"We're here," Andrea informs me, as the driver pulls alongside the hotel.

She hops out and runs around to open my door, holding out her hand to assist me from the car. Her soft hand doesn't release mine straight away, and she squeezes gently, stroking her thumb over my knuckles.

"Miranda," she starts to speak, but I have to cut her off.

"Not here," I quietly implore her, "I can't do this here."

She nods, and I know she understands as she lets go of my hand. I miss her comforting strength immediately. We walk into the hotel, and I wait as she approaches the desk and talks rapidly to the woman there. I have no interest in what she is saying because I trust her. She is writing something on a piece of paper for the receptionist, and then hands it to her with a brief smile. The woman takes the paper and starts typing furiously on the computer, checking something every now and then with Andrea.

Andrea will take care of everything, I know. I allow myself to relax and concentrate on remaining on my feet and not collapsing against the nearest surface.

We take the elevator up to our suite, and she uses her keycard to open the door, standing back to let me pass by. I walk into the suite, but then I am frozen in the middle of the floor. I have no idea what my course of action should be. How can I possibly move on from this life? It was unplanned, and I am at a loss to know what my next steps should be. All I want is to climb under the covers and sleep until I wake up from this horrific nightmare, because surely this can't actually have just happened? Not like this. Not now.

"What do we do now?" Andrea searches my face, but I don't know how to answer her. She asks me, "what do you want to do?" when I don't answer, and I reply with the only thing that I can think of.

"I want to be as far away from people as I can be. I don't want to be anywhere near New York when the news hits Page Six."

It's all the instruction I can give her because honestly, I don't know what I want to do. I don't know how to live a life without Runway, and I can't cope with anything more than attempting to stop myself from falling apart.

Page Six has torn me to shreds every chance they have had. They have ridiculed me and condemned me for my failed marriages as if my husbands weren't equally to blame. I cannot be there to witness what they triumphantly say about me when this scoop lands on their desk. Irving has probably informed the news outlets already, and the idea makes me nauseous.

Something must have shown on my face because suddenly, Andrea takes control. Strangely, because it's her, and I trust her more than anyone; I let her.

"Go to your room, Miranda. Change into something comfortable to travel in, and then pack everything else. Keep one suitcase for everything that you will need for the next week, and then everything else can go in the other suitcase," she instructs me.

I turn to do as she asked, but she stops me by reaching out and placing her hand on my shoulder. I feel myself lean into her touch, the warmth of her hand so comforting, and I want nothing more than to feel her arms around me.

"I arranged with the desk to have our spare suitcases and our garment bags shipped back home. I wasn't sure if you still trusted Emily, so I arranged for them to go to my apartment and my friend Doug will be there to take delivery of them," Andrea tells me, and I am unsurprised at her efficiency.

Her astuteness in guessing I no longer trust Emily, also does not surprise me. We both know that someone close to me must have been helping Irving, for this to be pulled off the way it was.

Was it Emily? I know she has dreams of being Editor-in-Chief one day, but she doesn't have what it takes, so it would be a waste of both my time and hers, to attempt to train her.

I offered her the chance to go to the art department and work under Nigel but she turned it down. Instead, she chose to stay by my side, even though she was demoted to the second assistant role and works under Andrea. I know she continues under the belief that one day she will prove herself to me and be given the opportunity that she so desperately seeks. Maybe she has been resentful all this time and I was unaware?

Or was it Nigel?

He was still bitter about being passed over for the James Holt position two years ago. I thought he knew and trusted, that with time, I would repay him for his unwilling sacrifice. Did he grow tired of waiting? Was this his long-overdue revenge? I don't want to believe it could be him, but at the moment I am unsure what to think and who I can trust.

I have always thought that my staff are loyal to me, and I know how much this irks Irving. Surely he would have been concerned that my employees would not wish to work with Jacqueline? This leads me to believe that he has sneakily been asking around, finding those that would be willing to turn their backs on me and work for the woman he has replaced me with.

Someone, or potentially many someones at Runway, will have known in advance what would happen today. Yet no one came to me to give me the courtesy of a warning, even if I could not change the events that took place. Someone could have prevented me from being blindsided by that cowardly little man, but they didn't.

The only surety I have is that Andrea is not involved.

Andrea takes hold of both my hands, "we're going to leave, Miranda. We're getting on a plane, and then into a car at the other end. I'm going to take you somewhere that will be safe for you. Once we're there, and not before, you can fall apart, ok?" She grips my hands so tightly it's almost painful, but it grounds me as I listen. I nod once, to show my understanding.

She continues, "for now though, hold it together. It's just for a little longer. Now, go and do as I've asked."

She has a plan, I think to myself, as I go to my room to do exactly as I've been told. It was a relief to have her think for both of us. To not have to make any decisions.

She will take care of me.

Despite my intention to pack my toiletries, I find myself staring at my reflection in the mirror. I realise that for the first time since I was a teenager, I am unhappy with the face looking back at me.

It's not that I think I am unattractive, I know that on the surface I look appealing for my age, but I know the woman that hides underneath this mask. The woman who has single-mindedly gone through life, taking what she wants, and what she needs, and not caring who she has to push out of the way to obtain those things.

I have worked hard my whole life to get to where I am, and yet here I am with nothing but two failed marriages under my belt. I no longer even have the job that I sacrificed not just everyone, but everything in my life for.

I have given up time with my children and chosen Runway over them time and time again. I freely admit that, and it was a choice I knowingly and willingly made. Feeling guilty was not enough to stop me from ploughing ahead in my professional life, determined to become the best. Determined to reach the top. My ambition is a scary thing to reflect upon and I wonder if I will look back and realise that none of it has been worth it.

Understanding what I do now about my feelings for Andrea, a woman, I know my marriages to my ex-husbands would never have worked out. A persistent voice in my head suggests that perhaps if I had made more of an effort, they wouldn't have ended so acrimoniously though. I certainly could have tried harder to placate them, but truthfully, I was never willing to bring myself down to a level that would have appeased their fragile egos.

A light tap on the door alerts me to Andrea's presence, and I realise I have been standing in the bathroom for much longer than I realise. Looking, but not seeing; just staring at a reflection in the mirror that I hardly recognise anymore.

I walk back out into the bedroom, and she is buzzing with activity. It is a matter of just minutes, before she is handing me a pile of clothes to change into, and pushing me, albeit gently, into the bathroom.

She has chosen my favourite charcoal grey Bill Blass pantsuit, and an emerald blouse, which is perfect for travelling in. By the time I change and return to the bedroom, she has packed up the entire room and is standing there looking mildly pleased with her progress.

She reverently takes the dress I have just changed out of, from my hands. With the utmost care, she zips it into a garment bag, laying it carefully onto the bed with the others.

"Ready?" she asks, as she looks around the room one last time, checking dutifully to be sure we are not overlooking anything that needs to come with us.

I'm finding it hard to talk, because of the near-constant lump that has been in my throat since the announcement, so I nod again. I can see that she understands my reticence to talk.

"Reception will send someone up to collect the garment bags and the other cases. We don't have a lot of time, so can you manage the suitcase that is coming with us? We'll be delayed if we have to wait for the bellboy."

I pick up the handle on my case, and tilt it onto its wheels, waiting for her to do the same with hers. She turns to me and holds out my favourite Versace sunglasses, and I place them over my eyes before following her out of the room. They are like my armour from the press. The fact that she had enough forethought to make sure they were accessible, almost makes me lose control of the tears that I am desperately trying to contain.

We travel down in the elevator in silence, and once again I am grateful for the quiet calm that she offers in my storm. She doesn't attempt to talk to me or pacify me, and best of all she doesn't offer me false platitudes. She is just quietly and decisively taking control, and I am safe in the knowledge that it is ok to let her.

We exit the elevator and she leaves me with our cases, while she talks to the receptionist at the desk once again, handing both of our key cards over. Andrea thanks her, and she responds with a flirtatious smile. I find myself watching with interest as the woman behind the desk preens under her attention. I can't even find it within myself to feel jealous, because I am leaving with her, and the receptionist will only remember Andrea's smile in her dreams.

We step outside, and I wonder why she is not hailing a cab, but less than a minute later, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up next to us. The driver jumps out and takes our suitcases. He places them in the trunk with a lot less care than I would have liked, but I am so relieved to be leaving this wretched city, that I find myself unable to reprimand him.

I have never known an assistant who is as efficient as Andrea before. She must have arranged our flights whilst I was in the bathroom, because by the time I rejoined her in the bedroom, she was in a hurry for us to leave and get to the airport. Even now, she is busily typing away on her phone, and I wonder what she is doing? I see her smile as an incoming message comes through, and I want to throw her phone out of the window then. Who is sending her messages that make her smile in such a way?

I cannot watch, so I turn to watch the Parisian streets pass me in a blur of coloured lights, and I wonder how I can feel this numb whilst simultaneously experiencing so much pain.

It is physical, this sense of loss. Like it has left a gaping hole in me, the wrong shape for anything else to fill. I loved my mother dearly when she was alive, but even her death didn't make me feel quite so broken. I am grieving for Runway. Grieving for my position and all its familiarity.

I have sacrificed so much to get where I was and it seems so unfair that it has all been taken away from me now. I have given up so much in my life to be who I was, and at the end of it all, it was for nothing.

I have nothing to show for 20 years of my life.

I have nothing. I am nothing.

It seems Andrea can sense my inner turmoil. Apparently, the assistant's handbook no longer applies to her, and it hasn't for a while; she has forgotten that you don't touch Miranda Priestly. With a shy smile, she hesitantly reaches across the car and takes my hand. She takes it and doesn't let go. She holds my hand so securely, stroking the back of my thumb softly with the pad of her own, all the way to Charles de Gaulle airport.