranda was protecting this. Us.”
Miranda’s expression didn’t change, but she reached for a piece of bread. With her fingers.
Nigel nearly fainted.
Andrea continued, her tone light but sincere. “But I think—keeping something like this secret? That only works for so long. Eventually it starts to feel like hiding. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”
She looked at Miranda again, and this time Miranda did meet her gaze. Just for a moment. A flicker of agreement. Or permission.
Emily, for once, had nothing snarky to say. She looked between them. Miranda’s impossible stillness, Andrea’s effortless steadiness and whatever started growing in the space between them.
She watched the way Andrea served Miranda a second helping of duck without asking. How Miranda accepted it without a word, no side-eye, no biting comment. She watched how Andrea tilted the wine bottle toward Miranda first, how Miranda’s fingers brushed Andrea’s wrist in acknowledgment. Not an accident, not this time.
It was a language. One Emily had watched them speak long before anyone else noticed it. Back in the Runway offices, where it lived in long looks, unfinished sentences, and questions Andrea kept asking with her eyes and Miranda kept refusing to answer. Back then, Andrea had been asking questions with her eyes, with her hands, with her endless attempts to matter. And Miranda had been answering with refusals. With restraint. With perfectly calculated distance.
But now? Here, in this dining room—Miranda wasn’t retreating.
She was leaning in.
She was speaking the same language, but now she used her hands, her gaze, her yes. It was subtle, but Emily had spent enough time translating Miranda Priestly’s moods to recognize what most people never would:
Miranda wasn’t protecting her walls anymore.
She was offering herself. Quietly. Entirely.
And Emily felt something twist in her chest that she didn’t have words for.
Later, when they stepped out into the night and the townhouse door closed softly behind them, the smell of roast duck still lingered in her coat.
Emily accepted Nigel’s offer to drive her home. In the back of Nigel’s car as the driver weaved through the street, neither Emily nor Nigel spoke for a while. Not for a few blocks. Not through the hum of traffic.
Then, finally, Nigel said it.
Like a benediction.
“They’re in love.”
Emily nodded, because it was true.
Dinner had just been someone else’s heaven; Andrea and Miranda’s.