Disclaimer: I don't own The Devil Wears Prada.


Miranda Priestly does not apologize.

This is something Miranda reminds herself of every morning as she painstakingly applies her makeup, covering the dark circles that come from sleeping alone now that Stephen has absconded to the guest bedroom. She reminds herself in the car, on the way to work, as she gazes out the window, distantly watching the Upper East Side transition into Midtown East.

Miranda Priestly does not apologize.

She reminds herself as she strides across the Elias-Clarke foyer, heels clacking against the marble floors like the punch of a typewriter. She reminds herself as she rattles off instructions to Emily and whoever Emily happened to hire the day before to fill the second assistant chair. She reminds herself over lunch in her office, or at a restaurant with Diane or Donatella or Donna.

Miranda Priestly does not apologize.

She reminds herself during frustrating meetings with her ostensibly talented editors. She reminds herself at tedious and too-expensive photo shoots. She reminds herself when she happens upon Irv Ravitz and Jacqueline Follet exiting a town car together, thick as thieves.

Miranda Priestly does not apologize.

She reminds herself during dinner with Stephen, with the girls, by herself. She reminds herself during the obligatory fifteen minutes she spends at dreary cocktail parties several evenings a week. She reminds herself when she peruses the Book every night, her pen strokes a tad more forceful than they used to be. She reminds herself as she removes her makeup and wearily dons her pajamas.

As she lies in bed at night, trying desperately to sleep, the reminders become her mantra:

Miranda Priestly does not apologize.


Two days after the Met Gala, three weeks after she and Andrea parted ways, an unexpected message from Andrea sneaks its way into the long litany of calls Miranda received while out to lunch.

"She wasn't sure whether you'd be interested in hearing from her and made me promise not to pass along the message if you weren't," Emily blathers, her manner nervous. They are both keenly aware that there is a forbidden question tucked away somewhere in that statement.

Andrea is reaching out. Miranda stifles the hope that threatens to swell in her breast. "Tell me."

Emily releases a pent up breath, relieved, and glances at her notepad. "Her article is going to be published in the Cincinnati Monthly and she wanted to express her thanks one more time for your help in making it possible."

Miranda's entire body goes hot and then cold. "The Cincinnati Monthly," she repeats flatly.

Emily gulps. "That's what she said, yes."

Miranda glares into her assistant's wide eyes for a charged moment, a predator deliberating on what to do with her prey, before stalking into her office. "Get me Andrea Sachs," she tosses over her shoulder. "Now."

She hears tapping, muttering, a loud, desperate, "Please!"

Emily creeps in, looking like a pro bono attorney come to tell a death row inmate his last appeal has been denied. "Andrea is unavailable," she whispers, hands trembling.

Miranda's nails press against the sleek surface of her desk. "I see. That's all."

She spins her chair to glower out the window, incensed. Andrea is being ridiculous, blowing things wildly out of proportion. As if it weren't already evident, her childish unwillingness to have a conversation with Miranda is undeniable proof of her unsuitability as a friend.

The Cincinnati Monthly.

Miranda storms out of her office, casts her most disdainful glance at Emily II, and says, "Clear the next hour in my schedule."

She jabs the down button for the elevator, tapping her toe impatiently for the ten seconds it takes for the doors to open. She enters, pushes the button for a floor she has never before graced with her presence, and thinks again, incredulously, The Cincinnati Monthly.

The doors open on the Auto Universe offices and Miranda emerges like a storm cloud: slow, deliberate, and all the more menacing for taking her time. The receptionist, a sallow young woman wearing an unflattering Ann Taylor blouse, stares like a slack-jawed yokel.

"Andrea Sachs," Miranda says crisply.

Brief puzzlement; then, "Oh, you mean Andy! Take a left and then all the way to the back, Ms. Priestly."

Miranda sniffs and sweeps past the hapless girl, navigating among depressing cubicles and small offices. The Auto Universe employees, to a man—and they are all men—stop what they are doing to gape as she glides by.

Andrea's cubicle is located in the darkest, dreariest corner, underneath a flickering fluorescent light that would not be out of place in a horror movie. The cubicle itself is smaller than Miranda's car. Andrea, unlike her compatriots, does not see Miranda coming. Nor does she hear Miranda, whose heels make no noise as they dig into the clean but well-worn carpet. The younger woman's head is bowed to her work, the red pen in her hand moving steadily over the top page of a thick sheaf of paper.

Miranda stops a few feet from the cubicle, tilting her head to watch. This is an Andrea she's never seen before, the diligent, professional one who spends her days catching misplaced commas and split infinitives in articles about chrome and horsepower and leather interiors.

Eventually, finally, Andrea must feel eyes on her. She looks up, sees Miranda, blinks, frowns, holds up a finger in the universal gesture for wait, and spends a good forty-five seconds finishing the page she's on. Miranda should be annoyed by the presumption, and maybe she is, a little, but mostly what she feels is a warm little ball in the center of her chest which she chooses not to contemplate too deeply.

Andrea shuffles the sheet she's been working on to the bottom of the stack, caps her pen, and gives Miranda her blandest smile. "How can I help you, Ms. Priestly? I think you're on the wrong floor."

For a moment, Miranda is breathless with anger. Then, her patience long past gone, she seizes the other woman by the arm and hauls her out of her chair, uncaring of the many eyes that are watching.

"There must be a conference room in this godforsaken pit," Miranda snaps. "Where?"

Andrea scowls at her; when that has no effect, she sighs. "This way."

She jerks out of Miranda's grip, then stiffly leads Miranda through the warren of cubicles and offices to a surprisingly pleasant room overlooking Fifth Avenue. After ascertaining that it is empty, she gestures for Miranda to precede her and shuts the door behind them.

Miranda paces the length of the window and back, building up a vicious tirade in her mind, full of accusations like childish and weak and I should have you fired and how dare you insinuate yourself into my life and then abandon me.

What finally claws its way out of her throat, though, is: "The Cincinnati Monthly, Andrea? Really?"

Andrea crosses her arms over her chest, eyes flinty. "I think what you mean to say is, 'Congratulations on having your article accepted. You must be thrilled.' And then I'll reply, 'Why yes, I'm over the moon, thanks for not raining on my parade.'"

"You will turn down their offer of publication," Miranda commands. "That article is too good for them. It should be in Harper's, at least, or The New Yorker."

"I won't," Andrea says calmly. "Harper's and The New Yorker both rejected it. A couple of places were interested, and of those, I like the Cincinnati Monthly the best."

"If you'd had the common sense to mention my name in your submissions—"

Andrea, fearless, interrupts: "That was never going to happen."

They glare at each other: Miranda, exasperated; Andrea, defiant.

"If that's all," Andrea says, moving as if to walk out, and three weeks' worth of reminders fly out of Miranda's head.

"I apologize." Miranda's nostrils flare; she is stunned by her own words and the desperation behind them.

Andrea, perhaps not realizing how momentous this all is, doesn't swoon at the apology; nor does she hurry to assure Miranda that no apologies are necessary and, in fact, their falling out is all Andrea's fault. (Miranda had secretly regarded the latter as the ideal outcome of this conversation.)

Instead, all Andrea says is, "For what, specifically?"

Miranda's nails dig into her palms as she asks herself the same question. She already wants to take the apology back, but she knows she would be a lesser woman if she did. The truth is, she is sorry. She is not sorry for trying to upgrade Andrea's wardrobe. She is not sorry for wanting Andrea's outward appearance to match her inner strength. She is not sorry for worrying about her own image. But she is sorry.

"I apologize," she says slowly, looking Andrea in the eye, "for making you think I do not respect you."

Because, truly, isn't that why Andrea had been so upset? And, truly, hadn't she had the right to be? Miranda had known that Andrea was nothing like the girls who worked for her, the girls who would expire from joy if Miranda ever deigned to improve their wardrobes, and yet she hadn't taken the younger woman's unusual nature, the deep self-respect that was one of her most appealing features, into account.

Andrea's lips curve in a twisted parody of her usual open smile. "I don't know what you want me to say, Miranda. You were embarrassed to be seen with me when we ran into your fashion director—that's what started all of this. And I get that, I really do. You have an image to maintain. That's why I picked that Starbucks all the way over on Park Avenue for our coffee meetings. I was fine with you not wanting to be seen walking with someone like me. What I wasn't fine with was you trying to change me into something I'm not."

"The kind of person who dresses like an adult human being?" Miranda demands, because her humility only stretches so far.

"The kind of rail-thin girl who struts around New York thinking she's better than everyone else because her clothes cost enough to feed a small country," Andrea counters. "I don't care about how I look, Miranda. I won't let you turn me into the sort of person who thinks that's the only thing that matters." She looks away, but not before Miranda sees the shine of tears in her eyes.

Is that how Miranda's actions looked to Andrea? Truly?

Because she understands, now, in this moment, that she has hurt Andrea, deeply, she takes a long moment to consider her next strategy in this campaign to capture Andrea's forgiveness.

"Are you aware that Henry Styles doesn't even know who you are?" she asks, referring to Auto Universe's Editor-in-Chief.

Andrea frowns. "Of course he does. He signs off on all of my edits."

"He may know the name Andy Sachs," Miranda acknowledges, "but he has no idea that you are a woman, or that you are exceptional. He would not be able to pick you out of a lineup."

Andrea combs her hand through her long, thick hair. "Where are you going with this?"

"You are correct that things changed after we encountered Nigel. Not because of the reasons you're thinking—at least, mostly not for those reasons—but because I realized I was doing you a disservice by allowing you to continue sabotaging yourself."

"Sabotaging myself?" Andrea repeats, incredulous. "What are you talking about?"

Miranda casts her eyes up and down Andrea's body. "Like it or not, the decision not to care about your image is one that reflects poorly on you. It creates negative first impressions. It conveys the erroneous message that you take no pride in yourself. It holds you back, and what kind of friend would I be if I allowed that to continue when I am uniquely qualified to change it?"

She holds up a hand to forestall Andrea's retort. "If I gave the impression that I wanted you to become an air-headed fashionista, then I am truly sorry. But, Andrea. There has to be a happy medium between caring too much about clothes and being so determined not to care that you dress like a mannequin in a serial killer's basement. If you can't see that, I'm afraid you'll never reach your full potential."

At first, there is suspicion in the furrow of Andrea's brow, the lines around her mouth, as she considers Miranda's words. Eventually, some of the tension leaks out of the younger woman's posture. "I guess, if you'd really been trying to change me, you'd have stuck me in stilettos," she says grudgingly.

Miranda exhales with relief. "Don't be absurd. I would have gone with thigh-high Chanel boots."

Andrea's face contorts in comical horror. Then she sighs. "I probably should have let you explain all of this three weeks ago, huh?"

And there's the Andrea Miranda knows and tolerates, the kind one who asks after Miranda's day and truly cares about the answer. It would be so easy to let her assume some of the blame.

"No," Miranda says, though the admission pains her. "Three weeks ago, I couldn't have brought myself to offer a real explanation. It's taken me this long to come to terms with the fact that I value your friendship."

"Really?" Andrea says, eyes crinkling in humor. "That was clear to me when you agreed to go for a second coffee with me after I ordered that Frappuccino the first time." She glances at her watch. "I have to get back to work, unfortunately. Can we…would you like to meet for coffee tomorrow?"

Coffee would be a step back. Miranda only believes in advancement. "No; lunch." Miranda hopes her next words will not erase all of the goodwill she's just built. "If we continue to spend time together, I'm not going to stop pushing you to improve your image," she warns.

Andrea grins, finally. It brightens the entire room. "If we keep hanging out, Miranda, I'll probably let you."

Miranda claps her hands together briskly. "Excellent. Now, this afternoon, you will call the Cincinnati Monthly and withdraw your submission. Tomorrow at lunch we can put together a new submission letter that mentions my name."

"Not on your life, Priestly," Andrea says, and jauntily departs before Miranda can get a last word in.


Lunch the next day is a pleasure. There are no behind-the-scenes clothing shenanigans. Andrea appears to have decided to let the past be in the past. They do not discuss the Cincinnati Monthly. They have a great deal of catching up to do.

"Paris Fashion Week is my most important week of the year," Miranda says over delectable Chilean sea bass. "Endless fashion shows, constant parties—it's a logistical nightmare. The Runway offices are always a disaster in the month leading up to it, and this year is no exception."

Andrea snickers. "I have a hard time imagining you being frazzled."

"Not I," Miranda sniffs. "I leave that for my assistants. You know Emily, of course."

"Oh yes. She made an impression during my interview. Although she's been a lot more pleasant since then. You know, I don't think she's figured out that the Andy Sachs you keep meeting up with is the same one she thought was a practical joke by HR."

Miranda is certain Emily hasn't made the connection. "Hm. Anyway, her job is to ensure that everything in Paris goes smoothly. That might be too much to ask of someone of her intellect, but I live on hope."

Andrea looks a little bothered by Miranda's casual disregard for her assistant. "Maybe she'll surprise you."

"Andrea, you are the first person to have surprised me in a very, very long time."

Andrea blushes.

They eat for a while in silence, savoring their seafood, before Andrea says, "I missed you, you know. Nate gave me a hard time for moping the past few weeks."

Miranda stomps down the fierce, inappropriate joy that threatens to bubble up inside her. "The chef doesn't deserve you," she says calmly.

Andrea bites her lip, which does nothing to suppress her shy smile. "What about you? Any new developments the past few weeks?"

Miranda casually ticks the new developments off on her fingers one by one. "My marriage is on its way to its natural conclusion, Irv and Jacqueline are going to attempt to usurp my position in Paris, and Nigel may be leaving me." She sips her wine.

Andrea's fork clatters onto her plate. "Wait, what? You let me go on about my boyfriend when you've got so much crap going on? God, Miranda, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you deal with all that. I've been a shitty friend." She reaches across the table and takes Miranda's hand in a firm, comforting grip.

Miranda does not pull away.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," she says. "I have contingencies in place—not for Stephen, but for the rest."

"Can I ask what drove you and Stephen apart?"

He thinks we're having an affair, Miranda does not say. Now that she has resigned herself to Stephen's impending departure from her life, the misunderstanding has become a source of private amusement for her. She's drawn it out, in fact, making sure to mention "Andy Sachs" in casual conversation on the regular. The name never fails to turn Stephen an unflattering shade of purple.

"He feels that I neglect him, and I do," Miranda replies. "There are aspects of my life that are important enough for me to make time for. I've come to realize he isn't one of them. I suppose that admission paints me in a bad light, but it's true."

Andrea studies her with keen eyes. Miranda would give a great deal to know what she is thinking. Perhaps she is calculating the number of hours she and Miranda have spent together over the past five months.

"Write me an article about the end of a relationship," Miranda says, patting the hand that still holds hers. "How to decide when to put the poor, abused thing to sleep."


Miranda sends Andrea a bouquet of lovely but understated blouses along with a card that says, "To celebrate the Cincinnati Monthly's outrageous good fortune."

Andrea replies with a thank you note and an inquiry regarding whether Miranda knows any good, cheap hair stylists in the city.


Stupid, stupid Emily gets herself hit by a car four days before Fashion Week.

"I can still go to Paris," she wails over the phone from the ambulance. "The crutches won't slow me down, I swear!"

"Do be serious," Miranda says. She refrains from mentioning how ridiculous Emily would look, stumbling around Fashion Week in a full leg cast. There's little point in being cruel now, when the girl has already destroyed her own greatest hope.

"Well, you can't take Jessica!"

That must be the second assistant who started the day after Andrea and Miranda resumed their friendship. She seems sharp enough, but she's far too green for Paris.

"Do what the doctors tell you to do, and for God's sake, eat something," Miranda says. "That's all."

She hangs up. She considers. She has Emily II get Andrea on the line.

Andrea answers with her usual chipper, "This is Andy."

"Are you free for coffee now?" Miranda demands.

Maybe Andrea hears the unusual edge to her voice, because there isn't even an instant of startled hesitation. "Yes, of course. I'll meet you downstairs."

Two minutes later they are striding down the sidewalk, Andrea shooting her concerned glances. Even in her distraction, Miranda is pleased to note that the other woman is wearing one of the blouses she gave her, along with the clutch and shoes Miranda snuck into her possession. Her absurdly thick mane of hair has been tamed into something tolerable (and cheap, Miranda reminds herself sourly).

"What—"

"Not yet," Miranda bites out. "I need coffee."

They go to their usual Starbucks, but for once Miranda waits in line with Andrea, seething at inept baristas who take far too long to take down simple coffee orders. Miranda seizes her drink when it's handed to her and takes a deep gulp, not caring as it burns the roof of her mouth.

"Emily was hit by a car," she says.

Andrea's hand slips, sloshing coffee over the lip of her cup. She reaches for a napkin "Oh my God. Is she okay? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

"She isn't one of my children, Andrea, and I have far too much to do."

Andrea makes a show of looking around the coffee shop as if to say, Important things like taking coffee breaks with me?

Miranda sniffs. "She was in the ambulance when she called, but my understanding is that her only major injury is a broken leg. I don't know what you think I could do to help with that. I assure you there's no secret medical degree hidden away in my sordid past."

Andrea ignores her snark in favor of murmuring, "Poor Emily. I hope she's on her feet in time for your flight."

"Emily won't be going to Paris, Andrea," Miranda says impatiently. "I told you how important this week is to me. I need someone able-bodied and focused to stave off disasters. Even on a good day, Emily can barely meet those requirements. It's out of the question now."

"Poor Emily," Andrea says again, even more fervently.

Miranda supposes Andrea's empathetic nature is a credit to her. At this moment, it's irritating. "I want you to come to Paris with me."

Andrea blinks. She blinks again. She says, "What?"

"I need someone I can rely on by my side. I can't bring my second assistant; I don't even know her name."

"It's Jessica," Andrea says, apropos of nothing.

"The point is, I want you there. I'll clear it with Henry Styles, and—"

"Miranda, no." Andrea's voice is firm, uncompromising.

Miranda closes her mouth. She opens it. She closes it again. "What do you mean, no?"

Andrea eyes her sympathetically. "I mean, no, I can't go to Fashion Week with you."

"Of course you can. I told you, it won't interfere with your job—"

"Miranda. No."

Miranda slams her cup onto the table, furious. "So all of your talk of friendship and gratitude was a lie, was it? It's fine if I'm buying you lunches and furthering your career, but the moment I need something, all you can say is 'no'."

"I'm saying no because I'm your friend," Andrea says, her voice steady though her eye twitches at Miranda's jabs. "You don't need a friend at Fashion Week, Miranda, you need an assistant, and I can't be that for you. I can never work for you, don't you see that?"

"All I see is someone I mistakenly thought I could rely on," Miranda says coldly. "Thank you for correcting that misconception." She grabs her coffee and stalks out, humiliated and deeply, deeply disappointed.


"Miranda, your four thirty is here," Emily II says from the open doorway.

Miranda frowns, tiredly running through the schedule Emily had rattled off that morning before the unfortunate car incident. She doesn't recall an appointment at this time, but she also isn't at her best just now. "Send them in," she says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs at the knee.

A young man enters, his posture painstakingly correct, a well-chosen off-the-rack suit draping his frame nicely, a nervous smile on his unremarkable face. Miranda has never seen him before. Whoever this is, he does not belong on her busy, overbooked schedule.

"Who are you?" she demands, steepling her fingers under her chin and watching as sweat breaks out at his hairline.

"My name is Doug?" he squeaks. He coughs and then says, more confidently, "Um, my name is Doug. Sommer?"

"Why are you here, wasting my immensely valuable time, Douglas Sommer?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, lips moving as he runs through what is clearly a rehearsed speech. When he opens his eyes again, he stands a little straighter and says, "I'm smart, dependable, and hard-working. I have a job on Wall Street in financial services, where I manage accounts for over twenty high-profile clients, which means I'm an expert at juggling while keeping track of all of the balls that are in the air. I'm a passionate reader of Runway and can recognize most major designers on sight. I speak college-level French. And I'm really, really excited to be meeting you right now, Ms. Priestly. Um, Miranda. I hope I can help you out."

Miranda studies the anxious young man, turning his verbal resume over in her mind. He clearly has not been sent by HR. But then, who—

"Andrea," she realizes. "Andrea sent you."

He bobs his head. "She's my best friend. She said you'd been left in the lurch at the last minute, and she knows I'm reliable and love you—I mean fashion—and she thought it would be a good fit."

She flutters her fingers at him. "And you're able to jet off to Paris at the drop of a hat, are you, Douglas?"

"I'm good at my job and I don't take much vacation. My boss will give me next week off." Douglas lifts his chin bravely. Miranda can see why Andrea likes him. "If you fly me out there and let me go to the events with you, I'll do all the assistant work for free."

Miranda regards him long enough for his shoulders to droop. She glances out into the hallway, where Nigel, fortuitously, has just arrived for a meeting. She calls his name.

He pokes his head in, wearing an expression of polite inquiry. There's a gleam in his eye, though, which first appeared when she mentioned the possibility of a position for him in James Holt's new venture and hasn't faded since. It will be a real pity when that gleam is snuffed out.

"This young man will be accompanying us to Paris as my assistant," Miranda says, waving vaguely in Douglas' direction. "See that he is dressed appropriately."

Nigel looks Douglas up and down and licks his lips once. "Well, well," he purrs. "Right this way, puppy."

Douglas gulps, shoots a last glance at Miranda, and follows him out.

"Emily, get me Andrea Sachs," Miranda says, and waits.

"I have Andrea!"

Miranda picks up the phone, and without waiting for Andrea's customary greeting—perhaps a little worried, after the way their coffee date ended, that Andrea won't offer it—says, "It's generally considered bad form to offer one's friends up as sacrificial lambs for the Devil."

Andrea laughs. "Trust me, Doug was dying to be offered up." A pause. "You're going to take him, then?"

"He appears to be my least objectionable alternative, since my top choice declined," Miranda says. "Nigel is most likely ravaging him in the Closet as we speak."

"Poor Doug," Andrea says, wide grin evident in her voice. "Or should I say, lucky Doug?"

Miranda's cell phone flashes, the caller ID showing Stephen's name. She turns the phone on its face. "Andrea, about what I said earlier. I may have been overly hasty when I accused you of being unreliable. I said some things I would not have said if Emily hadn't been so careless crossing the street."

"Is that an apology?" Andrea asks, sounding amused rather than angry.

Yes. "Consider it a retraction."

"Don't get me wrong, Miranda—I was flattered you asked me to go with you to Paris. But do you understand why I had to refuse?"

Andrea had said something preposterous about how she could never work for Miranda, hadn't she? Admittedly, Miranda had been too incensed to pay much attention to why Andrea was rejecting her in her time of need.

"No, I don't understand, but I suppose you must have a good reason," Miranda says. "Write me an article explaining it. I'll look forward to reading it after Fashion Week."

"Will do. I've got to get back to work. Hey, Miranda?"

"Yes?"

"Be nice to Doug over there, okay?"

"Really, Andrea," Miranda drawls. "Sometimes, it's as if you don't know me at all."