Miranda Priestly felt it nag in unpleasant ways all around her pleasantly styled head. Andrea's leave left her calm, yes, left her trying to find an assistant just as charmingly erred as the brunette, but one thought wouldn't just leave her be.

Assistants came and assistants went, but when assistants went—

She couldn't chase the look on Andrea Sachs' face from her mind. Floating around desperately, screeching to Miranda about incompetent Jacqueline…

…and those big, dark eyes, all doe-worthy and warm, glinting with the floundering need to help Miranda Priestly.

The silver-haired editor's insides turned with rage at the memory. Her lips pursed together tightly; pinched into a thin, set line. She was displeased, of course, not by the fact that Andrea was determined to renew her faith in the human race, but by the fact that the expression she'd never forget was the kind that dared to hint toward the thawing of Miranda's ice-heart.

Let it be known that Miranda Priestly's frigid coronary organ melted for no one.

All she knew was that her hands were curled into white-knuckled fists and they lie against the cold wood of her desk. Her pale blue eyes were affixed on her own trembling digits, and she couldn't suppress the slight, hardly noticeable flinch developing in her right eye.

Andrea Sachs. Andrea Sachs and her big, stupid, naïve, moronic, sweet brown eyes.

Andrea Sachs, who thought she could slip away unnoticed after frantically caring for Miranda. It wasn't the subject of human emotion (but oh, no, god forbid) that enraged Miranda, but more that it implied pity. It implied pity for, even worse, the weakness that was further implied. Andrea had thought she needed someone to swoop in and assist her. Miranda prided herself in the thought that assistants were people who she ran like the queen in a hive; not people who really aided her.

The thought was enough to make her toes curl within her patent-leather Manolo Blahniks.

And Miranda Priestly was not okay with that.

"Emily." Miranda always spoke with the softest, calmest edge; that way if Emily didn't hear her, it was just so much easier to be upset with her for 'not doing her job'. It was maddening, the ways she plotted to release her frustration.

However, Emily so happened to be clacking her way past and paused. The usual pallid flush of the features occurred, and the devil herself just arched a peppery eyebrow to speak delicately, "Get me Andrea Sachs on the phone."

Emily visibly seemed to sag at that, but her twitchy nature didn't take a back-seat to her unease. "We no longer have her number, M—"

"Then find it."

Emily's eyes widened, and she skittered away unsurely to flip through the yellow pages. She knew vividly that there would be a thousand Andrea Sachses just dawdling through the pages, and Emily had never been surer that her career was coming to a swift close.

Miranda Priestly pursed her lips again, and casually slid her thick-rimmed, black Dior reading glasses from her eyes. Her gaze narrowed dangerously, and she found she was gripping at her desk again. Her lips had formed something of a curved scowl.

This wouldn't do at all. This thought was vital.

She'd need to discuss with her former assistant.