"You seem down."

I lowered my glass mid-sip and glanced at Nigel, who was leaning beside me on the grand piano in Holt's fancy new penthouse. It was a pretty well-attended party, so we had taken to using the instrument as a private table. With coasters. We weren't monsters.

"Just tired," I lied, resting my elbow on the glossy black surface, "Been pulling some all-nighters to get an article done.

Murder. Miranda. I was trying so hard not to dwell on it. I needed to be Happy Andy, reunited with Nigel.

He smirked and swirled his beverage. "Any juicy hot gossip?"

I shrugged. "Not that kind of paper."

"Right. Too high-brow."

"Excuse me, Mr. Tom Ford," I scoffed playfully, looking down at his suit.

Nigel dramatically pressed a hand over his heart and crooned, "Six, be still my heart, did you just accurately guess a designer?"

I smirked, raising my glass once more. "I know things."

He continued to nurse his drink, and I glanced around the apartment for the millionth time, trying to spot any newcomers. I was on a mission, as impossible as it was at this point. Music lightly played from some outrageously expensive speaker system, and the air buzzed with multiple conversations. The dim, romantic lighting at night and a room full of strangers just made me feel more lost.

Blonde hair flashed as it was tossed over a shoulder. I honed in on the movement in the corner of the apartment.

The woman from the gala. Red.

Tonight the dress was more simple and muted, navy blue, a little cocktail dress. She was giggling at something someone was saying.

Coincidence? Or villainess?

As she had said, it's a small world. Her boyfriend had a connection with models, right? Maybe he knew Holt.

Maybe. I didn't like it. Or was I paranoid?

I still knew nothing. It really was hopeless, wasn't it?

"So."

I blinked and turned to Nigel. "So?"

He inspected me over his glasses before he asked quietly, "Did you go to see the matriarch herself?"

Well, shit.

I looked down at the remaining liquid in my cup, inhaling slowly. Maybe it would be good to open up to him…

"I did. A few times," I admitted, looking back at him.

He offered a small, knowing smile. "Was it weird?"

"Totally. At least at first," I replied before shaking my head, "I know it sounds crazy, but she's still in there, Nigel. I just know it."

"I believe you. Just makes it more tragic," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his bald head, "I've been moping around for days."

"Me too," I murmured.

The image of Miranda in the hospital bed crept forward. No, not right now. I slammed back the rest of my drink, shoving the memory away. I embraced the warmth from the alcohol as it washed over me.

With an empty laugh, I bumped Nigel's shoulder and questioned, "What did you call us before? The Inner circle?"

"That's us. You, me, Emily," he mumbled with a chuckle, taking another swig.

"Saw her the other day. She yelled at me."

"Surprising." He didn't sound surprised.

"She accused me of sleeping with Miranda," I pouted.

It's official, I was buzzed.

"Did you?" he slurred with a raised eyebrow.

I groaned, "Not you too."

"There was lots of…" his explanation trailed off, and he glared across the room. He pointed two fingers to his winced eyes and then pointed them away.

"Staring?"

"What's the lewd term? Eye fucking?"

I snorted, "You're drunk."

"You're not wrong," he practically sang, tilting his glass back to finish the contents.

The smile stayed on my lips. Maybe, for just an hour or two, I could pretend everything was fine, that I was enjoying catching up with an old friend.

Before I could ask Nigel for an update on his dating life, two hands balancing three glasses of brown liquid appeared between us.

"Hello, hello. Look at these empty drinks, my timing is excellent," Holt declared happily, setting down his collection and passing out drinks to the two of us, "For you, and for you."

He then gathered his own, raising it with a smile. "What shall we toast to?"

I tilted my head at Nigel. He grew very somber, raising his new drink with great purpose as he declared, "To Miranda!"

Holt and I shared a smile and mimicked, "To Miranda."

The crystal clanked. We drank. Heavy and smoky. Probably a whiskey.

Nigel swayed slightly, face flushed, and muttered, "God save the Queen."

Holt laughed, patting him on the back. "Is there anything else you guys need? I wouldn't want to be slacking as a host."

I politely shook my head, and Nigel squeezed his arm as he replied for both of us, "We're good, James, thanks."

"Excellent. Enjoy the drinks, get refills, stay as long as you want," Holt assured both of us with a nod before making his exit.

I drank deeply of the golden brown, trying to ignore the strong stinging. This was definitely my last for tonight. One last drink before turning home to my empty apartment and that damn taunting wall of stupid clues…

Nigel took another gulp and immediately coughed.

"That bad, huh?" I snickered.

"Quite strong," he rasped, clearing his throat, "Fitting though for a toast to our matron."

I paused from taking another sip and frowned. "How so?"

He laughed almost sadly, shaking his head, "Girl could swim in bourbon like she was a fish."

My eyes went wide. He knew.

Did he…?

No, he couldn't have done it. A killer wouldn't just admit it.

But he knew.

When he saw my face, he wrinkled his brow and asked, "What?"

I quickly looked around us to make sure no one was listening before I muttered, "Not a lot of people know that."

"I mean, I know it's Miranda, but it's not like it requires government clearance to handle, right?" he shrugged, bringing the glass to his lips once more.

I too took another sip, hoping to calm my now growing nerves.

"Did she ever drink it in front of you or anybody else?"

He squinted contemplatively, twirling the liquor in his cup, likely too drunk to find my question odd.

"I remember one time when we first started working with James on his new label. Before the Paris drama. There was a lot of money to be made on that deal, so Miranda brought out the good whiskey for a toast."

He touched my forearm, leaning in theatrically as he continued, "I almost dropped the glass when I realized how much the bottle cost. Shocked she even let me have some."

I froze.

Oh, no.

My eyes darted across the room. Holt was talking to the woman from the gala. His hand brushed her lower back.

Suddenly, clear as day, I remembered. Almost a year ago, in an apartment not too unlike this one, Holt standing beside a model in a red dress. Miranda's lips pursed in displeasure.

Red.

Paris.

Fuck.

My stomach lurched. I didn't feel good.

"Bathroom," I blurted to Nigel, abandoning my glass on the piano and walking away.

The room moved with me as if I was just tipsy. But each step told me something more than fear or liquor was crawling through my system now.

I needed to run away.

No. Not anymore.

The world was growing blurry somewhere between an alcoholic buzz and a sleepy dream.

I fumbled through my purse. Wallet. No. Keys. Shit. Candy wrapper. Phone. Yes. And then…Where was...

Moving away from people towards the quiet, I swayed down the hall like a stumbling drunk. My legs weren't fully understanding what I needed them to do. Even my arm felt funny. I shoved one hand in the pocket of my leather jacket, the other desperately gripping the nearest door handle.

I pushed it open. A bedroom. I shuffled inside and closed the door behind me.

My muscles felt too relaxed compared to the adrenaline charging through my whole body. The other hand too went into my jacket pocket to avoid dangling helplessly at my side.

Stay awake, Sachs.

The door opened. A newcomer entered, casually holding a drink in one hand, closing the portal behind them with the other.

James Holt locked the door.

"Enjoying your drink?"

I winced at the floor, trying to keep my vision clear.

Miranda.

I was done running away.

"You could say I feel extravagant, like I'm decked out in pearls," I spat back, turning to face him.

I hoped for surprise or concern. I still desperately hoped I was mistaken.

Instead, Holt smiled, flashing his perfectly straight, white teeth. One hand casually slid into the pocket of his slacks, and his posture relaxed.

"You'll feel that way for maybe five more minutes before you pass out. Can't have you meddling anymore before the good lawyer pulls the plug at the hospital," he outlined cheerfully before taking a sip of his drink.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to stay calm, trying to stand as upright as I could.

"You knew about the bourbon, knew she'd keep it if it was sent to her. She gets so many freebies, even if it had your name, she wouldn't remember," I reasoned before muttering, "Though I doubt you were dumb enough to do that."

He shrugged. "It was expensive, but looks like she took the bait easily enough."

I continued, "Planting the pill bottle wasn't that hard if you could just get to the purse. And every second assistant has the pleasure of her purse hitting their desk everyday. You just had to convince the girl. Or maybe you were in it together from the start; the job was certainly posted often enough after I left."

He chuckled, beginning to slowly pace around the outer rim of the room. "So you met my little blonde bombshell? She thinks it's love. I think I'll dump her after Priestly's dead and she helps me dispose of you."

Holt stayed close to the walls, but prey could tell when it was being circled and hunted. My body was growing so heavy…

Miranda.

We needed more time.

I needed to stay awake. I leaned on the edge of the bed, hands still in my pockets; focusing on standing was proving too hard.

"You know, out of all the people I thought it could have been, I didn't think it would be you. I mean, it's not her fault your designs kinda sucked," I finished with a laugh.

He stopped. The smile fell. Mine grew.

"Excuse me?"

I snorted. "Come on. Your concept was 'East Meets West?' Sounds like cultural appropriation at its finest. The red dress you made for Miranda with the massive bow spilling out of her abdomen just looked like a really messed up Alien movie."

"No, she ruined my career when she put that French neanderthal in charge of my line. She knew it would destroy me," he snapped back, spit flying from his mouth.

"You ruined yourself. You were a one-hit wonder, and your work went all downhill. Blaming Miranda for doing her job won't change that."

"She tossed aside my career and left my life in shambles," he hissed, "The money dried up after the branding deal collapsed."

"Probably shouldn't have bought this second penthouse. Must be expensive still lying to all those people outside. Afraid no one would stick around if they really knew who and what you were?" I asked sarcastically, watching the glass in his hand shake.

Holt inhaled deeply before brushing a hand through his hair. He turned and set the drink on a nearby dresser.

"If she died, if she was out of my way, not only would I have my revenge, which would be more than enough, but I could easily get back in the game. Nigel would replace her. And he has a guilty conscience that's way too exploitable for his own good," he replied sternly with a cold calm, "That stubborn bitch just couldn't die. I put enough Pearl in that bottle to kill a horse."

His eyes narrowed on me.

I swayed. My body was fading.

"I didn't account for that nasty woman actually having anyone loyal enough. The police were easy enough to fool; everyone had a motive to kill Miranda Priestly, there were too many leads. And it was so easy to rule as a suicide," Holt muttered before taking a step towards me, "Oh well, you're a loose end I can tie off easily enough once my little party is over."

I squinted against my blurry vision.

"There's one thing you forgot," I choked out.

He paused, half-heartedly raising a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm the Miranda-girl, asshole."

Mustering the last of my strength, my hand flung forward from my jacket pocket brandishing the mace taken from my purse. The second the misty beam of pepper spray made contact with his eyes, Holt screamed and crumpled to the floor, hands clawing at his face.

I fell to my knees. It was done. Energy drained, I could feel the seconds I had left.

Banging sounded at the door amidst Holt's cries. I crawled with my arms, my legs dangling uselessly behind me.

When I managed to turn the lock, I collapsed onto my back as the door was flung open.

Nigel appeared, looking around wildly and exclaiming. "What the hell?"

"Nigel," I murmured, grabbing at his pants leg. He immediately knelt down beside me.

Holt still screeched behind us.

I barely managed to squeak, "Holt bad. Call police."

And then I promptly passed out.