Chapter Text
The air at the top of the mountain carried a clean, cool freshness that softened the lingering heat of the day. Andy sat comfortably at a small wooden table on the terrace of a modest café near the mountain’s edge. She leaned back in her chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, adjusting her sunglasses as she settled in. Below her, the view stretched out in muted layers of green and blue. The jungle canopy looked dense and uneven, marked by darker clusters of foliage and lighter patches where sunlight broke through.
She lifted a cup of espresso to her lips, savoring the strong, rich taste. It was hot and bitter, grounding her thoughts as she watched a group of monkeys scrambling across the rocks and swinging from branch to branch. Their noisy calls and chaotic movements added a lively contrast to the otherwise quiet morning. Coffee was one of the few indulgences she still allowed herself, one of the last familiar pleasures that hadn’t changed.
Her phone vibrated insistently in her pocket. Andy frowned and looked at the screen. She had ensured that few people had her number. The agent she’d hired years ago was paid handsomely to protect her solitude. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Curiosity won, and she answered.
“Andy Sachs,” she said.
“Oh, my God, Six,” came Nigel’s familiar voice. “You’re actually alive! Have you decided to rejoin the living?”
Andy chuckled, the tension in her shoulders easing at the sound of him. Very few voices could reach through the walls she’d built. His always did. “Nice choice of words, Nigel.” She leaned back in her chair, taking in the uneven stretch of jungle below. “Although last time I checked, I’m plenty alive. Sitting on a mountaintop in northern Thailand, drinking espresso and watching monkeys fight over fruit. If that’s not living, I don’t know what is.” She set the cup down. “How did you even get this number? My agent knows better.”
Nigel laughed, sounding pleased with himself. “Oh, please, Six. You’re hardly the only one capable of pulling off impossible things. Let’s just say your agent and I found a mutual appreciation for discretion... and impeccable taste in designer footwear.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You bribed her with shoes? Really, Nigel?”
“Bribe is such a tacky word,” Nigel replied, feigning offense. “Think of it more as a mutually beneficial arrangement. A vintage Louboutin speaks louder than contracts, darling.”
“Mm-hmm,” Andy said, taking another sip of her espresso. “Hate to break it to you, but she played you. She never takes bribes. She just knew you were on my whitelist and let you think you were charming your way in.” She set the cup down with a soft clink. “Amber’s discreet and exceptional at her job. That’s why she’s my agent. And the funniest part is that she’s a die-hard Miranda fan. Even if Miranda herself showed up begging for information, Amber wouldn’t give her a thing.”
A dramatic gasp came through the line. “I’ve been manipulated? The betrayal.”
Andy smirked. “To be fair, you’re an easy mark for anyone with taste.”
“I am,” he sighed. “It’s my greatest strength and my tragic flaw.”
“Well, consider this a reminder that you’re not the only one who knows how to play smart,” she said, letting a small smirk tug at the corner of her mouth.
“Touché, Six. Flattered and betrayed. My favorite combination.” His voice shifted. “So I make the whitelist, but not Miranda? That’s brutal.”
“Miranda doesn’t need a whitelist. She would never ask anything of me.”
Nigel hummed. “Of course not. She’d find a way without asking.”
Andy didn’t reply. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup once, then stilled.
Nigel caught the shift and eased his tone. “But enough about that... I’m calling because I need to cash in on that favor you owe me.”
Andy straightened and set the cup aside. “Favor? I don’t recall owing you one.”
“Oh, darling,” Nigel said playfully, “everyone owes me at least one favor. And right now, I’m afraid yours is particularly pressing.”
Andy’s posture tightened. “Nigel, if this is another Runway crisis, you know I haven’t been part of that world for a very long time.”
“That’s exactly why it’s you I’m calling,” he said. “Because you’re not part of it anymore. Runway’s survival is hanging by a thread. Miranda’s held on longer than anyone expected, but now the cracks are showing. We’re in desperate need of a major digital overhaul. We need someone who understands storytelling. Someone sharp, innovative, someone who truly knows Miranda.”
Andy leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. She considered his words carefully, her attention drifting over the sweeping view, noting how peaceful everything looked, how removed she felt from the world Nigel described.
“‘We?’” she echoed, skeptical. “You say ‘we’ as if Miranda had anything to do with this call. I highly doubt she’s asking for help... for my help.” She blew out a breath through her nose. “I’d be surprised if she even remembers who I am—let alone that I ever worked for her.”
“Ah, you caught me,” Nigel admitted, his tone still gently teasing. “As of right now, it’s mostly me. But you and I both know Miranda’s pride is, shall we say, formidable.”
Andy took a slow breath, watching the monkeys squabble over some fruit. It felt like an entirely different life from the one Nigel was talking about. “Nigel, it’s been twenty years. Whatever I knew about Miranda Priestly... It’s not relevant anymore. People change.” She paused, her voice dropping. “I’ve changed.”
Nigel snorted softly. “People change, sure, but Miranda? She evolves, certainly. Adapts when she has no other choice. But at her core, she’s still Miranda Priestly. Trust me, you know her better than you think.”
Andy didn’t answer right away, listening as a truck shifted gears on the road below.
“Listen,” he continued, his voice losing some of its theatrical edge. “You’ve been off the grid, sure, but that didn’t stop the world from noticing your work.” He pressed on before she could interrupt. “A few bylines here and there. The occasional deep-dive. And the books, Six. You’re a published novelist! People know your name, even when you’re hiding in the middle of nowhere. You’ve built something real, something that matters to a lot of people.”
Andy didn’t answer. Her jaw set, and she turned her attention back to the jungle.
“You still know how to tell a story, how to cut through noise and get people to care. And that’s exactly what Runway needs. Not just a new look but a new voice.” He paused, letting his words settle. “You’re the only person who ever challenged her and made her better. That’s why I called you. Not because you were good at fetching coffee or keeping her schedule—anyone can do that. I called you because you saw her, really saw her, and you still walked away on your own terms. That matters more than you think.”
Andy let out a scoff. “I was an assistant, Nigel. I fetched her coffee and ran after town cars. I tracked down scarves and scheduled her life like it was a national security operation. That was all. You really think that changed anything for her?”
“No,” he said simply. “But you walking away did.”
That silenced her. The words hit harder than she expected, landing somewhere deep she’d tried not to examine for years. Her hand tightened around the edge of the table. Her voice was gone. She’d told herself so many times that leaving had been the right choice, the only choice. But hearing it framed like this—hearing that it had mattered, that it had left a mark—pulled up a familiar, unwelcome ache.
“You were the first person who ever left her,” he continued. “Not because you couldn’t keep up or because she broke you, but because you knew who you were, and she respected that. Still does, if you ask me. I’ve seen people crawl out of that office in pieces, people Miranda broke without blinking. But you? You walked away with your head high, and somehow she let you go without threats or blacklisting you. She just... never spoke your name again.” He paused, then added more quietly, his voice almost confidential, “You weren’t important because of what you did, Andy. You were important because she couldn’t break you. You kept your mind sharp and your voice your own. And she saw that, whether she liked it or not.” He let that sink in before finishing, “And if you don’t think that means something, then you don’t know her as well as I thought. You didn’t play the game, and you refused to become her. And for someone like Miranda, that kind of defiance doesn’t get forgotten. I’m fairly certain she very much remembers you, Six.”
Andy absorbed the sincerity in his voice. The monkey cries felt suddenly far away. “You’re giving me way too much credit, Nigel.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You’ve always underestimated yourself. Maybe that’s part of your charm. Or maybe it’s that maddening streak of stubbornness that makes you perfect for the job.”
Andy let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re not playing fair.”
“Fair? Darling, have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” His voice carried the grin she couldn’t see. “Just think about it seriously. At the very least, come and talk to me in person. One tiny meeting. Catch up on old times. It’ll be delightful.”
Andy smiled. Warmth spread through her chest at the affection behind his teasing. She sighed, taking in the peaceful isolation she had grown so accustomed to. It had been years since she’d last set foot in New York. Airports blurred when you never stayed anywhere for long. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally.
“That’s all I ask,” Nigel said warmly. “And Six?”
“Yes?”
“It’s good to hear your voice again,” he admitted. “We’ve missed you around here.”
Andy swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat. “I’ve missed you too, Nige,” she said. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I expect nothing less,” he said before ending the call.
She stayed at the table, cup empty, facing a decision she hadn’t anticipated. The jungle stretched out before her, vibrant and alive, a world she had chosen for its distance, its quiet. Now it felt less like escape and more like exile.
The sliding doors of JFK whooshed open, and the August heat slammed into Andy like a wall—thick, humid, smelling of hot asphalt. She stepped out into the crowd, the hem of her bold geometric dress catching in the wind. The fabric shifted like a mosaic in motion: reds, yellows, lavender, slate blue, loud and unapologetic against the gray of the city. Andy adjusted her sunglasses, the brim of her oversized hat dipping low as she tilted her head away from the glare. The sun was sharp this morning, clinging to her skin, reminding her once again why she’d preferred traveling after dark in recent years. But after two layovers and countless hours trapped in pressurized cabins, sun protection had won out over vanity. She looked every inch the woman who didn’t care if anyone recognized her.
The air smelled exactly like she remembered: car exhaust, greasy street food, and the unmistakable stench of garbage left too long in the sun. A taxi honked insistently nearby. A child wailed somewhere behind her, and a woman shouted frantically into her phone about lost luggage. The noise pressed in from all sides, an unending buzz bouncing off metal and concrete, funneling straight into Andy’s skull. She weaved through the chaos, rolling her navy suitcase behind her, balancing a cream garment bag bearing one unmistakable word: RUNWAY.
New York had always been loud, but this time the noise felt sharper. The city registered as a relentless, intrusive static scraping against her senses, one of the few things she hadn’t missed and one of many she was still adjusting to.
Her phone buzzed just as she sidestepped a luggage cart that had stalled in her path.
Nigel.
Andy smiled as she answered, pressing the phone to her ear. “Please tell me you’re somewhere nearby with coffee and a getaway car.”
“No,” Nigel drawled slowly, amusement and disdain mingling in equal measure, “but I am reconsidering dinner entirely. That photo you sent, Six... while the dress says avant-garde nomad, which of course I adore, the hat...” He paused for effect. “Darling, it’s giving Boho Witness Protection. Simply unforgivable.”
She laughed lightly, tugging the brim of her oversized sunhat even lower. “It’s practical,” she insisted, weaving around a toddler clutching a bobbing balloon, then dodging a suitcase protruding into the walkway. “Remind me never to text you an arrival photo again.”
“Oh, no, please do. It was the highlight of my morning, albeit mildly terrifying. Next time, though, maybe a little warning?”
“You’re lucky I sent anything,” Andy said, shifting the garment bag to a more comfortable grip as she reached the curb. “I’ve been traveling nearly a full day.”
“Yes, clearly, and you’ve apparently taken up wearing sunglasses indoors,” Nigel retorted, mock affront coating every syllable. “Tell me honestly, have you become one of those people?”
“They were necessary,” Andy countered, her tone only half defensive. “Overnight flight, dry air, fluorescent lighting. My eyes weren’t thrilled.”
Nigel hummed skeptically. “At least you angled yourself discreetly away from the lens. The mystery nearly redeems your questionable choices.”
Andy shook her head, her smile widening. “Happy to be your source of entertainment.”
“You always are,” he agreed warmly, then paused. His tone softened. “You’re staying at The Whitby?”
“Yes. Just long enough to drop my bags and possibly remember how to walk in heels.”
“Oh, please, Six. You’ve probably spent years wandering mountaintops barefoot, doing God knows what with monks and yoga gurus. The fact you still own heels borders on miraculous.”
Andy laughed, a genuine sound that caught her slightly by surprise. “Don’t worry, I brought the good ones.”
“You’ll be brilliant,” Nigel said. Warmth crept in. “It’s good you’re here, Andy.”
“It’s good to be here.”
And it was. Despite the oppressive heat rising off the pavement, despite the collision of scents—jet fuel, sweat, fast food grease, perfume, and overpowering cologne from a man who’d just brushed past. Despite the cacophony of voices and horns louder than memory recalled, it was good. Her senses were overly attuned, each detail vivid to the point of pain. Within the rush, a recognition settled through her, bone-deep. It felt chaotic, crowded, intensely alive.
Home. It felt unmistakably like home.
“Well. Six o’clock, Six. Corner table. Don’t be late.”
Andy smirked, scanning the street for an available cab. “Wouldn’t dream of testing your patience.”
Nigel’s voice purred into the phone, “I always knew you were the smart one. Ta-ta, darling.”
The call ended. Andy stood still as the weight of the city pressed in around her. Horns blared; voices rose and fell. Suitcase wheels scraped metallically against cracked pavement. She hadn’t been back like this in years—without press badges, assignments, or defined roles.
It was just dinner.
Andy drew a deep breath and flagged down a cab, climbing in swiftly. The door closed behind her with a heavy thud. The city moved past the window in a blur of color and motion, shapes both foreign and achingly familiar. She exhaled slowly, fingers tracing absently over the worn fabric of the seat. Her reflection blinked back from the glass, strikingly unchanged. Unsettlingly so. Her skin held the timeless smoothness it always had; her hair fell around her shoulders, dark and lustrous as ever. At thirty-two, she had stopped aging in any visible way, fixed at an age before life’s deeper lines could set in.
But she was not the same woman who had left.
Back then, she’d been bright-eyed, eager, a touch naive, full of hopes and dreams untested by reality. Restraint lingered at the corners of her mouth now. The woman behind those eyes had hardened, and the detachment didn’t show on the surface. Andy closed her eyes, letting the gentle sway of the cab soothe her racing thoughts. Memories flickered: crowded newsroom deadlines, late-night calls with Nigel, mornings shadowed by Miranda Priestly’s penetrating stare.
The cab slowed to a stop, and Andy opened her eyes to find The Whitby gleaming in the midday sun. She stepped onto the curb, the muffled rumble of traffic and footsteps vibrating faintly through the concrete. Gathering her luggage, she moved swiftly through the glass doors into the cool, hushed interior. The receptionist greeted her warmly, efficiently handling her check-in with practiced grace.
Upstairs, alone in the silence of her suite, she carefully hung the RUNWAY garment bag, letting her fingers linger over the familiar logo. Her pulse picked up. Tonight would be the first step—a re-entry into a world she’d consciously avoided, filled with faces and memories she’d long since buried.
Andy slipped off her sunglasses, setting them on the nightstand. Her eyes remained bright in the mirror, but shadowed, full of secrets she’d learned to keep hidden. She drew a breath, bracing for the evening. Nigel believed her help was needed, but even now, she wasn’t entirely sure why she’d really come back.
She paused just outside the bustling Manhattan restaurant, allowing herself a deep breath before stepping inside. The evening air was warm, tinged with that familiar blend of exhaust fumes and expensive perfume—a sensory cocktail uniquely New York. She straightened her tailored black pinstriped vest, fingers brushing lightly over the subtle buttons, then ran her hands casually down the matching trousers. The outfit was sophisticated yet relaxed, effortlessly chic. Perfect, she hoped, for tonight’s reunion.
As Andy entered, the hostess offered a practiced smile, but before she could speak, a familiar voice rang out from behind the stand.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—Six, is that you?”
Andy’s chest warmed at the sight of Nigel, who had risen dramatically from the corner booth. He stood, mouth agape, eyes widening behind his trademark glasses. A grin broke across his face, quickly tempered with exaggerated exasperation.
“You’ve finally returned to civilization,” he announced, stepping forward with open arms. “Miracles truly do happen.”
“Nigel,” Andy laughed warmly, allowing herself to be wrapped in his tight embrace. She inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne—woody, and impeccably expensive. The years of separation fell away.
He pulled away and held her at arm’s length, his critical eye traveling over her ensemble. “Well, well, the mountain hermit cleans up rather spectacularly. Look at you—Runway ready without even trying.”
Andy laughed again, lighter than she’d felt in days. “I had to make an effort for you. It’s been too long.”
Nigel led her to their table, gently steering her by the elbow. “Far too long,” he agreed, sliding into the booth across from her. He signaled the waiter and ordered two glasses of pinot noir, then turned back to Andy. His expression softened, genuine warmth visible beneath the bravado. “You look fantastic, Andy. Different in a way I can’t quite place... but still completely you.”
Color rose in Andy’s cheeks. “Thanks, Nige. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Darling, flattery will get you everywhere,” Nigel replied dryly. “And thank God for my skincare regimen or you’d be lying through your teeth. Though I suspect you’ve finally started one yourself—your skin is annoyingly perfect.”
They laughed together, the sound comfortable and familiar, drowning out the clink of cutlery and the murmur of surrounding conversations.
“Seriously,” Nigel said. He reached across the table to briefly squeeze her hand. “I’ve missed you. Your bylines kept me sane during some truly dull months, and I’m still waiting on that next fantasy novel, by the way.”
Andy’s expression softened. “I’ve missed you, too, Nigel. More than you know.” Her lips quirked. “Amber has her lips sealed when it comes to book updates. NDA fortress. And before you ask—no, I can’t talk about it either.”
Their wine arrived, and Nigel raised his glass, a twinkle in his eye. “To prodigal sisters and their reappearances.”
“Cheers,” Andy replied, clinking her glass against his. The rich, velvety wine warmed her throat, though the taste didn’t land quite the way it once had. Still, it was pleasant, and she savored the moment.
For a while, they fell into easy conversation—Nigel updating her on industry gossip, office drama, the latest Runway shake-ups. Andy shared carefully curated stories from her travels, skirting around the details that mattered most. It felt natural, comfortable, like slipping back into an old rhythm.
Then Nigel’s tone shifted. “You know,” he began slowly, swirling the wine in his glass, his voice more deliberate now, “there’s something I need to ask you.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Nigel cleared his throat, choosing his words with visible care. “I have a meeting with Miranda tomorrow morning.”
Andy’s pulse kicked against her ribs, involuntary, even after all this time. “Really?”
“Yes, she’s still—well, Miranda,” Nigel continued delicately. “And Runway’s approaching a rather monumental milestone. There’s a gala next month to celebrate her thirty-five years at the helm, can you imagine? Naturally, Miranda’s handpicking the guest list herself.”
Andy’s shoulders tightened, and her eyes narrowed. “Nigel, what did you do?”
He offered a sheepish grin, clearly trying to mask his discomfort with humor. “I might have let slip that an old friend had finally resurfaced from her self-imposed exile and could be convinced to make an appearance as my plus one.”
“Nigel,” Andy said firmly, her voice lowering with warning. “You didn’t.”
He hesitated. Guilt crossed his features. “Not exactly. Miranda doesn’t know it’s you—yet. I simply implied there was someone who might pique her interest.”
Andy’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling around her wineglass. “And when exactly were you planning to drop that particular bombshell?”
Nigel leaned back, attempting a casual shrug. “Honestly? Probably about ten seconds after you agreed to dinner tonight.” His smile faltered. “You must understand, Andy, Miranda hasn’t been the same since you left. Not that she’d ever admit it, of course. But there’s been a... shift. You matter more than you think.”
Andy exhaled slowly. Trepidation and anxiety rose in her chest, along with a deeper resentment she wouldn’t name.
“Nigel, I—” she paused, her throat tightening. “What do you honestly expect to happen? Miranda Priestly isn’t exactly known for her warm welcomes.”
Nigel reached across again, gently touching her wrist. “Six, I wouldn’t push this if I didn’t think it mattered. To her, to Runway... to you.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Andy admitted quietly, staring at the tablecloth. Saying it aloud felt like prying open a door she’d kept bolted. She had seen Miranda once more after Paris—two years later, to be precise. And then she’d left New York for good. After that last encounter, everything changed. The woman she’d been then was gone. What came next had reshaped her in ways she still didn’t fully understand. Or trust.
“Then say you’ll at least consider it,” Nigel urged softly. “Meet with Miranda—just once. After that, if you want to disappear again, I’ll personally buy you a one-way ticket to wherever your next mountaintop hideaway might be.”
Andy paused, weighing the years, the memories, the unresolved history pressing heavily on her heart. Finally, she met Nigel’s earnest gaze and nodded slowly.
“Fine.”
Nigel’s face brightened. Relief washed over him. “That’s all I ask. Now,” he straightened dramatically, adjusting his glasses, “enough melodrama. We have gossip to catch up on and many more glasses of wine to consume.”
Andy laughed, tension ebbing away. “Lead the way.”
As Nigel launched into an animated recounting of office politics and scandalous industry rumors, Andy allowed herself to relax fully, savoring the warmth and laughter, letting herself forget, for now, the looming shadow of Miranda Priestly.
Andy stood motionless in front of Elias-Clark’s imposing glass facade. She tugged absently at the hem of her blazer, navy pinstripes lending her an air of refined confidence she didn’t entirely feel. Her sunglasses shielded her from the city’s glaring light and from the prying eyes of anyone who might recognize her. She drew a measured breath, squaring her shoulders.
“Six! There you are.”
Before Andy could respond, Nigel had looped his arm through hers, guiding her firmly toward the entrance.
“Nigel,” she greeted softly, gratitude and apprehension warring in her voice.
“Relax,” he reassured, gently patting her hand as the revolving door spun them into the building’s expansive lobby. “She’s in a meeting until two. You won’t have to face the dragon just yet.”
Andy nodded. The reassurance did nothing for her pulse. The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside beside him, the enclosed space amplifying her unease. Nigel tapped the button for their floor.
“You look fabulous, by the way,” he said lightly, eyes twinkling as they swept over her outfit appreciatively. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve still got that Runway spirit buried deep.”
“Very deep,” she echoed wryly, the corner of her mouth lifting.
The elevator hummed softly, rising through the floors. Andy watched the numbers climb on the sleek steel panel, memories surfacing unbidden: brief encounters and whispered conversations, the ever-present pressure of Miranda’s scrutiny. With a soft chime, the elevator doors parted smoothly. Nigel stepped out first, immediately intercepted by his assistant, a harried young woman clutching a tablet. “Nigel, we need you for just a second,” she urged breathlessly, eyes darting anxiously between him and her screen.
Nigel turned briefly back to Andy. “Stay here, Six. I’ll only be a minute.”
Andy gave a slight nod, watching as Nigel moved swiftly away, absorbed instantly into a whirlwind of questions and decisions. She took a slow step toward the glass wall, allowing herself a brief moment of solitude. New York stretched before her, a maze of steel and glass sparkling beneath a relentless sun. Andy crossed her arms. The remote corners of the world she’d left behind had nothing in common with this. She had traded lush jungles for concrete and steel, the wild for something even wilder—this metropolis, filled with its own predators and prey.
She felt a presence at her side and tensed. Nigel’s hand touched her elbow, pulling her back to the present.
“Sorry about that,” he said, guiding her down the hall to a conference room. Once inside, he closed the door behind them and sighed. “There’s been some... tension lately.”
Andy raised an eyebrow, taking off her sunglasses. “What kind of tension?”
Nigel leaned against the edge of the conference table, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “Some of the executives and certain shareholders think Miranda should step aside. They believe Runway needs another overhaul. Something younger, fresher, more dynamic.”
Andy frowned. “Didn’t they already do a full digital transformation a few years back? Miranda was all over that.”
“Precisely,” Nigel said with a sigh. “And it worked, mostly. But now they’re eyeing the brand as a whole. They want Runway to have a face that resonates with a new generation. Some think Miranda’s too old-fashioned, too… demanding.”
Andy’s expression darkened. “So, this is about personality more than capability.” She shook her head, her smile bitter. “That sounds familiar.”
Nigel gave her a wry look. “It should. Different decade, same song, just remixed with hashtags and marketing jargon. Back then, it was the stylists, the editors, even the interns whispering behind her back. Now it’s the board.”
“She outlasted them all,” Andy said.
“She did,” Nigel agreed. “But this time, they’re not just gossiping. They’re strategizing.”
Andy shook her head, lips tightening. “It’s the same pattern they used on other icons of her era. Brilliant, uncompromising women who built institutions... until suddenly they were labeled as out of touch.”
Nigel’s expression tightened, frustration behind his eyes. “And all that brilliance becomes baggage the moment someone younger walks in with a following and a ring light.”
“But Miranda’s not just a figurehead,” Andy said. “She is Runway.”
“Try telling that to a boardroom full of people who think her legacy is a liability,” he muttered. “Miranda isn’t going down without a fight, but it’s getting ugly.”
Andy exhaled, now fully understanding why Nigel had reached out. “I think I can help, but only if Miranda is willing to cooperate.”
“Well, that’s the tricky part, isn’t it? She doesn’t know you’re here. Not yet.”
Andy’s brows lifted. “Seriously?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said with a shrug. “And if you didn’t… well, no point in opening that particular door again.”
Andy crossed her arms. “And now that I have?”
“Now I have to convince her to see you,” he said plainly. “And that might take some finessing.”
Andy turned toward the window, eyes tracing the skyline in the distance. “How bad is it really, Nigel?”
He hesitated, then spoke carefully. “She’s holding it together, but I’ve known her too long not to see the cracks. The board is circling. Elias-Clark is already sniffing around potential successors, people who smile well and post twice a day. And she’s… tired. Not that she’d ever admit it.”
“And you think bringing me back into her orbit is going to fix that?”
“I think it’s the only shot we’ve got at reminding the world who she is,” Nigel said. “And maybe reminding her, too.”
Andy didn’t answer right away. Her mind raced through headlines, memories, half-formed questions she’d never asked aloud. The last time they’d been in a room together hadn’t been planned. Andy had just published her first novel. A literary debut with no buzz or press, just a slim hardcover on a lonely corner table in a Village bookstore. The store manager had already told her she only had five minutes left when she heard a sharp rhythm of heels on hardwood. She didn’t look up right away as a copy of her book dropped neatly in front of her. She blinked at the familiar manicure, the tailored cuff. Still not daring to meet Miranda’s eyes, she asked out of habit, “Who should I make it out to?”
A pause. Then:
“To the only one who ever left... and made me wonder if I should’ve asked her to stay.”
Her breath caught, her body stilling, and her heart thudded once, then again, harder. Heat bloomed at the base of her throat, adrenaline flooding her veins. The pen hovered uselessly in her hand as the words settled over her like a second skin. She didn’t look up. Her eyes stayed locked on the title page, her own name blurring as her vision stung.
She inhaled slowly once, then again, and forced her hand to move: a single sentence she didn’t let herself read back. She closed the book and slid it back across the table. Miranda took it without opening it. They didn’t speak. Miranda held her stare and then turned and walked out of the bookstore. Andy stayed seated long after the door shut behind her, the noise of the shop returning slowly around her.
Two weeks later, she left New York and never saw Miranda again.
“What if she doesn’t want my help?” Andy asked.
“Then at least you offered,” Nigel said gently. “But I think she will. I think part of her never stopped wondering where you went.”
Andy met his eyes. “And what exactly would I be doing? Some glowing profile in The New Yorker? A carefully placed op-ed?”
“Whatever works,” Nigel said. “A piece, a series, even a documentary if it comes to that. You’re not some fresh-faced assistant anymore. You’re a published author, you’ve got credibility behind your name. And you’re not exactly a stranger to reinvention.”
Andy let out a breath through her nose, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Neither is she.”
Nigel gave a small smile. “Then maybe this is the right time for one more.”
Andy stepped back toward the table and picked up a pen from a nearby notepad, flipping it idly between her fingers. “Why not Emily?” she asked, not looking up. “If you needed someone in Miranda’s corner.”
“I did go to Emily,” Nigel said.
Andy looked up, surprised.
“She’s at Dior now. Global strategy. Which means she’s juggling ten time zones, six ad campaigns, and three boardrooms trying to eat each other alive.”
“Sounds like Em,” Andy said.
“She said she couldn’t get directly involved,” Nigel continued. “Too many conflicts of interest, too much visibility. “But—” he paused. “She also said she owed Miranda more than most people realize. And she’d try to find a way.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “Try?”
“She hasn’t gotten back to me yet.” Nigel offered a thin smile. “But the fact that she didn’t say no outright? That’s something. You know how she is. Emily Charlton doesn’t try unless she means it.”
Andy leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “So she’s playing the long game.”
“She hasn’t forgotten where she came from. None of us really have.”
Andy let the silence hold. Her attention drifted to the window, as if the skyline might offer an answer. The truth was, she hadn’t forgotten either. She hadn’t forgotten the chaos, or the brilliant woman at the center of it. “Let me know when she’s ready to see me,” she said.
Nigel nodded, and relief flashed across his face.
Andy gave a small nod, then turned toward the door.
Just before she stepped out, Nigel added, “You might want to prepare yourself.”
She glanced back. “For what?”
He hesitated. “She’s not the same.”
Andy’s expression didn’t shift, but her voice carried an edge.
“Neither am I.”
And with that, she walked out.
Andy adjusted the strap of her worn leather messenger bag over her shoulder. She stepped off the curb and into the crosswalk, head slightly lowered, sunglasses shielding her from the glare. Beneath the city’s usual scents lingered another fragrance—sophisticated and elegant, devastatingly familiar. Subtle notes of bergamot, jasmine, and sandalwood blended in a combination unmistakable to Andy. Eighteen years had passed, and the scent gripped her chest the same way it had then.
Amid the sharp honk of taxis, the sizzle of street food carts, and the metallic scent of exhaust, a voice cut through her thoughts. Andy halted. The city noise faded, leaving only a sudden rush of memory. Slowly, she turned toward the source, her pulse pounding. Across the street stood a gleaming silver Rolls-Royce, its polished surface catching the afternoon sun. Her eyes landed first on the white hair, flawlessly styled, framing a face still impossibly regal. Miranda stood on the sidewalk, speaking sharply into her phone. Her presence bent the gravity of the sidewalk around her. She wore a structured teal blazer tailored perfectly over a white silk blouse tucked into dark navy trousers, accented by gold buttons. Sunglasses shielded her eyes, and a sleek black leather clutch rested in her grasp. Andy’s throat constricted, struck by the timeless elegance Miranda effortlessly commanded.
The car pulled smoothly away, leaving Miranda standing alone, her voice cutting clearly across the street. “No, you’ll tell François he can pitch it again with real lighting and garments that don’t look like a toddler’s craft project.” Miranda stopped mid-sentence, hand lowering as the call was forgotten. With a subtle tilt of her head, she turned, her attention drawn across the busy street.
Their eyes met. Neither of them moved. Miranda’s expression revealed nothing as Andy’s fingers trembled slightly when she reached up to remove her sunglasses and meet that unwavering stare.
Andy lifted her hand in a small, awkward wave as Miranda watched, unmoving, then Miranda tilted her chin in barely perceptible acknowledgment before turning.
The city roared back into Andy’s awareness—horns and voices, the grind of traffic—but all of it came through muted, except for the woman across the street.