Chapter Text
Prologue
New York City. Autumn.
The first rule of murder for hire: Remain objective. Removed. Under no circumstances do you become attached to your target. Everyone knew that, Andy more than most—yet here she sat.
Miranda was on the phone, promising her daughters she would be home in time for dinner. Andy listened, absentmindedly fidgeting with a tiny vial under her desk, trying to muster up the courage to use it. She sighed, feeling sick to her stomach.
Nearly a year ago, Andy had managed to talk her way into a job as Miranda Priestly’s second assistant. Landing—and keeping—the job was integral to the operation. It was her in. She had walked in the door, all naive smiles and manufactured midwestern charm. When Miranda had tried to dismiss her, Andy briefly allowed the mask to slip and stood her ground. It had been enough.
For the first few months, Andy felt entirely too conspicuous. She didn’t fit in, and no one at Runway had any problem telling her as much. But eventually, she became sick of standing out, sick of the judgemental looks and thinly veiled jabs. So she assimilated, becoming one of the clackers (so named for the click of their stilettos on the marble flooring) she had so despised. It was all part of the plan—her ugly duckling to swan transformation—but once she had begun to fit in, she sometimes even forgot what her real job was. Andy excelled at her duties as a personal assistant, slowly gaining Miranda’s favor. The editor’s approval was both intoxicating and addictive. So, without even realizing it, Andy broke the rules.
The assassination, while intended as a long term operation, was meant to have been completed months ago. Her superiors were becoming impatient and Andy wasn’t sure how much longer her excuses would keep the hounds at bay. Backing out of the job wasn’t an option either, because as soon as she did they would simply send others, until someone succeeded where she had failed. Miranda would be in more danger than she was now, even with a trained assassin in her office. The irony of this fact was not lost on Andy. The only way to keep her safe would be to never let her out of Andy’s sight, and the likelihood of Miranda agreeing to such an arrangement was laughable.
“Andrea!”
Andy scrambled to slip the vial into the pocket of her blazer and rushed to the door of Miranda’s inner office. “Yes, Miranda?”
“Starbucks. We leave for the Rodarte showing in 15 minutes. Be ready. That’s all.”
Andy nodded resolutely and walked back to her desk, quickly grabbing her purse before rushing to the elevator. She whipped out her phone and speed dialed Starbucks to place a call ahead order. When the elevator finally arrived, Andy slammed the button for the ground floor. As soon as the metal doors closed, she rummaged through her purse and pulled out another phone, primitive compared to the one supplied by Runway. A man answered on the first ring.
“What’s up, kid? Is it done?”
“Not exactly,” Andy replied. She heard the man sigh. There was a long pause as Andy crossed the Elias-Clark lobby. “I need to know why.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“I need. To know. Why,” Andy repeated, through gritted teeth. She stepped out onto the pavement, walking briskly in the direction of the nearest Starbucks, allowing the sounds of New York City street traffic to drown out her next sentence. “I need to know why or I won’t do it. And don’t try to tell me you’ll have someone else do it, because you can’t. For one, I’m the only woman in the game that would be able to blend in at Runway. Two, it’s taken me nine months to get even remotely close enough to finish the job, and I’d wager your client isn’t so keen on waiting another year.”
The man began to reply but Andy cut him off. “Wait,” she hissed, followed by, “Thanks so much, Autumn, I appreciate it.”
Andy balanced the phone on her shoulder and picked up the drink holder, heading back out the door. “Okay, go.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re asking? In this line of work, you don’t get to ask questions. You do the job, then move on to the next.”
“Yeah, well. Not this time,” Andy countered. “So are you going to tell me? Or would you prefer to explain to your client that the job is going to be pushed back again to the tune of not weeks, but months?”
The man sighed again, more heavily than the last.
“You have three minutes. I’m almost back, and she’s waiting.” Elias-Clark came into view, and Andy watched Miranda’s town car pull up in front of the building. “Well?” she asked impatiently.
“It’s a higher up. He’s tried everything short of this to oust her, but apparently he’s getting pretty desperate.”
“Uh.” Realization dawned on Andy and she stopped in her tracks. Irv fucking Ravitz . “I gotta go.”
“What?”
“I said, I have to go,” Andy said tersely. “Some of us have jobs to do.” She ended the call without waiting for a reply.