A/N: Another Monday, another chapter! Thanks to all of you who took the time to review; I really appreciate it. I still have no idea of how long this story is going to be; it's kind of just writing itself. Bear with me and let's see how it goes!

~Naralanis

"Am I reaching for the stars here, Mark? No, not really. I really find it hard to believe you are unable to follow simple instructions, but perhaps you are doing your very best to prove me wrong. So you better find me some suitable substitute by morning, or I'll be forced to go with another supplier. That's all."

The steel in her voice ebbed away and she clicked her phone shut. Idiots, she was surrounded by idiots. She sighed and rubbed her temples, in vain attempting to fend off the incoming headache. Some things she had to do herself— it was her assistant's day off, after all.

Andy reclined on her stuffed chair, and allowed herself a chuckle of amusement at her antics, those she had picked up during her tenure as assistant to the feared and revered Fashion Queen. She shuddered. They were indeed useful, but every time she had to put them to use, she was reminded of her last day under Miranda Priestly's employment— and, more importantly, what the silver-haired editor had said in their last car ride together. Andy brushed the thought away; it wouldn't do to think about her now. Or ever. Not that she could help it, but she would try. Her unexpected encounter with Emily brought back memories she had fought to keep in the background for years; with limited success.

She smiled, thinking of the redhead. Although there was no love lost between her and the Brit when she first started, they had warmed up to each other; a tentative friendship that had been consolidated after Andy had given her all of her Paris wardrobe. She felt guilty for disappearing without a trace, mostly because of Emily and Nigel. And even guiltier for completely forgetting to ask for the redhead's phone number now that they had finally met again.

Once again, she brushed the thought of her former coworkers aside— too many skeletons in that closet. She needed a distraction. Something to keep her mind focused and unperturbed until the small hours of the morning. Work, she would work. Andy quickly sent her assistant a message, warning about the little issue she had run into and (hopefully) resolved earlier. With a tired sigh, she silently thanked the woman; she'd never be able to make it without her assistance.

Once she decided work was exactly what she needed, she made her way to the living room, where Allie was stretched out onto a fluffy rug watching TV. Minerva, their cat, was curled up at her side, and Andy had to smile at the scene. She knelt down to kiss her daughter on the cheek and pet Minerva, evoking a playful cry of "Muuum, eew!" and a satisfied purr, respectively. She grabbed her messenger bag and strolled into her studio, setting the coffee machine for a little later.

Rummaging her bag, Andy suddenly was overtaken by a sense of panic. Where… She removed all of the bag's contents, just to make sure she wasn't going crazy. No, this couldn't be right. Was it even in her bag at any point? Maybe she had carried it in her arms, probably placing it on the dining room table as they first arrived. Yes, that was it.

Except it wasn't. The panic became very real once she realized the black binder was nowhere in her home. Her hands became cold and clammy, a film of sweat formed on her brow. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She quickly retraced her steps in her mind. Leaving the studio with it, picking Allie up at school and running into Emily… The bakery, the taxi… She hadn't gotten into the cab with the binder in her hands, had she? No…

The bakery. Andy glanced at the clock; it was unlikely Emily was still there. If she had left the binder on the table, no doubt the redhead had seen it. She froze.

No doubt the redhead had seen it!

Andy forced herself to sit down before she collapsed onto the ground. There was a chance Emily hadn't opened it. It wasn't like her to snoop. Was it? She could only hope. Quickly whipping out her phone, she was posed to dial until she remembered, once again, she didn't have the redhead's phone number. Stupid! In one last ditch effort, she looked up the bakery's phone number and dialed, taking shallow breaths.

"Morton's Bakery and Café, how can I help you?"

"Excuse me" Andy said a little forcefully "I was just there a while ago; it seems that I left a black leather binder on my table—the booth far back, by the window."

"Ah, yes, your friend has it" the woman on the other end of the line said cheerfully. "She gave me her phone number in case you came back looking for it."

Andy's breath hitched.

"Um, ah, was she a redhead? Tall, blue eyes?"

The lady confirmed. "Yes, Emily, I believe is her name. Would you like me to read out her number for you?"

"Yes, please."

Andy scrambled for pen and paper as the woman read out Emily's number. She thanked her and hung up as a shudder took over her body. As she stared at the number on the piece of paper she held tightly in her hands, she could only hope against hope that Emily had not opened the binder.

If she had, it would be a disaster.

Emily heard a knock at the door of her hotel suite. Looking through the peephole, she found her friend Nigel Kipling standing in the corridor, his nose purposefully extremely close to the door so that it was pretty much all she could see. She swung the door open with a snort.

"Come in, you twit." He took a hand to his chest in an exaggerated expression of mock hurt.

"You wound me, Emily."

"Ah, you'll live" she smiled. "You would not believe who I ran into a couple of hours ago"

He took a seat on the couch and patted the cushion next to him, motioning for her to sit. Once she did, he crossed his legs and leaned over dramatically.

"Well, dish!"

"Andy Sachs." She said bluntly, just to see the expression on his face.

She was not disappointed. Nigel's jaw dropped almost instantly, and his eyes all but bulged out of his face, which looked even more comical over the rims of his glasses.

"Six?!" he exclaimed in disbelief "What's she doing in London, of all places? How on Earth did you run into her?"

"It was complete coincidence. I was taking a stroll around my old neighborhood."

"What would someone like Andy be doing at that place?" Nigel asked, fully aware of which neighborhood Emily was talking about. It just didn't seem like a place one was likely to meet Andy Sachs in. He raised his eyebrows as Emily shook her head.

"You should have seen her, Nigel. The years have been very kind to our little 'fat, smart' girl. She looked incredible—Saxton pantsuit and Louboutins on her feet. Plus, I hardly think 'Six' is an appropriate name now."

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you? No? Well then, I'm certainly glad at least some of what her fairy godmother drilled into that pretty little head of hers stuck!" It was Nigel's turn to shake his head, this time in disbelief. He'd have to see it to believe it.

"Did you talk? What does she do now?" he asked.

"We did talk for a while—we went to some bakery to sit and catch up. She mentioned she, and I quote, dabbled in photography and co-owned a small gallery with a friend."

"Photography? Gallery? Didn't she want to be a journalist?"

Emily shrugged. "Seems she was a bit disillusioned with The Mirror. She didn't go into much detail."

"Well, doesn't the world go round and round? Who would have thought? Andy Sachs, a well-dressed artist in London! She must be doing pretty well for herself, if the Saxton and the Louboutins are any indication."

"Nigel, that's not all" Emily said.

He smirked at his friend. "Pray tell, what more do you have to tell on our dear old friend?"

"She's got a kid!" Emily smiled. "A little girl named Allie. Nigel, she looks exactly like Andrea, it's almost scary. That's how I met her in the first place— I was walking by my old school, and the little girl quite literally ran into me."

Nigel's expression was one of surprise and glee.

"Well look at momma Six! And her kid goes to your old school? Now that's a coincidence!"

Emily nodded, in agreement. Small world, indeed!

"Please tell me you've got her number— I would really like to meet her sometime before we leave. Maybe we could go out for drinks, the three of us?" he said, hopeful.

"No, like an idiot I forgot to ask her for it. But," she continued as Nigel's face fell "she forgot this binder when she left in a hurry after a phone call. I left my number and name with the bakery, so when she goes looking for it, she can call." She smiled.

"Well, and what is in this mysterious binder? Some of her dabbling in photography, maybe?" Nigel's eyebrows waggled as he eyed the binder resting on the coffee table in front of them.

"I wouldn't know— I didn't look" Emily said truthfully.

Nigel scoffed.

"Honestly, Emily, I'm disappointed. Eight years without seeing the girl, and you're not even a little bit curious?" He reached for the binder.

"Nigel! It could be personal!" the redhead scolded, even if she was just as curious, especially since Andrea had been so evasive about what she was doing with her life, changing the subject almost instantly. Still, she wasn't one to go looking through other people's things.

"How magnanimous of you. If it is personal, don't worry," he brought a finger to his lips playfully "I'll never tell!" he laughed, whipping the binder open and turning so that it was out of the redhead's reach, before Emily could slap it shut.

The Brit was fully prepared to scold Nigel even further and take the binder out of his hands, but his expression of utter surprise and something akin to terror made her hesitate. He flipped page after page, his face blanching at every turn. She thought she heard him mumble 'it can't be' and 'it's not possible', but before she could ask he suddenly stood up and began pacing, the binder still in his hands. The display was really wearing on her nerves.

"Nigel! What is it!?" she hissed.

Nigel could only mumble incoherently before he gave up on forming a complete sentence entirely, motioning for Emily to come toward him instead. The redhead huffed and made her way to the babbling man, annoyed and angry at her friend. She already had a reprimand at the ready, when the content of the pages caught her eye. Whatever she was about to say immediately left her mind, and her own jaw dropped.

"Oh, my God."

The binder was replete with sketches. But not just sketches—oh no. Emily would recognize those outlines anywhere. She had been one of the first to actually see them for what they were, after all. Yes, she knew with all her heart she would recognize the style of Alexandra Saxton's illustrations anywhere. And these were originals, no doubt about it. She trembled with the realization. Were these previews for London Fashion Week?! No, they couldn't be, Emily realized after a more thorough observation— they were not the right season.

Nigel's lower lip trembled slightly as he next spoke, finally finding his voice.

"Why would Andy Sachs have Alexandra Saxton's preliminary designs?!" he almost screeched "Does she do any photography work for her?"

"I don't know, I-I…" suddenly Emily's eyes widened and her breath hitched painfully in her throat as she remembered her short interaction with Andrea's daughter in the bakery, mere hours before.

I want to be just like Mum when I grow up. Mum loves clothes. She makes her own.

Emily managed to force her wobbly legs to take her back to the couch, where she collapsed, trembling. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. Nigel was wrong. Andrea Sachs didn't do any kind of photography for Alexandra Saxton. Andrea Sachs was Alexandra Bloody Saxton!

"Bloody Hell, Nigel!" Emily all but screamed, startling the bespectacled man in front of her. She quickly relayed the details of her encounter with the Sachs girls.

"The little girl was drawing clothes, Nigel! 'She makes her own', she said! Nigel, Andy IS Alexandra Saxton!"

"Are you sure?" Nigel asked, although he didn't sound exceptionally skeptical. Emily only nodded her confirmation.

"What about Miranda?"

"What about her?" the redhead raised her eyebrow.

"What do we tell her?"

"Absolutely nothing!'' Emily was vehement. Miranda was never in the best of moods when Andrea was mentioned, and the brunette had chosen to remain anonymous for a reason; a reason that Emily would be able to bet had something to do with the silver-haired icon. She was neither ready nor willing to dive head-first into that mess.

"Well, alright. The first thing we have to do is talk to Andy." Nigel began "Once she calls, set up a date; let's all go for drinks or dinner someplace. Then we can ask her all about it."

"We will do no such thing! We'll return the binder and pretend we never saw a thing!" Emily hissed.

"But Em, don't you want to know why?" he countered.

"Of course I do. But as much as I'd like to absolutely grill Andrea on the subject, she has never shown her face for a reason. We were never supposed to lay eyes on these" she indicated the sketches "and we'll keep it that way."

Nigel sighed, defeated. The entire world of fashion was dying to know who the mysterious Alexandra Saxton was, but he had to admit Emily was right. As much as he would love to, he knew it was not their place to share what they had learned with the world. Or with Miranda. On one hand, he knew it was the right thing to do, but on the other, he would loathe to let such an opportunity pass them by. The look his coworker was giving him, however, silenced him on the issue.

"Here's what we're going to do. She'll call, we'll set up a meeting for drinks, we'll return this binder, we'll catch up as former coworkers do, and that will be the end of it" Emily said with a tinge of steel in her tone that eerily reminded him of his boss.

Nigel could only nod, chagrined. He closed the folder containing the precious sketches and handed it to Emily, who set it back onto the coffee table. She sighed.

"Come on— let's go to the bar. I could use a drink." The redhead offered her arm.

"So could I" Nigel muttered, his head still reeling.

Thankfully the bar wasn't terribly crowded, which gave the two coworkers space to themselves. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, both wanting to talk about their recent discovery but still afraid to. Emily fidgeted constantly with her mobile, looking at it every five seconds, which was driving Nigel crazy. He was about to call her out on it when the blasted thing started ringing, making him almost drop his drink and causing Emily to choke at the unidentified number showing on her screen.

The Brit took a few seconds to compose herself— two additional rings of her phone and a desperate look from Nigel shot her way precisely — before answering.

"Emily Charlton" she said in her most professional tone.

"Em? It's Andy" she sounded cautious, and Emily couldn't help but think the brunette suspected what had happened. She did her best to keep her tone light.

"Andy, hello. Glad you called." She rolled her eyes at Nigel, who had smacked his forehead at her forcibly nonchalant response.

"Yeah, I got your number from the bakery. You uh… got my binder, I guess?" Andy was very clearly uncomfortable. Emily immediately knew her decision to pretend they were unaware of the binder's contents was the correct course of action.

"Yeah, I do… You left in quite a hurry, and I didn't know how to get it back to you. I forgot to ask for your phone number. I was thinking maybe we could meet up so I could return it."

"Ah, uh, that's OK, you can just send it over to my address, or I could come pick it up at your hotel."

"Nonsense, your fairy godmother wants to see you and catch up as well. When are you free?" Emily risked it.

The other line was silent for a few moments as Andy deliberated.

"I have some free time tonight if that's OK with you guys" she finally responded.

"Marvelous. 7 sound alright? There's a nice quiet pub not too far from our hotel, I can text you the address."

"Uh, yes, that would be fine. I'll see you guys then."

Once the conversation was over Emily sighed. She hoped Andy hadn't caught on. She and Nigel would really have to work on their poker faces so they didn't worry the brunette to death. But how they would attend the upcoming Saxton show and pretend they were as clueless as the rest of the world would be another matter altogether, especially with Miranda around.

"Emily?! Oh, thank God!"

Emily turned her head to the direction her name was called from in an utterly desperate tone. Nigel squinted to get a better look at the incoming girl. Eliza, Miranda's current first assistant. Not entirely incompetent, but still not quite adept enough to provide a headache-free workday to her boss. No, not even Emily had accomplished that. She shuddered thinking about the only one who had ever managed such a miraculous feat.

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Eliza? Calm down" she scolded.

"I don't have the Jacobs proofs! I need the Jacobs proofs! Please tell me you have them, or she's going to kill me!" the assistant huffed and puffed, her face red with the effort of running like a headless chicken. A superbly dressed headless chicken in Jimmy Choos.

Emily rolled her eyes and fished out her extra room key from her bag. She would help the girl out, just this once. It was London Fashion Week after all; things would only get more chaotic as they went.

"Here you are. It's the folder right on the side table. Now get a move on, you suicidal maniac." She all but threw her keycard at the desperate girl, shaking her head when she received the latter's utterly exceedingly grateful look before she ran away to avoid Miranda's wrath.

"A forgetful one, isn't she?" Nigel commented.

"She usually has her head on straight, but can buckle under too much pressure." Emily explained.

"Well, she'd better buckle up then. Where are we meeting Andy?" he changed the subject.

"At The Clansman at seven. I've texted her the address."

"The Clansman?" Nigel wrinkled his face in distaste. "Couldn't it be somewhere nicer?"

"It's a place Miranda won't unexpectedly walk into, and it's far enough from the hotel. I'm not her assistant anymore, I don't know her schedule verbatim." The redhead scoffed.

"Good point. Think they will have anything other than pints of beer though?" he asked, genuinely worried.

Emily allowed herself to laugh. "No, I don't think they'll have Cosmopolitans, Nigel."

He sighed. "A guy can dream, no?"