A/N: So, I missed a Monday (almost two, really...). I'm sorry about that; life happened and threw a complete curveball. I'm trying to get back on track. Thank you for your continued support and understanding. Hope you enjoy!

~Naralanis

Andy looked at her full-length mirror once more, the feeling of déjà vu sparking doubt as she assessed herself yet again. A very short while ago she had done exactly this with a completely different goal in mind. Then, she had armoured herself for battle with the Dragon, draped in Prada from head to toe and shielded by the persona of Alexandra Saxton. This time, however, the extent of Alexandra Saxton's presence would be the clothes on her back. Andy was not completely sure of what she was trying to say by wearing her own label; it's not like it was unusual for a designer to wear their own work. It was almost expected, why should she be any different? She was her own person, with her own accomplishments. Yes, that's what she was trying to convey: independence and success. This time, she would not butt heads with Miranda Priestly— hopefully— she would meet the woman as an equal and give her best attempt at civilised conversation.

Claire had declared her crazy when she instructed her to set up a meeting whenever Miranda called again. In the blonde's mind, there was no reason whatsoever for the woman to want meet with Andrea again, considering the humiliation she had been put through at the brunette's hand. It had been a ballsy move; certifiably insane, but ballsy. In her assistant's mind, Miranda should be out for her head on a silver platter, but Claire didn't understand Miranda like Andy did. Or at least she hoped to still understand the unpredictable woman a little bit. She had hoped Miranda would notice she had in fact held back— there was so much more she could have done. There was no doubt in her mind that she could have pushed it much further; exposing Miranda's heavy-handed tactics would put her in hot water with the Elias-Clarke board at least, and at most… Well, at most Andy would have accomplished what Irv Ravitz had tried eight years prior in Paris.

As much as it pained her to admit it, Andy had been tempted. How many people would kill for the opportunity to strip the Ice Queen of her titles and influence? She laughed mirthlessly at the thought. A million people, probably. Just like a million girls would kill to be the woman's assistant. The opportunity to squash Miranda Priestly like a bug under her shoe was almost too good to pass up. Almost. What ultimately stopped her was the simple and undeniable fact that Andy Sachs would never do such a thing to another human being. Alexandra Saxton, maybe, if she were more than smoke and mirrors hiding the smart fat girl from Cincinnati. But the point was, Andy and Alexandra were different. And as much fear and admiration as Alexandra instigated, Andy needed to show Miranda she was not what the woman expected. Right?

It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, not to mention hypocritical. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us. And what do you know? She had denied and refused to believe it like a child refusing to see reason. But she had grown. She had matured and now she was the one with the hordes of paparazzi outside her home, the fame, the money, the life. Wasn't that what Miranda had predicted when she said she saw a great deal of herself in her? She could see beyond what people wanted, what they needed? Wasn't that what she gave them, in a way, with the designs that entranced half the world? If Alexandra Saxton designed it, it was a near guarantee that people would want it. She saw beyond their desires and chose for herself.

Compulsively smoothing over the imaginary wrinkles off her skirt with clammy hands, Andy deliberately avoided looking at bar area to the side of the room. She had not even seen the woman yet, but her throat was already parched with stress and anxiety. She hadn't been this tense when she met her for the first time after all these years at Apsley's, and back then Miranda still had a ton of leverage against her. Now neither of them had anything to pull on the other, yet her nerves were shot to all hell. Andy briefly wondered if Miranda was as tense as she was, but immediately dismissed the thought. It didn't matter that Miranda had gone through the most humiliating moment of her entire career at her hand, the woman would more than likely stroll in as if she owned the world, with her head held high and heels clicking menacingly as she approached.

Exasperated at her dry throat, she padded towards the bar area, filling a tall glass with water from the tap. She scrunched her nose at the taste, but she had made a promise. Plus, it probably would be best to have a clear head once she finally met Miranda. Though she could argue that a little of bourbon would help with her nerves, she really did not want to deal with Claire when she—

"What are you drinking?" An accusing voice called from the door.

Speak of the devil. Andy raised an eyebrow and took a large swig in defiance, looking the blonde straight in the eye before answering as she smacked her lips.

"Water."

A disbelieving look was all the answer she got from her assistant before the other woman deigned it necessary to walk toward her, reprimand at the ready. Before she could help it, Claire took the glass from her hands and took a tentative sip. Andy rolled her eyes, trying not to look too hurt at the utter shock that manifested itself in Claire's face as she confirmed that indeed, it was water.

"So it is." She said, returning the glass to Andy's waiting hand. The brunette scoffed and finished the glass, holding back a grimace.

"Are you ready? Not long now."

Andy deposited the glass in the sink, sighing softly, mostly to herself.

"Pretty much. Just need my shoes."

"No make-up?" Claire inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Just a little. Gotta hide these bags under my eyes, they're the only thing on me that aren't designer."

The blonde rolled her eyes at the old joke, smacking Andy's shoulders playfully.

"They're Alexandra Saxton's, of course they're designer" Claire retorted with a grin.

"Hm, true. Maybe I should look into that." Andy mused.

"What, bags?"

"Yeah. Expand my brand, and all that." The brunette elaborated with a flourish of her hand.

"Isn't that what you're going to do tonight? Expand your brand with Runway?"

Andy eyed her assistant carefully.

"We don't know that. As of now, all I'm doing is meeting with the Editor. We'll talk about it, and if she deems the designs acceptable, maybe I'll be featured."

"What you're doing is meeting with the Editor-in-Chief of Runway Magazine, Miranda Priestly, after humiliating her in cahoots with her mortal enemy. I get it that you could have done worse, but I still think you should head on over to Vogue" Claire said with a pensive look.

"Who knows? Maybe I will. I need to do this, Claire. I can't really explain why, but I have to give her a choice and make her understand that I have my own to make as well."

"I think that your little stunt at the showing showed her plenty of your decision-making abilities, love. I won't pretend to understand it, because it really feels counterproductive to go back to her after what she tried to pull."

Andy laughed humourlessly. Nothing about this was easy to understand.

"I don't really understand it myself, Claire. I have an offer to make, and so does she. No one's pulling the other by a leash here, not this time. No agenda. No blackmail."

Claire looked sceptical, but relented.

"Whatever you say, 'Boss'. How about we get you some shoes, huh? You only have forty-five minutes."

"Sure, sure. Where are my Christian Lous that I got the other day?"

Claire smirked before disappearing into the massive closet.

"I knew you had good taste."

Miranda Priestly was fidgeting while battling her indecisiveness on what to wear, giving herself a face-melting glare through the ornate mirror in her hotel room so as to stop this nonsense. It was quite ridiculous, really. Miranda Priestly did not fidget. Miranda Priestly did not get indecisive about attire, of all things. Most of all, Miranda Priestly did not need to giver herself mental pep talks to get things done. What was the world coming to?

She ruffled a hand through her iconic silver coif, mussing it up completely. She was certifiably insane, that had to be the reason for all of this. It was the only plausible reason, because since when did Miranda lose all of her decision-making capabilities like a girl trying to decide what to wear to prom? Not even at that age had Miranda been that incapable— she was regarded as the Queen of Fashion for a reason.

But this was different. What did one wear when meeting the person that had both humiliated and extended an olive branch simultaneously? Miranda Priestly had never been in this situation. Hell, not even Miriam Princhek had never been in this situation, and that was saying something. As she eyed her multiple options laid on the massive bed, she thought about how every outfit told a story, how the way each person dressed carried a certain point, a certain question, and, yes, as clichéd as it sounded, a statement. She held back sarcastic laughter whenever some idiotic reporter said the phrase 'made a fashion statement' or any variation thereof. Fashion was all about statements, therefore such observations were moot.

Miranda was very careful about what her attire said. In her case, it wasn't terribly hard; her position allowed her to exude sharpness, class, and most of all power, without a great deal of effort. Unless someone caught her in fluffy socks and bunny slippers, which was an impossibility unless that someone was named either Cassidy or Caroline, her image did most of the job. Still, a lot of thought went into her outfits for certain occasions. The right Valentino gown would put her yet another step above the laity. A tailored Bill Blass suit sent a loud and clear 'don't fuck with me'. This was true not just to Miranda, but to others as well. Emily's earlier days at Runway included a lot of experimenting with Westwood and Anna Sui, which showed a daring side along with her flamboyant eyeshadow palette. These days, more comfortable in her own skin, the redhead seemed to favour some Stella McCartney and Donna Karan.

Even Andrea, in her ugly duckling phase, made a statement. Not that the brunette had been aware of it at the time. True, the message at the time was that she took herself too seriously to care about what she put on her back, as Miranda herself had so eloquently put it. She shuddered thinking about that lumpy monstrosity of a sweater the girl had worn. Not to mention the shoes— Miranda would rather not think about those. Then, once Nigel had gotten hold of the girl, the message became unclear, but evolving. Miranda liked to think of Andrea at that time like a blank canvas, a doll that others took a great amount delight in dressing and undressing. Slowly, Andrea had begun forming her own identity, favouring certain cuts and colours, and, once she was finally able to differentiate between them, certain designers in particular. It was a great thing to witness, not that Miranda would ever admit it. At first the girl had played it safe with some Anne Klein, maybe risking some Prada here or there. Truth was, Miranda had gotten the shock of her life when she saw Andrea throwing caution to the wind (in more ways than one) when she appeared at her door in a Gaultier bustier, trying to warn her about Irv's machinations that she already knew all about.

Supressing the thoughts of that Paris Fashion Week, Miranda thought back to another shock Andrea had given her with her choice of attire. This one had clearly been deliberate. Prada from head to toe, in red nonetheless. The message could not have been any clearer: who's the Devil in Prada now, Miranda? She scoffed. Miranda had set out to prove the brunette wrong, to show her exactly who the Devil in town really was, but she had then been completely blindsided. Cringing, Miranda tried not to think about the Alexandra Saxton showing; it was already hard enough not to see Anna Wintour's smug smirk whenever she went to sleep.

Despite the visions of an annoyingly satisfied Anna disturbing her sleep patterns, there was something a little more important at hand. Miranda wanted to meet with Andrea. Despite what Stanley had suggested, Miranda wanted to talk to the girl. Not the icon, the girl. Well, she was hardly a girl any longer, but the point was, Miranda wanted to see Andrea Sachs, not Alexandra Saxton. She had had but a glimpse of the young woman who used to be her assistant, and her morbid curiosity compelled her to at least try and see if there was any of the bubbly girl still hiding behind that ruthless façade she had come to know.

Runway would feature Alexandra Saxton. There was no doubt about that, it was only a matter of when. That's what Andrea wanted, wasn't it? If not, Miranda had doubt she would have suffered a lot more in the brunette's hands. But no, the world; and, most importantly, the Elias-Clarke board, only thought Alexandra Saxton had gone to Vogue first so as not to give any hints of favouritism. But she would be back at Runway. The only difference was that it would be of her own volition. No 'back-stabbing bullshit' as Andrea herself had said. For the first time ever, Miranda would actually give her a choice.

Fixing her hair, Miranda looked at her watch. Not much time left. With an exasperated sigh, she shrugged off her uncharacteristic anxieties, finally choosing a tailored Saxton pantsuit from the array of selections.