"Oh the Alexander for sure. Darling, give us another spin."

"Hm. I prefer the Valentino."

"But the drapery here is just astonishing."

"She should look mature, not matronly."

"The cut on the Valentino isn't exactly angelic and conservative. Very upscale hooker perhaps. How about the Dior?"

"The color was atrocious."

"I found it rather modern."

"Feel free to devastate the pages of your magazine with the modern repulsiveness of 'Neon Urine,'" I drawled while turning to face my companion, "however, my escort will not being wearing it Monday evening."

Nigel's eyebrows skyrocketed across his bald head in mock hurt before muttering, "Feisty."

I narrowed my eyes before responding, "Careful, you might hurt my feelings."

"He just said I looked like a hooker. I think my ego is bruised more than yours," Andrea sighed, reaching behind her back in search of a zipper, "Can we take a break?"

She stepped from the living room into the hallway to change in moderate privacy while Nigel and I glanced yet again to the moveable rack of gowns we had secured from the Closet. Her first appearance needed to be absolutely perfect, and every finite detail of her dress could help or hinder the public's perception. While we agreed their opinion didn't matter, it certainly didn't hurt to try. While I had survived countless media assaults, and I was already planning for a temporary break, I was worried how one wrong turn could harm her newborn, tender career.

On the other hand, locking ourselves in the townhouse while the children were at their father's for the past week had been extremely satisfying.

She returned to the room looking blissfully content in her torn jeans and Northwestern sweatshirt, her standard uniform around the house. The couture hung in her arms, already forgotten.

I was in love with a walking fashion disaster.

"Andy, dear, please tell me you didn't wear that to work today," Nigel winced after looking up from the selection of dresses and taking the gown from her hands.

"My boss said I should work from home for a week or two. The paparazzi hiding in the bushes outside the office put a damper on my work day," she explained, running a hand through her hair and walking towards me.

"Such tremendous work being famous isn't it?" I stated with a smirk. I was beginning to suspect she knew how sensual she looked even in worn department store jeans.

"So difficult. But totally worth it," she smiled, placing a kiss on the corner of my mouth.

"Awwww."

"Must you be so obnoxious?" I almost snarled, turning towards the culprit.

"It's hard not to think I'm looking at the less evil twin loving on Six."

"Nonsense, Nigel, the nice twin lives in Arkansas and prefers men for sexual partners."

"Really?" Andrea peeped beside me, looking at me with widened eyes. I had to bite my tongue from laughing though Nigel's own wheezing hackling quickly informed her.

"She seemed pretty believable," she mumbled before an adorable pout appeared on her face.

Of course I felt obligated to kiss her. Before I had the chance to comment, however, the doorbell rang throughout the house.

"Oh, that's Doug. Okay, honey, remember what I told you. Please go easy on him," she said hurriedly before dashing in the direction of the foyer.

Honey. It had always been Miranda. Employees knew not to call me Ms. Priestly, just as my husbands had known any nicknames were completely prohibited. However, in the past two weeks after our confession on the couch, as well as the past week of dwelling together without the children, I was discovering the thrill of walking into a room and hearing something as mundane as "sweetie, where the hell is your wine corker?"

Wait, why would she assume I would be harsh on Douglas?

"It's not as if he works for me," I commented aloud to Nigel.

"Hasn't stopped you before," he murmured with an arched eyebrow full of accusation while sounds of excitement filtered from the foyer.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

"2001. I brought a date to the Christmas party. You told him you were surprised they sold couture for elves," he responded with what was a poor attempt at pursing his lips.

I frowned before muttering, "Seems like a fair mistake if it was the holidays."

Before he could disagree, Andrea's voice grew louder before she emerged into the living room with a young man following her with a sheepish smile. His jacket and pants were by no means couture, but it seemed he was certainly able to navigate the store racks with a dedication and appreciation Andrea lacked.

"Doug, this is Miranda, my girlfriend."

"Pleasure, Douglas," I said with a small smile, extending my hand. I noticed his throat bulged as he swallowed.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Miranda," he said somewhat breathlessly, giving my hand a firm shake. I could sense a stiffness in Nigel as if he was guessing I would berate him for his nervousness.

Was it really so arduous to conceive I could be nice?

"We're having a terrible time deciding Andrea's wardrobe for a banquet in a few days. Perhaps you can assist us?" I said with a coolness typical of Runway functions, turning to gesture to the rack of gowns.

"Andy's legs are causing some concentration issues for our little Mira here," drawled the bald goblin beside me.

"Allow me to introduce Nigel. My ex-employee," I practically snarled, glaring in his direction.

"We're best friends, but she doesn't want to admit it. How do you do?" he said with an over cheeriness, and I felt my eyes narrowing in response.

As Douglas accepted Nigel's outstretched hand, he replied, "I'm sure you guys don't need my help."

"Come on, Doug, you always know what to grab when we go shopping," Andrea said encouragingly, practically dragging him towards the wheeled rack in the corner.

Nigel slowly glanced in my direction before saying jeeringly, "Just don't pick the yellow one or you'll be kicked out."

He was clearly testing his luck and my patience for the afternoon. Before I could respond, however, my pocket began buzzing and vibrating.

"Excuse me," I muttered, sending a final glare before exiting into the kitchen.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Miranda. How the hell are you?"

He always was a tad too cheery.

"Good afternoon, Radcliff. Quite well. And yourself?"

"Pretty swell. Sorry I didn't get back to you yesterday but Wednesdays are killer. So you're looking to buy some stocks in Elias-Clark?"

"Yes, just like I've outlined in my email, I wish for them to purchased after I leave Runway," I summarized, inspecting the tray of cooling cookies Andrea had decided to bake that morning. After a sniff, I felt my lips purse at the white chocolate and cherry morsels. They smelled delicious, tempting, and incredibly fattening.

"Whatever you say, boss. Though, as your stockbroker and advisor, I feel like I should tell you it's not a smart investment. Sales are going to tank after you leave for sure."

"Yes, I can assure you I'm well aware of what I'm doing," I replied, spotting a broken piece at the corner of the foil and popping it into my mouth. I looked down to see Patricia watching me from her napping position on the threshold of the dining room.

"Alright. I'll give you a call to confirm things sometime next week. Always nice doing business with you."

"You as well. Good day," I said before closing the phone and plucking a free baked cherry off the tray. The St. Bernard engulfed the scrap the second I dropped it before her.

"Our little secret, hm?"

With a contented smile, I returned to the living room where Nigel's excited voice was echoing down the hall. Once I turned the corner, I saw why.

"Oh," murmured from my throat as a breathless whisper before I could stop it.

Andrea turned towards me at the sound, and I was able to appreciate the full view of her body and the dress that had the honor of clinging to it. The bodice was firm and fitted, forming neatly to her slender build. There was an interesting and elegant embroidery of black floral that descended from the top to a fine vine that wrapped to the curve of her hip. The black was subtle against the dark burgundy fabric, and the deep red looked regal against her pale skin. Nigel and I had originally disregarded the gown for the bright red of the skirts trim, a daring color met with hesitation. But the fade of burgundy to that royal red was lovely on her tall frame, and the strength of her stance crushed the fear of wearing the suggestive color. I knew that type of skirt would glide and flow with her movements like fire; she wasn't a blazing flame but a smoldering coal that demonstrated the solidity of maturity and the suggestion of burning. Our eyes met, and she smiled at my perusal, only adding to another heat and fire building my abdomen before Nigel's voice cracked through my evaluation.

"I know we were afraid of the red and sleeveless looking too risqué, but I think it-"

"Perfect," I cut him off, voice cracking slightly. I cleared my throat and kept my eyes trained on the glowing ember before me, focusing on the displayed collarbone I remember kissing only the night before. As I walked towards her, I focused on my silver rose resting against her chest.

"You have quite the taste, Douglas," I muttered, reaching up to stroke the necklace and brush Andrea's hair over her shoulder. She was so unbelievable beautiful.

"Donatella will be very happy to see you in her gown," I whispered before kissing her forehead, "Go change before it gets wrinkled," I added with a wink. Her smile was devious and thrilled as she walked away, and it was difficult to contain my own smile.

My walking fashion disaster was going to be the hit of the party.

I turned to a rather stunned Douglas and snickering Nigel and calmly asked, "Now that we've finished with business, may I offer you two a drink before dinner?"


"I'm surprised to see you so late at the office without any assistants."

"I'm always here late," I retorted firmly, looking over my glasses at the intruder.

"Well, now that you have a lady waiting at home, I just thought you'd like to be leaving sooner," said Irving Ravitz with a voice that made my blood start to boil.

I placed my pen on the desk with a forced steady hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Irving?"

"It was actually about this young lady. You know, Miranda, maybe it's getting to that time when you should think about finally settling down," he mused in an overly sweet, syrupy tone as he approached the chair before my desk, "Clearly you're going though…something. You don't need all of this and the weight of Runway on your shoulders. You've been carrying it too long."

"Are you suggesting I take a vacation?"

"Something a little more permanent," he said with mock innocence as he sat down and finally looked me in the eye, "Retirement."

"Allow me to make this easier for you," I stated icily, removing my glasses, "If you wish for me to leave, you are going to have to fire me. And quite frankly, I don't think you have the balls to do so."

His monstrosity of a wheezing laugh filled my office. "No, no, you're right; I can't fire you. You see, with your new friendship, it would look rather politically incorrect of me to release you, like I originally planned," he smiled, leaning towards me, "Which is why you're going to publically retire."

This was seriously deviating from the plan of attack I expected of the pathetic urchin.

"And if I refuse?"

"I've been receiving quite the number of calls lately. The press is just riveted with, what's her name? Andy?" he asked with a leer that grew at my glower, "The whole ex-assistant thing is super kinky."

It took every ounce of self-control not to pierce his leg with my heel under the desk.

"It would be unfortunate if the media discovered she needed to leave Runway due to inappropriate behavior at the office with her boss."

And for all the power I possessed, for all my capabilities, influence, and authority, he finally trumped me all with the threat of a simple lie. That's all it would take, and we both knew it. The one weakness I had always feared and avoided finally manifested itself; I had fallen in love, and it would be my undoing.

"Nothing of the sort happened while she was employed."

"As if the media will know what's true or not. You know as well as I do that even if you deny it afterwards, they always just stick with whatever leaked first. I still can't decide if I'll tell them you approached another employee for a threesome or if the security guard discovered her bent over your desk," he pondered aloud, leaning back in the chair, "Either way, I can only imagine how it'll effect her career at that dinky little paper, or anywhere else for that matter."

"No one can do what I can do with Runway," I hissed in absolute anger and fury.

"Jacqueline will do it just fine and much more cheaply. You fashion bitches are always the same," he said, standing up and fixing his suit with calmness that enraged me, "You think you're something special, but it's just an act. You put on the costume and perform just like everyone else. Your time on the stage is over."

It was over.

As he walked out the door, he said over his shoulder, "I'll understand if you find yourself feeling unwell and unable to attend the banquet. I know everyone will be sad to see you go. Goodnight, Miranda."

It was over. It couldn't be. Could it?

I realized I was shaking when the empty teacup on my desk began clinking from the vibrations. I stood up with a violent quickness, knocking into the desk and further upsetting the porcelain cup.

It was over.

I needed air.

I didn't call Roy. I didn't secure my purse. I didn't even bother with the elevator. I acquired my jacket, and I ran into the cold like the dethroned Ice Queen I was. I watched my Pradas fly across the concrete of the sidewalk, lost in soundless, thoughtless mental chaos, until a pair of stationary feet abruptly halted my progress. Multiple pairs of feet and legs. I looked up to find myself surrounded by bodies.

I was enclosed by a group waiting at a crosswalk.

There was suddenly something so wonderful about the trivial need to cross the street. I found myself snorting with laughter at the thought of walking home from work in the first time in over fifteen years. It was in mad, hysterical gasps, but I felt the cold of the night and the anonymity of the crowd relieving my blind rage and sadness.

When the light turned, and we trudged at uniform speed to the next block, I looked up to the buildings and the sky and remembered.

I had traveled the world and marveled at places with far richer histories than New York, but the city at night always welcomed me home. Even in the dark of night, the city breathed with light and life. No matter the magnitude of loneliness someone felt, the streets still teemed with that something special. A simultaneous sensation of humbling insignificance coupled with destinies of grandeur. It was paradoxical and intoxicating, and I once depended on these sights and sounds every night like an addiction.

People seem to forget I too had to survive in the gloomy one bedroom apartment while I slowly climbed the ladder to the position I held. A scrawny little nobody that had somehow managed to scrounge enough to make it through art school. A woman that had to learn how to navigate man's dominion of media and publishing. A starting assistant to an editor before she could move up in the world…

And now it was over.

But it was worth it, was it not? In the wreckage of my career, Andrea was waiting. Young, beautiful, and on the cusp of beginning her own journey. My own greed of clinging to a few more years at Runway could ruin her path before she even began to walk it, and that would truly be my ultimate failure.

I lost myself in those lights and sounds all over again, and I eventually found those lights growing fewer and fewer until I stood in a quaint neighborhood. I was standing in front of my own house, and this too was as amusing to me as the crosswalk. A sober smirk crossed my face when I tried the door handle and realized I had no key or purse; it too was left at the office with my finished career. I had barely knocked before the door erupted open to the flustered face of my Andrea.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick about you. You didn't pick up at the office or your cell," she exclaimed, staring wildly at me as I stepped into the townhouse, and I was a little surprised at how upset she was. Why were my feet suddenly so sore?

"What time is it?" I asked calmly, turning to wide, brown eyes.

"'What time is it?' What time—It's almost one in the fucking morning. It's officially Saturday.

Ah, that would explain it.

"You always call before you come home. What the hell happened?" she asked with an expression and tone of worry that broke my heart, and I was struck wide-awake at how idiotic and irrational I had been tonight.

She must have misunderstood my knitted eyebrows when she amended, "Or at least, you called everyday this week I've been staying over."

"You are home, darling. Don't doubt that," I said softly, reaching up to cup her face.

It wasn't over, not for her.

"What's wrong?" she practically pleaded as she grabbed my hand.

"I underestimated Irving," I sighed, patting her hand before I released it to remove my coat. The jacket suddenly felt heavy and burdensome.

I saw her quizzical expression and continued, "He is blackmailing me into retiring."

"With what?"

I again reached to stroke her beautiful face before I answered, "False stories of our shared time at Runway."

"We should have waited, Miranda," she barely gasped after a pause, and I could see tears threatening her countenance. I forced the sad gaze into mine.

"No. My role as Editor was going to end one day. However, my love for you and my children," I said, whipping away a fallen tear, "that should be the focus of my life, as it will last until the day I die."

"Can't we do something? I mean he can't just make stuff up about us," she replied, suddenly showing her usual stubborn determination I loved.

"Irving was right, my dear. The media takes the first leak as the truth. Whoever attempts to deny it afterwards is always guilty. Falsely convicted criminals can never seem to clear their names. This is the superior alternative to your own conviction."

She began to object, and I placed my finger over her lips.

"I will always put you before Runway, Andrea. I refuse to endanger your career anymore than the mere speculation surrounding our relationship may have already done. Irving has even more publishing connections than myself."

It wasn't over.

"You've only just begun in your work," I whispered more to myself than to her. I paused at the closet to finally put away the coat I had been holding. After a second thought, however, I draped it unceremoniously on the table in the foyer before turning again to the upset woman.

"I have you and the girls. I am lucky to not require a job or source of income," I said with some new air of freedom and finality, "I suppose if I get too bored I can judge Project Runway."

A sad, small chuckle broke from her mouth, and, after a moment, she mumbled, "You shouldn't have to do this for me."

"But I'm going to. You'll just have to deal with a restless cougar I suppose."

I was rewarded with another slight smile.

"What about the banquet?"

"I will go with my head held high and a wonderful woman on my arm, and I will make my exit with as much grace as I can muster. And you will need to make sure I do not spend my newly acquired free time planning the murder of Irving Ravitz," finally earning a note of true laughter.

"I love you," she said with a genuine smile.

"And I you."

It was never over.


"I think I've been blinded."

"That's unfortunate, though it might make future sexual intercourse more interesting."

"I cannot believe you're talking about sex right now," Andrea whispered fiercely between the closed teeth of a smile she had been holding for the past ten minutes.

"I'm trying to help you relax, darling," I murmured into her ear as we finally entered the grand ballroom.

The second we had exited the car, the world had turned into a sea of flashing lights, and Andrea had navigated the waters with an expertise I should have expected. She out-shined the cameras and outwitted the interviewers with the very charm that had first made me fall for her. She was introduced as my girlfriend. When asked how she felt to be here, she politely described how humble she was to be supporting the charities of Elias-Clark, ones she could specifically name. And just when they thought they had bested her by asking what on earth she did in the name of charity, she casually discussed her countless articles of charity promotion in the New York Mirror. When they asked about me, about charming the dragon, she simply tightened her grip on my arm and said, "I love everything about her. Except that she snores. But even that is pretty adorable."

I finalized every interview with a kiss to her cheek, and her smoky eyes always sparkled with a smile. It was hard to believe I was practically walking into my execution when I had a woman of such sheer magnificence on my arm. It was my greatest happiness and saddness all at once.

"You did wonderfully. Just keep smiling and your chin up. If you walk with superiority, people will naturally assume you are in fact superior."

"Or I'm dating Miranda Priestly," she corrected, her smile gaining its usual air of playfulness.

"You should at least enjoy that privilege for the next hour before I'm retired," I muttered with a smirk in her direction.

"My, my, what a fuss you two are causing," and we looked up to see a very well dressed Nigel approach. Her took Andrea's hand and politely pecked her knuckles.

"Everyone is dying to come up and get the dirt on Six here," he said with his trademark smile and raised eyebrows.

"Then why aren't they?" the brunette asked, curiously turning her head to the side.

"Well who the hell would want to be the first one?" he exclaimed, motioning towards me.

"You, apparently," I muttered flatly, a small smirk curling on my face when Andrea laughed.

"Someone had to start the party," he shrugged, "At least you're going out with a bang."

I was about to dish out an insult for the rude comment concerning my forced retirement, of which he knew all the details, but the look in his eyes was one of true concern. I nodded as we shared an unspoken understanding.

"Where's your escort this evening?" I asked in attempt to return the mood to a state of lightness.

"Oh he's already by the bar. Odd. I mentioned your name and he ran away."

"How rude."

"I don't blame him. I better go find before he discovers their stash of champagne," he said exasperatedly.

Before he turned to go, he looked to Andrea, saying, "Remember," and awkwardly pointed his fingers away from his chest. With that final motion, he walked towards the bar.

"What on earth was that about?" I asked, turning to face the lady on my arm.

"Nigel's advice to wearing contour is to make sure the girls are facing forward. That's what he told me the first night I had to follow you around," she said with an almost shy smile, and I suddenly felt obligated to admire the dress's hold on her bosom.

"Ah. Well, the advice worked. You looked then and look now very stunning," I mused with a smile before whispering, "including the girls."

"No way you noticed or even remember that night," she giggled, spiritedly slapping my hand.

"I had my eyes on you for a long time," I said simply, admiring the way her eyes wrinkled the corners when she truly smiled.

We were again interrupted when a voice said, "Good evening, Miranda," and I looked up to receive cheek kisses from a woman wearing an acceptable Valentino.

"You as well," I responded with the airy voice that often floated to the surface at this types of functions, "Andrea, I would like you to meet—"

And then I realized I had not the slightest clue who had just greeted us.

"A wonderful friend," I added slowly, buying time and searching my mind for her name.

It was destined to happen at the one banquet I hadn't asked my assistant to join us.

"Oh, hello, Mrs. Richardson. I've heard so much about you. I must say I'm a fan of all your restoration work with the city's museums."

I stared at Andrea in wordless wonder.

"Well, thank you! Some people don't seem to understand the value of history and art."

"It's what defines our culture. I was thrilled when your husband's magazine did a series on New York's individual style through the ages," Andrea continued while I looked between them with what I hoped was a mask of interest and not the relief and shock I was feeling. Mr. Richardson was the editor of Art Escape, one of Elias-Clark's other publications.

"He would be very happy to hear that. Unfortunately, he was feeling ill this evening and was unable to attend."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Please give him our well wishes," I responded, secretly satisfied with my ability to somehow contribute to the conversation as if I was child again listening to my parents' talk of a world beyond my knowledge.

"Thank you, Miranda. Always nice seeing you. And it was a pleasure to meet you, Andrea," Mrs. Richardson said, again shaking my date's hand with a nod that signaled approval for those that navigated the upper circles.

The young woman properly responded, "The pleasure was all mine."

I simply gazed on as she smiled at the elder lady's retreating form.

"Have I informed you of how much I love you within the last twenty-four hours?"

"Oh, it was nothing. My boss made me memorize almost all these people's faces. I'm a pro," she remarked with a wink, but the statement itself made me revisit some of my acts as editor.

"Andrea, I wish I could say I'm sorry—"

"It doesn't fit your character. I'm not sorry. I'd change nothing. About you or the past," was all she said before giving my arm a firm squeeze.

"I would. I should have prepared for Irving much sooner."

"Miranda—"

"Come, I do believe you promised me a dance, darling."

In a somewhat desperate attempt on my part to eliminate the thoughts and worries of the future announcement, I guided Andrea to the dance floor where a few couples leisurely spun, mostly while chatting. As I listened to the music and placed my partner's hand on my shoulder, I identified the music as a slower variation of a waltz. I stared into eyes sparkling with amusement as we started to move.

"Where did you learn to lead?"

"How else was I to charm all the ladies?"

She laughed before teasing, "Were you a womanizer when you were younger?"

"I was much too focused on my studies to really pay too much attention to other pursuits," I replied easily, pulling her a little closer against me. The proximity wasn't very typical of this type of dance, but I was going to enjoy my retirement party, even if it wasn't publically recognized as such.

"Too much attention. As in you still spent a little time flirting with the girls?" she quizzed, eyes narrowing in mock jealousy.

"Why are you so interested?" I smirked.

"No reason. Just wanted to know exactly how many people I beat to win you," was her casual reply with a smirk of confidence that was incredibly sensual.

I pretended to pause briefly and think before answering, "Roughly seven billion, if I had to guess."

"The entire world population wanted you, huh?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, but I can assure you I want no one in the world but you," I whispered in her ear, and, as the music ended, when she looked into my eyes, not even a crowded room was going to stop me from kissing her full on the lips.

We danced to another song before braving the waves of faces and bodies, all of which practically fed out of Andrea's hand as they trembled to shake mine.

It wasn't until the servants navigated the ballroom to direct everyone to the gallery that the pleasant dream finely cracked.

You time on the stage is over.

I kept my mask donned and continued forward in costume as the prominent queen of fashion enjoying an evening with her lover, which was not by any means a complete lie. The crack was small but growing with every step to the tables in the massive hall.

My whole world nearly splintered in two when Irving stood to address the room, though Mr. and Mrs. Oporto of the god-awful Autoverse to my left only saw a charming smile on my face.

"We here at Elias-Clark are so happy to be apart of the initiative to better our city, our community, and our world. We thank all the representatives from our charities."

The gallery filled with polite applause of people with money that had simply showed up to the event upon receiving an invitation. I lightly tapped my hands together, more cynical and and more distracted than usual. I turned to my little fashion disaster, watching as Andrea clapped like a child marveling at a zoo performance, and Mrs. Richardson beside her seem elated to have someone show some emotion. Meanwhile, I felt a surge of dread engulf my chest, and the sting left me paralyzed with an expression of contented ignorance.

"We would also like to take this opportunity to make a special announcement regarding one of Elias-Clark's very own publications, and leading magazine, Runway."

Andrea's hand found mine under the table, holding together what little parts of myself had felt like they were on the verge of shattering.

"For almost twenty-five years, Miranda Priestly has triumphantly led a talented team of writers, models, designers, and photographers to gain popularity and incredible respect in the publishing business. The fashion industry recognizes Miranda's accomplishments as a staple and integral part of its culture and history. And on this night, I have the very humble and melancholy job of announcing her rein is finally, of her own decision, coming to an end."

It was over, and the whispers filling the room barely covered the sound of a broken reputation falling to the floor.

"We at Elias-Clark, and myself personally, wish Miranda a happy retirement."

It seemed only fitting my downfall would be to the echoes of applause. I don't know who tightened her hold first, but Andrea and I shared a death life grip on each other's hands.

I maintained that grasp as I, in some fit of delusional madness, found myself standing and turning to the gallery.

"I know many of us often feel as though we are slaves to our work and prisoners in our offices. However, Runway has and always will be a mode of freedom. Of expression. Of creativity. Of passion. Needless to say, I am terribly sad leave. However, the legacy of this magazine, this work of art, will always be with me, and I can now live my life with the freedom and passion I've savored in the halls of Elias-Clark," I said, turning to face Andrea, my lifeline of the evening. Her smile strengthened what little resolve was left.

"I will never truly leave Runway," I declared, glancing to Irving in some final act of defiance, "Thank you."

The rest of my control was spent guiding my body to the chair, kissing Andrea's hand, and hiding behind an empty smile as Irving cleared his throat for the guests to quiet down.

"On a happier note, I now have the pleasure of announcing that Runway will embrace a new Editor-in-Chief, one of extreme talents and skills that will hopefully rival that of our beloved Miranda. Hailing from French Runway, allow me to welcome to the ranks of Elias-Clark, Jacqueline Follet."

And then it really was over.

I had accepted it was going to end…just not so quickly.


A/N: Well...it's a story about Miranda Priestly, right? Can a Miranda Priestly exist without Runway? Thanks for all your love and support, and I hope you'll keep reading and reviewing. Work and school always make it tough to write, but you guys make it worth it. About two chapters left, so let's keep going!