Nonstandard Disclaimer: I swore to myself that I would stop writing fanfic, and start writing original works. However, I couldn't seem to stop this story from filling my mind, demanding to be written.

Standard Disclaimer: I don't even know who these characters and world belong to, but it definitely isn't me. I'm dabbling in the world of a book I've never read, a movie I've seen once, real people I know nothing about, and the other much better written fanfics I've read about them.

And now, with no further delay, I present Stiletto

Chapter One: The Invitation

It was, in fact, a perfectly lovely day in mid-October, the kind where the leaves are still colorful, the air is clear and dry so the sun shines and the leaves crunch underfoot. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening in lower Manhattan. Miranda Priestly blazed her usual scorching path through the Elias-Clark building and into her office, the nexus of Runway, sat down at her desk after chucking her coat and bag at her new secondary "Emily." Immediately after, she sprang to her feet. With her heart pounding in her throat, La Priestly, the terror of fashion stared at the small postcard on her desk as though it were a venomous snake.

"Emily!" She nearly shouted the name. "How did this get here?"

The real Emily responded as she darted into the office in response to the summons. "Oh. It was the only thing in the mail for you today. It came from some newspaper, The Mirror, I think."

"Yes, obviously," Miranda snapped, although she had not touched it at all, let alone looked at the other side for the address, as she knew exactly who had sent it. "See to it that I am free that entire day. That's all."

"You were scheduled for vacation that week. You always are," Emily blinked, "with no calls allowed for any reason."

"Yes, of course. Now get out."

Emily left, looking shocked at such unusually harsh phrasing, and the silver haired fashion icon sagged down into her seat, staring at the card once again. It had a nice gold border, and the other side probably looked like an envelope, neatly filled out with only the addresses of the Mirror and Runway to accompany the stamp. Miranda then reread it, slowly this time.

Miranda~

I would like to interview you about the time before you went by Miriam Princhek, at 9:40 AM on November 10, on the assumption that you will be available at that time. I will leave location to your discretion; feel free to contact me or my office to arrange this.

~A.S.

The note was perfectly polite, and even innocuous to the casual observer. Truly the perfect piece of blackmail. No force on earth could have kept Miranda from arranging and arriving at this meeting. She would, in fact, even tell the damned reporter everything she wanted to know, once there.

"Fuck that girl's efficiency," Miranda hissed to herself, "God, I'm glad I already have—"

In the ensuing days and weeks between the card's arrival and the appointed interview, Miranda's behavior towards every single person she encounters, employee, friend, random stranger, friend, enemy, or employer fully crossed the line from merely cruel and icy to outright savage and abusive. The only exception is her daughters. They are petted, spoilt, and adored with a certain quality of near hysteria the girls had previously only noted as occurring during divorce proceedings. They worry without knowing why, as their mother has fully completed that process with worthless husband number two, and is not currently dating anyone.

On November 10, Andy Sachs is dropped at the door of the Priestly townhouse itself at precisely 9:30 AM by one of Miranda's personal limo drivers. The instant Andy closed the large door behind her, Miranda shoved her against it with one hand on the back of the girl's neck, the barrel of a pistol forcing her chin up uncomfortably.

"I want the full names of every person who knows exactly why I would agree to this interview."

"Gary Ludwig, my boss, knows who I talked to in Southwark. You'll recall the now retired nurse Julia Stevens, well, now it's actually Weston, she got married."

"By which you mean that if you shoot you, he will interview her over the phone before I can get to her in even the fastest of jets," Miranda snarled, not liking the calm tone of her opponent.

"You got it. He even knows I'm here. Please, can we sit down somewhere and talk like normal human beings now?"

"I really can't imagine I can talk to a blackmailer in any comfortable manner, but by all means, yes, we may retreat to my study."

Miranda led the way, sitting behind the large walnut desk and laying her gun across the card which was the only thing on the gleaming surface except for a framed professional photograph of her with her twins. Andy pulled a chair up to the opposite side and laid a small digital voice recorder on the desk, halfway between the edge and the gun. Miranda's lips thinned.

"Well. Ask a question."

"I prefer to start with a statement. While I worked for you," Andy said as she pressed the buttons needed to turn the recorder on, "I researched nearly everything written about you. Nobody went back farther than Miriam Princhek, aged sixteen, changing her address from Lambsly Isle to London and her name to Miranda Priestly. So I went to the island, once I was a report with enough clout to ask for funds, and asked about you. Those who remembered told me about a girl who had only been there for a year, who had arrived unable to speak English, who had been nameless before her boyfriend, Orthodox Jew and fisherman's son, Aaron Alderman, began to call you Miriam. True journalistic gold, somehow unpursued by any reporter before me. So, my first question is one the rest of the world constantly asks of everyone but you: What is your name?"