The next few months were increasingly difficult for Andrea, who wished, more than anything, that Miranda would just fire her already. She hated keeping Miranda's secrets, especially the ones that were plainly illegal and dangerous. But, to get anywhere in this town, she knew she needed that recommendation.

Miranda used her as her "mule"—for lack of a better word—twice after the day the police were at the townhouse. The editor never told Andrea why the police were there, but it seemed like it may have had something to do with Stephen because there was something in the news about the FBI investigating his firm.

The first time was the day of the annual board meeting, a Monday from hell for the entire office. Miranda asked Andrea to bring her jacket up to the board room, and inside the pocket was a tiny bag of white powder. Andrea didn't say anything, but the look she gave Miranda when she handed it over conveyed her feelings on the matter.

The second time, Miranda was clearly testing Andrea. She gave her a manilla envelope with "photographs" and asked her to deliver it to "Roger's people" at an address in the Lower East Side. Andrea initially saw it as just another errand and tossed the envelope into her bag. When the driver pulled up to the address, it suddenly hit her that Miranda sent her to her dealer.

"Oooooooo sweet thing," a man called out as she stepped out of the car.

"Please wait for me," she told her driver nervously.

"Hi, I'm looking for Roger?"

"That's me, baby," he said, stepping out of the shadows. He couldn't have been much older than she was. "You looking to score?"

"Um, no, not me. I'm here for my boss. Miranda?" She suddenly wondered whether she should even be using Miranda's real name. "I, uh, she gave me this." Andrea pulled the envelope out of her bag and handed it to him.

"Hey hey, relax," he said, carefully looking around to see whether anyone noticed. "Come inside for a minute."

"Um, I really prefer not to," she said, still holding out the envelope.

"Come inside," he ordered.

Andrea was terrified. She nodded and followed him inside what appeared to be a small bodega. "I'm sorry. I've never done this," she said. She was on the verge of tears and she just wanted this to be over with.

He took the envelope from her, counted the stacks of money inside, then walked over to a table where he pulled several bags of the white powder from an Adidas duffel bag. He held it out to her, and she awkwardly put it inside her bag, which was thankfully large enough to hold it.

"You sure you don't want to try some?" he asked. "Or maybe some weed to calm you down?"

"No. Thank you. Is that it?"

He nodded. "Tell my sexy silver fox she better come herself next time!"

Andrea nodded, then quickly walked out and got back into the car. Once they were a safe distance away, Andrea pulled her phone out and called Miranda. "What the hell? You sent me to your—"

"Shhh! Stop!" Miranda interrupted. "We'll talk when you get back." She ended the call.

Back at the office, Andrea marched straight into Miranda's office and set her purse on Miranda's desk. She already touched those bags once and was not about to put more fingerprints on the bags.

Miranda rolled her eyes and took the purse, then turned around to face the window. She took the bags and relocated them to her own work bag, then spun around and threw Andrea's bag back across the desk.

"Not another word," Miranda hissed.

"But Miranda, this is—" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "illegal!"

"And if you so much as say one word, Andrea, you are implicating yourself. You made this purchase. Get over it and do your job!"

The realization hit Andrea like a ton of bricks. She was stuck. She couldn't quit. She couldn't go to the police. She just had to wait it out. A million girls would kill for this job, right?

Later that week, on Friday afternoon, Andrea walked into Miranda's office to refill her Pellegrino and set the mockups on her desk. She thought Miranda was out, but froze when Miranda stepped out of her private bathroom, sniffling and wiping her nose.

"Are you kidding me?" Andrea whispered.

Miranda looked up and her eyes widened. "What?"

"Here? At work!? You need help, Miranda. I did some research—"

"I don't need help, and I certainly don't need your research," she said. "It's Friday evening and I'm meeting Stephen for dinner shortly. It's not like I do this when my daughters are home or anything." She rolled her eyes.

Andrea hated to hear Miranda justify it in such a way. As though it were nothing. She knew that it wasn't sustainable, and that the women would soon lose control if she didn't get help. At first, she thought she wanted to be long gone before that happened, but then she realized she wanted to be there because she wanted to help her.

Several weeks later, Andrea was riding back from a showing with Miranda. They were stuck in traffic, so the trip was taking longer than expected.

"Andrea," Miranda began softly, "I owe you an apology, for putting you in a, well, a challenging situation. I've asked you to do some uncomfortable things, and I haven't asked this of my other assistants or staff."

"I know," Andrea said, looking down at her hands.

Miranda reaches out and gently touches the younger woman's arm. "I have never had an assistant as competent as you. I often find it hard to believe, and I think I may have put you in some of those situations to test your loyalty. You've no idea how much I appreciate you, Andrea."

"Thank you for saying that," she said.

"Have you thought about where you might want to go after this? You are far too talented to be in this role any longer than necessary."

"I, uh, haven't really looked at specifics. But I want to go back into journalism—news, that is. I mean, the Times would be a dream job, but I think any sort of newsroom could help me build up a portfolio."

"Okay, that's good to know."

"Miranda, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"If I arrange something private and completely confidential, would you go?"

Miranda looked at her for a minute until she realized what she was asking. "No, because I do not need that. I don't understand why you care so much—no one else seems to."

"You're too loved to throw your life away."

Miranda laughed. "No one loves me, Andrea. Except, maybe a few brainwashed employees."

"That's not true." She reached out for Miranda's hand, but the editor pulled away. "For one, your daughters love you. Your husband loves you. Your friends love you. We all care about you."

Miranda felt the tears prickling. "That's not love. It's means to an end. Devotion, maybe, but not love."

Andrea sighed. "If you change your mind, I can arrange something. I'll even go with you if you need."

Miranda shook her head. "You talk as if I have an addiction, for christ's sake. I use it occasionally. On weekends when my daughters aren't around. It's really not a big deal."

"Well, if you ever change your mind…" Andrea's voice trailed off, and they rode the rest of the way back to the office in silence.

Later that evening, when Andrea delivered the Book, Miranda called out to her. Finding the editor in the sitting room off the kitchen, she handed the Book to her and quickly pulled out her notepad.

"I need my best team with me in Paris, Andrea," she said, perusing the first few pages. "And that no longer includes Emily."

"You're not bringing Emily to Paris?"

"No, I'm not."

"Does she know this?"

"Not yet. You will tell her in the morning."

"But, who—" she gasped. "Are you bringing me instead?"

"I knew you were talented. Make sure you tell her, first thing. That's all."