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New York pulsed outside the Runway offices like a metronome—measured, chic, relentless. Inside, Miranda’s domain remained cool and impeccable. The glass walls reflected her every movement as she walked past assistants, stylists, and editors who barely breathed in her wake. The quiet hum of productivity was only broken by the click of her Louboutins on marble and the occasional sharp directive.
She was reviewing the Marc Jacobs proofs when Nigel popped his head in.
“Do I dare enter?” he asked, already halfway through the door, a bouquet of seasonal florals in one hand and a Starbucks tray in the other. “I bring a peace offering and caffeine.”
Miranda didn’t look up immediately. “You’re early for our usual passive-aggressive banter.”
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Nigel said, placing the bouquet in the vase near the window and handing her the espresso. “But I’ve had a week full of influencer tantrums, and I need to recharge in the sanctuary of actual standards.”
Miranda finally looked at him. A corner of her mouth tugged upward. “And here I thought you came to admire the latest Marc Jacobs proofs.”
“Oh, I’m here for those too,” Nigel said, pulling out a mock-up from his satchel. “But mostly to gossip. And judge, ruthlessly.”
Miranda arched a brow. “Then you should be having lunch with Emily.”
Meanwhile, across town at a café near The New York Times office, Andy was perched at a corner booth at her favorite tucked-away brasserie, a well-worn leather notebook open beside her. Her phone buzzed once—Emily.
A moment later, Emily Charlton slid into the seat opposite her, looking painfully put-together in an ivory coat and sunglasses she didn’t remove even indoors.
"I see you're still calling this a working lunch," Emily said, her eyes narrowing at Andy’s half-finished croissant as though it had personally offended her. "And yet, you've achieved precisely nothing except the obliteration of a second croissant and a borderline problematic dependency on espresso."
Andy glanced up, completely unfazed. "Some of us call that editorial vision."
"Some of us," Emily replied crisply, daintily adjusting the cuffs of her navy Max Mara blazer—the one that could easily double as armor—"call that what it is, stalling ." The Brit’s gaze sharpened. "Now, unless you're about to offer up a scandal or a revelation, I will go back to the office and channel my frustration into the interns."
Andy's smirk deepened. "And deny yourself the best bit of news since the MET Benefit seating chart leak?"
Emily didn't blink. "Go on, then. Impress me."
Andy leaned forward conspiratorially. "The twins are dating."
Emily blinked once, then leaned forward too, her interest clearly piqued. "Both of them? Simultaneously?"
Andy nodded, grinning. "Not the same person, of course. Caroline is seeing someone named Josh Roberts. Sweet, handsome, politically literate. Possibly raised by wolves, if those wolves were overly polite and extremely punctual."
Emily tilted her head, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Josh Roberts. That sounds suspiciously generic.”
“He’s British,” Andy offered, casually. “On his father’s side. Grew up splitting holidays between London and… wherever the world took them. Calls Miranda ‘ma’am’ with actual conviction.”
Emily’s brows rose, impressed despite herself. “Oh, he’s a brave little idiot.”
“He’s like if Paddington Bear went to a liberal arts college.”
Emily paused, processing. Then, unexpectedly, a soft laugh escaped her. “Huh. I… might not hate that.”
“Cassidy’s girlfriend is Nicolette—Nico. Photographer. Dry humor, subtle intensity, sharp cheekbones. I think she might be cool enough to frighten the Runway archives into reorganizing themselves.”
Emily’s lips curved slightly. “That already sounds promising.”
“I’ve met them both,” Andy said. “Twice now. At the first dinner, Josh brought herbs in a basket. Nico brought flowers for both Miranda and me, then accidentally impressed Miranda with a monologue on color theory.”
Emily tilted her chin, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "So, Miranda is..."
"Deep into her covert assessment of both the partners and the twins, should they be conspiring anything," Andy responded, taking a slow sip of her latte.
Emily's smile spread, predatory and pleased. "Meaning she's already built a dozen spreadsheets, has background checks lined up, and probably a detailed mood board for each unsuspecting suitor."
"Precisely," Andy sighed. "She's also inquired no less than three times whether 'Roberts ' is truly Josh's legal surname."
Emily leaned back, clearly entertained. "So, one's part British, which I find inexplicably tolerable, and the other's an emotionally literate lesbian with high-concept eyebrows."
"Oh, and she's half-Filipino," Andy added casually. "The twins are dating into culture now, apparently."
Emily let out a soft laugh. "Well. That's unexpectedly admirable. They've done alright."
Andy raised her coffee cup in a mock salute. "So far. Thanksgiving's up next. You're still coming?"
Emily lowered her sunglasses, fixing Andy with a sharp look. "Obviously. They have no idea what they've signed up for."
Andy smirked. "They'll learn. Or die stylishly trying."
Emily grinned. "As one does, in Miranda Priestly's orbit."
Back at Runway, Nigel leaned against Miranda’s desk, arms folded. "So... your girls. Word is they’re no longer little terrors, but now full-grown terrors with romantic entanglements?"
Miranda closed a folder and looked at him, completely unfazed. "They are young women now. And they believe I don’t know everything."
Nigel snorted. "Fools. Beautiful, deluded fools."
Miranda allowed herself a quiet sigh. "They are entitled to their privacy. For now."
"And what do you think of these... suitors?"
Miranda reached for her coffee, her tone clipped and deceptively light. "Let’s just say the boy is earnest and the girl is persistent. It will be interesting to see how long they last under scrutiny."
Nigel chuckled. "Well, now I simply must meet them."
Miranda gave a faint smile. "Oh, you will. Soon enough."
That Sunday, the family gathered for brunch at La Mercerie in SoHo, since the twins were in town. Their table for four was set near the windows, bathed in soft, inviting light.
The Priestly-Sachs—or Sachs-Priestly, depending on which day you asked—arrived in staggered elegance.
Miranda, first as always, was already seated, looking through the menu. A soft cashmere shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses were perched on the bridge of her nose like a form of elegant armor.
Andy swept in next, phone in one hand, her blazer perfectly rumpled in that "I swear I didn't try" way that only she could manage. "Sorry," she murmured, leaning to kiss Miranda's cheek. "The Times ran late on approving the op-ed sequence for next week."
"I do wonder when they'll simply let you run the entire operation," Miranda said, lifting her coffee again.
Andy smirked. “Oh, I’m just waiting for the memo.”
Moments later, the unmistakable energy of the twins preceded them. Caroline entered in camel trousers and a navy cropped jacket, her hair pulled into a sleek bun. Cassidy followed, clad in a lived-in leather jacket, beat-up boots, and rings on nearly every finger. They were the image of complementary opposites—Caroline with her grounded elegance, Cassidy with a creative storm tucked into jeans.
"Sorry," Cassidy said breathlessly, sliding into the booth beside Miranda. "Someone—" she jabbed a thumb at Caroline "—stole my keys and then had the nerve to lecture me about time management."
"You left your keys in the freezer," Caroline replied evenly, taking her seat next to Andy. "Again."
Andy burst into laughter. "God, I've missed this."
“Only you two can make brunch sound like a sitcom,” Miranda murmured, her lips curling despite herself.
Food and coffee arrived, basket of pastries, soft scrambled eggs with crème fraîche, smoked salmon, brioche toast. Conversation buzzed for a few moments about school deadlines, Cassidy’s next weekend concert, and Caroline’s pre-law moot court win.
Then Andy leaned forward, eyes warm but unmistakably curious. “So... your father’s brunch with the partners.”
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “A fever dream.”
Caroline sipped her iced coffee. “Josh brought a bottle of wine to a vegan brunch spot.”
“He said it was symbolic,” Cassidy added, deadpan. “And then apologized for being a Scorpio. Which Dad didn’t understand.”
Miranda arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I do either.”
“Nico, however, was chaos with charm,” Caroline offered. “Asked Dad what Filipino films he’d seen, then corrected him on three of them.”
“I had to literally kick her under the table,” Cassidy said.
Andy chuckled. “And how did he take it?”
“Surprisingly well,” Cassidy admitted. “Said she had ‘spirit.’ Which from him, is a huge compliment.”
“And do you plan to subject us to these two again anytime soon?” Miranda asked, voice like silk and steel.
Cassidy blinked. “Subject you?”
Caroline laughed, leaning into the rhythm. “I think what she means is: When are you bringing your significant others back for inspection—sorry, dinner?”
“Do you miss Josh already?” Caroline teased, giving Andy a playful nudge.
Andy feigned innocence. “I just like having someone around who says ‘ma’am’ without irony.”
“And Nico,” Miranda said smoothly, “has excellent taste in art. I wouldn’t mind hearing more about her gallery pursuits.”
“Are they joining us soon?” Andy asked mid-bite, glancing between the twins with that practiced tone that was half curiosity, half maternal radar.
Cassidy and Caroline exchanged a glance—quick, subtle, the kind only twins could decode.
“We were thinking Thanksgiving,” Cassidy said slowly, like someone checking the temperature of a pool with one toe.
“They don’t have family in the city,” Caroline added, picking up the thread with smooth ease. “And they’ve… sort of become part of ours.”
Miranda’s expression remained perfectly neutral on the surface. But her hand reached across, almost absentmindedly, to straighten Cassidy’s napkin, her fingers swift and deliberate. It was an oddly tender gesture, almost a tell.
“Then we’ll make room,” she said simply. Her gaze moved between her daughters, pausing just long enough to register. “Nigel and Emily will also be joining us.”
Caroline blinked. “Wait—Nigel and Emily?”
“You say that like it’s not a brilliant social experiment,” Andy murmured, eyes twinkling as she flagged down the server. “Don’t bother with the bill, please. Your mom will be paying.”
Cassidy groaned. “You could at least pretend to fight her on it.”
“I could,” Andy replied, already handing over the card, “but she gets this look when I do. Like I’ve insulted her handbag.”
Miranda didn’t look up from adjusting the fold of her napkin. “That’s because you have.”
As they finished their coffees, Caroline reached for her phone and turned it toward Andy and Miranda. “Josh sent this photo, he got Nico and Dad to high-five.”
“Oh god, I remember that,” Cassidy muttered.
Andy nearly spit out her espresso. “No way. Show me.”
Miranda leaned in, inspecting the photo like a critic analyzing a rare painting. “Well,” she said at last, “that’s… disturbing.”
They all burst into laughter.
The townhouse, true to form, was dressed in curated elegance. The formal dining room table stretched beneath a canopy of ambient light, adorned in a palette of copper, ivory, and deep garnet. No fake pumpkins, no cartoon turkeys for the reason that Miranda Priestly did not abide kitsch. Instead, there were artfully twisted branches, seasonal blooms in moody hues, vintage crystal glassware, and place cards inscribed in the kind of calligraphy that could make a monk weep.
The food was a harmonious collision of haute cuisine and heartfelt comfort. Andy had insisted on mashed potatoes “just like her grandma made,” while Miranda had personally overseen the dry-brined turkey infused with orange zest, rosemary, and quiet, terrifying precision.
The twins had yet to arrive with their partners, insisting on a grand synchronized entrance.
Andy stood in the doorway, arms folded, a glint in her eye as the front door finally swung open. “You’re five minutes late.”
Cassidy barely paused before rolling her eyes. “Blame the Uber. And the weather. And capitalism.”
“Why didn’t you bring your car, then?”
Cassidy gave a long-suffering sigh. “Weather and capitalism, Andy. You heard me the first time.”
“Fair enough,” Andy said, already pulling her into a hug with mock exasperation before turning her gaze to Caroline. “And you—don’t think that bringing your very polite boyfriend buys you immunity.”
Caroline smirked, stepping aside so Josh could follow in behind her, already shrugging out of his coat. “I figured he’d distract you just long enough.”
Josh, unbothered and slightly breathless from the cold, was already holding out the gift. “For the kitchen. Fresh rosemary, thyme, and mint.”
Andy blinked. “Are you giving me herbs again?”
Caroline groaned. “He thinks it’s a brand now.”
“I like it,” Andy said, accepting it with a smile that was only a little teasing. “And I know your mother will too.”
Behind them, Miranda’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Did I hear something about punctuality?”
Both twins flinched slightly. Nico, who was the last one to reach the door, laughed under her breath and leaned into the group of young adults by the door. “She’s always been able to do that from a full floor away?”
“She has a sixth sense,” Cassidy whispered. “For tardiness. And split ends.”
Miranda descended with her usual, glacial elegance, a cream cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders like regalia, each step measured, silent, commanding. “Welcome,” she said, pressing a kiss to each daughter’s cheek before giving Josh and Nico a single, assessing nod. A gesture that somehow managed to convey both warmth and latent scrutiny. “Your rooms are ready.”
Andy, already gathering coats and steering them toward the foyer, added cheerfully, “Guest rooms, plural. As in separate. Because—”
“Let’s be clear,” Miranda interjected smoothly, not missing a beat, “this household does not entertain fold-out sofas. Or inflatable mattresses. Or any piece of furniture that involves a pump.”
Josh’s eyes widened. Nico pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh.
“But,” Andy continued, now headed toward the kitchen with the bunch of herbs Josh had brought, “if any of you were planning on sneaking into each other’s rooms tonight, just know that this place is wired tighter than Fort Knox.”
Cassidy groaned dramatically. “You’re bluffing.”
Miranda took a languid sip from her wine glass. “She is not. The townhouse was rewired while you were away.”
“Is it still entrapment if we tell them beforehand?” Andy asked aloud, feigning innocence as she unpacked the herbs.
“Legally? Yes,” Caroline muttered, passing Josh their overnight bag. “But morally? I think it’s just solid parenting.”
Nico turned to Cassidy, deadpan. “Do I even have a room? Or am I bunking next to the wine fridge?”
Miranda’s gaze flicked over. “Your room is just off the library, dear. Egyptian cotton sheets, monogrammed towels, en-suite bath. No excuses.”
Cassidy raised an eyebrow and stage-whispered to Nico, “You got a better setup than I did when I was a teenager.”
“I’ll take it,” Nico murmured back, eyes wide.
Andy returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses, tossing a look at the teens. “The last pair of guests who tried sneaking around here ended up setting off the perimeter sensors and got cornered by a very judgmental Roomba vacuum.”
“Don’t joke,” Miranda said mildly, “we’ve upgraded.” Miranda turned back toward the living room, calling over her shoulder, “Dinner in thirty. Change if you must. You know who you are.”
Caroline shouted back, “Cassidy!”
“Rude!”
The last of the coats had just been whisked away, the smell of roasted garlic and rosemary beginning to unfurl through the townhouse, when the doorbell rang, once, then twice, with efficient sharpness.
Cassidy groaned from the hallway. "Oh God. They’re early."
"They’re fifteen minutes late," Andy corrected, already heading for the door with a grin. "Which means they’re perfectly on time."
Miranda, already inspecting the seating plan one last time, didn’t look up. "Emily will have notes."
Andy opened the front door to the full blast of a Manhattan November gust and the sight of Emily Charlton in a tan, belted wool coat with sharp lapels and even sharper cheekbones, her hair pinned in a twist that could have punctured egos on contact.
Behind her, Nigel stood in a classic slate coat with a tartan scarf knotted with deliberate nonchalance, holding a gift bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, grinning like he was born for holiday theater.
"Happy Thanksgiving, darlings," Nigel declared, sweeping inside as if he owned the Upper East Side and just hadn’t had time to pick up the deed.
Emily’s eyes scanned the room, instantly clocking the exact temperature, the lighting, and the vibe. "Please tell me there are no DIY centerpieces."
"Of course not," Miranda said, gliding into view like a storm cloud in pearls. "Do you think I would permit pinecones within ten feet of the dining table?"
"Excellent." Emily unwrapped her scarf like a cobra shedding its skin. "I had to sit through a brunch last year with papier-mâché gourds. I still have nightmares."
"Come in," Andy said, ushering them further inside. "We’ve got a charcuterie board that’s been called suspiciously well-balanced, and wine that Miranda didn’t hand-pick, so you’ll both have something to critique."
"Charcuterie is not dinner," Emily warned. "Unless there’s actual protein and starches on that table, I reserve the right to raid your fridge at midnight."
"Duly noted," Andy replied with mock solemnity. "Nico brought dessert, I believe it’s called ensaymada . Josh brought thyme in a vintage spice tin."
Nigel perked up. "Oh, we’re at that stage already? Performing domestic wholesomeness? Delicious."
Caroline poked her head out from the living room. "Hey, Em. Hey, Uncle Nigel."
"Don’t ‘Uncle Nigel’ me," Nigel said with mock sternness. "Not when you’ve been holding out on us."
Cassidy joined her sister, arms crossed. "You’re talking about Josh and Nico?"
"Of course we are," Emily said brightly. "That's why we came."
"To give thanks?" Cassidy deadpanned.
"To assess," Emily corrected. "With flair."
Miranda took Nigel’s wine and handed it off to Andy. "The twins’ partners are upstairs."
Nigel raised an eyebrow. "Are we not interrogating them yet?"
"We’re saving it for pre-dinner drinks," Andy replied. "Just enough time for them to get comfortable."
"And let their guards down," Emily added. "Perfect."
Cassidy shook her head. "This feels like bullying."
"It’s character development," Nigel replied.
Caroline arched a brow. "For who?"
"All of us," Nigel said gravely. "This is Thanksgiving in Miranda Priestly’s home. Everyone leaves with emotional growth and at least one accidental trauma."
Josh appeared at the top of the stairs then, button-down half-tucked, clearly having lost a minor war with the hairdryer. "Do I smell something burning?"
"You smell judgment," Andy called up. "We just turned on the welcome committee."
Josh blinked at Emily and Nigel now standing in the foyer like a fashion police checkpoint. "Oh. Hello."
Emily eyed him from head to toe. "You're the polite one."
"Usually," Josh said cautiously. "But I get cheeky when I'm scared."
Nigel clapped his hands together. "Perfect. We love fear. Now go fix your collar, darling. You look like you lost a fight with a teacup poodle."
"I did," Josh muttered, disappearing back upstairs. "Its name is Nico."
Nicolette followed moments later, effortlessly cool in a silk blouse, her hair pulled into a sleek bun, her expression soft.
Emily turned to Andy, a gleam in her eye. "Ah. The one with natural high-concept eyebrows."
Nigel leaned in. "And cheekbones sharp enough to slice into couture."
Nico glanced between them, then pointed directly at Emily. "You're the one who once made Cassidy cry during a summer internship."
Emily didn't flinch. "Character development."
"That's becoming a theme," Cassidy muttered under her breath.
Miranda, surveying the entire gathering now like a queen at court, finally gave a nod of satisfaction. "Drinks in the lounge. We'll dine in a few minutes. Emily, Nigel—behave."
"Always," Nigel said, linking arms with Andy with a flourish.
"Never," Emily added, already eyeing the wine selection with a predator's smile.
The lounge glowed with glamour and that soft, golden light Miranda always said was flattering to skin and ruthlessly honest to poor tailoring. Jazz meandered through the speakers, the scent of rosemary and citrus drifted from the kitchen, and the mood was balanced somewhere between "family holiday" and "Runway editorial shoot."
Nico stood by the kitchen island, sipping from a wine glass with practiced ease, her camera strap looped lazily over one shoulder. Her hair was swept into a clean bun, loose strands framing her cheekbones (cheekbones that should be illegal, Nigel voiced earlier), and she wore a deep emerald silk blouse that Cassidy had clearly talked her into. The hoops were understated. The presence was not.
Andy, already barefoot and halfway through her second glass of wine, smiled as she handed Nico a stack of plates.
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“No problem, Tita Miranda said to keep the gold-rimmed ones separate from the matte finish.”
Silence. Actual, echoing silence.
Miranda paused mid-pour. Andy blinked mid-sip. Cassidy went full statue, her hands frozen around a dish of glazed carrots.
From the foyer, Caroline coughed.
Nigel, in the process of looking through the vinyl records, slowly looked up like a meerkat sensing danger. Emily grinned instantly, eyes lighting up with something between mirth and bloodlust.
Andy, bless her, managed a gentle: “Wait… what did you just say?”
Nico’s expression crumpled in real time. “Oh. Shit.”
Cassidy groaned. “Nico.”
“I didn’t mean— That just slipped out. It’s automatic. I say it to my mom’s friends all the time. I wasn’t— I mean—” She turned, wide-eyed, to Miranda. “It’s not an age thing, I swear. It’s cultural. I mean, I am Filipina and—”
Miranda’s brow arched slowly. Not scolding, just elegantly amused.
“Tita,” she repeated, with faint reverence and precision, like a foreign phrase she might tolerate if paired with a proper wine. “As in auntie.”
Nico nodded quickly. “Yes. But like—respectfully and affectionately! You’re obviously not old, and if it helps, I also call the scary dentist neighbor Tita Clara and she’s only forty-two.”
“You think I’m scary?” Miranda asked, somehow still neutral.
Josh blundered in from the hallway, fresh from texting his parents good wishes and hunting for more wine.
“Did I hear Tita?” he asked too brightly.
Cassidy looked to the ceiling. “Oh God, no.”
Josh, suddenly realizing something was very wrong, rushed in. “No, wait! I do it too, just like Cassidy! I call Nico’s mom Tita Jane every time we say hi to her on FaceTime! It’s normal at this point.”
Emily, barely containing her glee, turned to Nigel. “This is everything. Absolutely everything.”
Andy snorted and nearly dropped the gravy ladle.
Nico, now beet red, tried again. “I can stop if it’s weird. I just— I say Tita to all the aunties I actually like.”
Miranda’s mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “Then I expect to hear it consistently. If I am to be your Tita, I will not accept anything less than full title usage.”
Nico blinked. “Even in… emails?”
“Especially in emails,” Miranda replied, turning toward the dining room.
Josh followed her with wide eyes. “Wait, do we have to start putting that in subject lines?”
“Rolls right off the tongue,” Cassidy muttered.
Andy grinned, circling back to top off Nico’s wine. “Well. That went better than the time Emily made an intern cry during Rosh Hashanah.”
Emily sipped her cocktail smugly. “That intern was being deeply incorrect about which fork was for salad.”
Nigel clapped Josh on the back. “Welcome to the club, lad. Once you go Tita, you don’t go back.”
Emily was still beaming. “So let me get this straight. The emotionally-literate photographer just unwittingly aged you into another generation while offering to help with table settings. This is better than the MET Benefit seating leak.”
Andy turned to Nico, mock solemn. “Congratulations. You’ve been adopted. No take-backs.”
Nico exhaled deeply. “My mother is going to die when she hears this.”
“She’ll be proud,” Miranda said, her tone deceptively light. “You’ve brought honor. And informal titles.”
Dinner had been served with the kind of seamless efficiency that could only come from a Miranda-approved kitchen. Candles flickered in antique holders. The food was, predictably, flawless. Dry-brined turkey carved to perfection, Andy’s mashed potatoes elevated with browned butter, and a roasted carrot dish Emily had grudgingly approved of with a terse, “It’s edible.”
The partners, Nico and Josh, had been seated across from each other, a strategic choice made by Cassidy and Caroline, presumably to split the potential blast zone. Between Miranda, Nigel, Emily, and Andy, the table was evenly weighted with formidable personalities on all sides.
“So,” Emily said sweetly, spearing a piece of turkey with surgical precision, “Nicolette.”
Cassidy flinched.
“Yes?” Nico replied, with the unflinching poise of someone who had survived Catholic school, multiple Manila typhoons, and three art residencies in Boston.
“You’re a photographer,” Emily continued, swirling her wine. “What sort of photography? And please don’t say weddings, or I’ll faint into the cranberry sauce.”
“Editorial and portraiture,” Nico said smoothly. “I do series work, black and white mostly, some analog. My last show was a commentary on diaspora identity and climate collapse.”
Nigel looked genuinely impressed. “And what medium?”
“Film and installation,” she said. “I used salvaged materials from my lola’s home in Ilocos that was flooded after a storm surge.”
Even Miranda tilted her head slightly. “So your work has teeth.”
Nico gave a quiet smile. “Sometimes fangs.”
Cassidy tried not to beam.
"And you, Josh," Nigel said, turning his gaze with a little glint of mischief. "You’re the one studying… sustainable… something?"
"Sustainable Design and Management," Josh clarified, neatly cutting his sweet potato into quarters. "It’s a dual program focused on systems thinking, eco-conscious architecture, and adaptive policy."
"And does that make you employable?" Emily asked with a glint in her eye.
"Hopefully! I also help out in our family firm, so surely that helps the credentials, right?" he replied cheerfully. "Otherwise, I'll just start a mushroom farm and cry into compost."
Caroline nearly choked on her drink.
"Do you cook?" Miranda asked suddenly, her eyes fixed on Josh.
Josh blinked. "Yes?"
"Good. Caroline doesn’t."
"Hey—" Caroline began, looking indignant.
“She doesn’t. But she does have great taste,” Miranda stated again, without so much as glancing at her daughter.
Josh, to his credit, recovered quickly. "Well, I've been told my chicken alfredo is passable. But my carbonara's better."
"That's why your favorite food is pasta, babe," Caroline said with a grin and faint heart eyes. "But maybe also try something else; it's too filling."
Cassidy let out a laugh. "He's committed, I'll give him that."
"Excellent," Miranda murmured. "I like commitment."
There was a pause.
Andy broke it, leaning over to refill Nico’s glass. “You’re both doing very well, by the way.”
“Is that… sincere?” Josh asked carefully.
“Shockingly, yes,” Andy said with a wink. “Although dinner’s only halfway through.”
Nigel rested his chin on one hand, smiling. “If you survive dessert, you get your official honorary Priestly Partner Pin. It’s custom-made. Chrome. Razor-edged.”
“And monogrammed,” Emily added, dry as champagne.
Josh looked at Nico. “Do we get matching pins?”
“No,” Miranda said without hesitation. “They’re tailored to each partner’s sins.”
“How did yours look, Tita Andy?” Nico asked with a small smile.
Andy tilted her head, pretending to ponder. “Mine? Oh, mine came in a velvet box. Shaped like a dagger. With tiny pearls down the hilt.”
“Because she made the mistake of quitting twice,” Nigel added, swirling his wine.
“I was young and dramatic,” Andy replied airily.
“You’re still dramatic,” Emily cut in. “Just better dressed.”
Miranda dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Her pin was awarded under special circumstances. Few people could survive both Paris and my disappointment.”
Josh leaned toward Nico and whispered, “Should we be worried that there's a weaponized jewelry tradition in this family?”
Nico didn’t skip a beat. “Honestly, I’m offended we haven’t been sized yet.”
Andy gave them both a mock-serious nod. “That’s stage two. After Thanksgiving, you’ll be fitted for emotional armor and coached on maintaining eye contact during a Miranda monologue.”
“I've been practicing with the mirror,” Josh said gravely. “Sometimes I cry a little.”
“I cry a lot,” Nico added helpfully.
Miranda raised an elegant brow. “You should. Cassidy and Caroline are very dear to me. And as such, my expectations are… considerable.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s Miranda-speak for welcome to the family, ” Nigel murmured to Emily.
Emily sipped her wine. “More like try not to embarrass the lineage. ”
Josh placed a hand over his heart. “We shall try, Tita Miranda.”
There was a beat of silence. Cassidy froze. Andy looked up from her plate. Caroline’s fork hovered mid-air.
Josh blinked innocently. “Well, Nico calls you that. I assumed it was—”
“Contagious?” Emily supplied, amused, clearly on the verge of laughter.
“...Diplomatic,” Josh finished, valiantly.
Nico nodded, valiantly not laughing. “It’s cultural and respectful.”
“And endearing,” Andy added, patting Miranda’s hand.
Miranda sighed, long-suffering but not unamused. “Very well. But if I hear it shortened to Tita M, I’ll have you both redesigning the Runway archive… by hand.”
Josh grinned. “As long as we get matching aprons.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nigel said with a devilish grin. “They’ll be monogrammed too.”
Emily leaned forward, smirking. “And tailored to your sins.”
Nico raised her glass. “Cheers to sinning stylishly, then.”
“To surviving Miranda Priestly’s dinner table,” Andy added, lifting hers.
Miranda clinked her glass softly with theirs. “So far.”
The table erupted in warm laughter, the air cozy with candlelight, sarcasm, and affection, as close to a welcome as any Priestly gathering ever got.
The den was glowing, not just from the fire flickering in the hearth, but from the collective exhale of a dinner survived. Shoes were off, cashmere throws casually stolen, and the dessert wine had made a full round (twice). Miranda was curled up with Andy on one end of the sofa. The twins and their partners occupied the floor and nearby chairs, a loose sprawl of limbs, mismatched socks, and fading adrenaline.
Nigel, ever the conductor of chaos, clinked his glass with a fork. “Well, my darlings, I think it’s time.”
“For what?” Cassidy asked warily, already suspicious.
Nigel grinned. “The ancient rite of the Thanksgiving circle. We go around, say what we’re thankful for, pretend we’re not hiding deep emotional repression behind sarcasm.”
“I’m out,” Emily said instantly, not looking up from her phone.
“Oh, hush,” Nigel said. “You’re already here and moisturized. Participate.”
Miranda arched a brow. “Do we have to?”
“Yes,” Andy said, eyes twinkling. “It’s tradition now. And I’d like to hear what you’re thankful for, Tita Miranda.”
Miranda exhaled slowly through her nose. “You’re all insufferable.”
“That’s not a no,” Nico whispered to Cassidy.
Nigel beamed. “I’ll start.”
He stood, wine in hand. “I’m thankful for vintage Tom Ford, cleverly escaping three midlife crises, and whatever demon pact keeps Miranda’s skin looking like that.”
“You’re two glasses away from being banished,” Miranda said, without looking at him.
“Worth it,” Nigel replied, sitting down with a satisfied sigh.
Emily spoke next, archly deadpan. “I’m thankful that this year’s interns know how to make decent coffee, that Miranda has only called me after midnight twice, and that I no longer work somewhere with beige carpeting.”
“Spoken like someone with trauma,” Andy quipped.
“I lived through polyester,” Emily said grimly.
Cassidy sat up a little. “Alright, fine. I’m thankful for Nico’s sense of calm, Caroline’s ability to cover for me, and the fact that I didn’t spill anything on the new silk table runner.”
“Yet,” Nico said, raising an eyebrow.
“Shh.”
Caroline smiled, fingers looped in Josh’s. “I’m thankful for my sister, who never lets things get too serious, for Josh who does… and for Andy, who always sneaks me the good wine.”
Andy grinned. “It’s only illegal if you get caught.”
Miranda gave her a look.
Josh cleared his throat. “I’m thankful for Caroline’s laugh, sustainable urban planning, and that no one at this table made me explain cricket.”
“You almost did,” Caroline said.
“And I saw your soul leave your body when mom raised her eyebrow,” Cassidy added.
Josh nodded solemnly. “It was a warning from God.”
Miranda took a sip of scotch. “You’ve been spared. For now.”
Nico leaned into Cassidy, idly swirling her glass. "I'm thankful for found family, for film that actually developed, and for Cassidy who is the singular, unfathomable piece of this world that consistently makes sense to me."
“Aww," Nigel said, a soft smile touching his lips, as Emily simultaneously wrinkled her nose and declared, "Eww."
Cassidy squeezed Nico’s hand. “I’m going to cry into your good hoodie later.”
Andy grinned. “Alright. My turn. I’m thankful for strong coffee, weak-willed billionaires who keep publishing afloat, and the fact that somehow I have this beautiful, chaotic family, including you two weirdos who now regularly call me Tita Andy.”
“Tita-ing is a lifestyle,” Nico said proudly.
Josh added, “For the sake of clarity, I still am afraid of you.”
“Good,” Miranda said. “Keep that fear sharp.”
Everyone turned to her. The final boss.
Miranda looked around slowly, letting the silence stretch until Josh shifted just slightly out of discomfort.
“I’m thankful for silence. Control. Decent tailoring.” A pause. “And for the fact that, despite all odds, this has become… tolerable.”
Nigel stage-whispered, “This is her being emotional.”
“I’ll get the tissues,” Emily deadpanned.
Miranda leveled them all with a withering look. “Don’t make me revise my statement.”
Andy kissed her cheek. “Too late.”
Nigel raised his glass. “To chaos, commitment, and carbs.”
Everyone toasted.
As the fire crackled and the teasing resumed, Andy leaned into Miranda’s side and whispered, “They’re doing okay, huh?” Miranda didn’t answer. She just adjusted Andy’s throw a little tighter and let the laughter roll on.
The Sachs-Priestly (yes, it was that kind of day) townhouse kitchen. Morning sunlight spills through the windows. The scent of coffee, leftover pie, and expensive linen permeates the air.
Nicolette stood at the kitchen island, backlit by the soft winter light streaming through the townhouse windows, sipping coffee from a mug that boldly declared: “Don’t ask me, I just date the daughter of a fashion icon.” Clearly a gift from Cassidy. She wore one of Cassidy’s oversized BERKLEE sweatshirts—faded but still structured enough to suggest expensive taste even in lounge mode. Her hair was up in a perfect messy bun, strands effortlessly curled at her temples. She looked like she belonged in a lifestyle shoot titled Elegance Before 9 A.M.
Josh stumbled in a few moments later, blinking against the brightness like he’d emerged from hibernation. Wrapped in a throw blanket patterned in muted grays and creams, he looked like the protagonist of a very chic post-apocalyptic romance. His curls were sleep-mussed, his sweatpants suspiciously well-tailored. He paused when he spotted Nico, squinting.
“You look,” he said slowly, “like you were styled for this moment.”
Nico took another sip. “Cassidy insists on ‘camera readiness’ even at brunch. I’m adapting.”
“Already caffeinated?”
Nico offered him a freshly poured mug. “Emergency support group. Welcome to the first official meeting.”
Josh accepted it with a reverent nod. “Are there minutes to be approved?”
“I think last night was the minutes.”
They both sipped.
A sudden groan escaped Josh, his head falling into his hands. "We called them Tita."
Nico visibly recoiled in shared agony. "Don't remind me. I almost made a break for it."
"And the worst part?" Josh lifted his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. "They nodded. Both of them! Said they preferred it . Do you comprehend the gravity of that?"
Nico's expression was grimly resigned. "It means you've been assimilated. Welcome to the family. There is no running away now."
Josh's face was a mask of despair. "So this is my fate? A slow demise by Runway covers and a thousand polite condemnations?"
Before Nico could even open her mouth, a voice cut in from behind.
"You forgot the part where you never get to pick the holiday music again," Andy said, stepping into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in her silk robe—or what she claimed to be hers, a garment borrowed one night from Miranda and never returned. Her hair was charmingly messy, as if it required no effort at all. She made a beeline for the coffee machine.
Nico and Josh straightened instinctively, like students caught unawares by the headmistress.
Andy squinted at them. "You two look like you've just survived a war."
Josh lifted his mug. “We have battle scars.”
Andy smirked, took a long sip from her mug, then leaned against the counter. "Let me guess. You're bonding over Miranda being terrifying and fabulous?"
"Yes," they said in unison.
"You too, actually," Josh added, which earned him a sharp glare from Nico.
To save their asses, Nico quickly added, "And over being called 'brave' by Emily like it's a eulogy."
Andy snorted. "Oh, She’s just playing with you. She called me that too, once, when I wore flats for a date with Miranda."
Josh, clearly astounded by this revelation, leaned in. "How did you survive?" he asked, his voice hushed.
Andy's smile softened, turning reflective. "I fell in love with the hurricane."
They were quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that comes not from discomfort, but from a profound, shared respect.
Nico tilted her head, her expression earnest. "Do you... ever feel like you constantly have to earn your spot in this family?"
Andy's gaze softened as she met their eyes. "Always. But here's the secret: they've already decided you belong. That's the part that catches you off guard. They'll absolutely judge your fashion choices and your ability to properly load a dishwasher, but they recognize you. And they'll fiercely defend you. Whether you're prepared for that or not."
Josh rubbed his jaw slowly. "That's... oddly comforting."
Andy smiled, then, with a swift movement, stole the last piece of pie from Nico's plate. "You're welcome. And I'm eating this because Miranda won't touch it, and Caroline literally texted me at 2 AM threatening to sue if Nico claimed the last pecan slice."
"...I love that girl," Josh murmured, a fond smile spreading across his face.
"You're doomed," Andy stated simply, a knowing glint in her eyes.
Just then, Cassidy wandered into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes and still clad in last night's silk pajamas. "Why are you guys emotionally unraveling without me?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
Josh and Nico immediately pointed at Andy.
Andy just held up the stolen pie slice like a triumphant trophy.
Cassidy leaned over and kissed Nico's cheek, then playfully mushed Josh's head. "You all look like you've trauma-bonded. Cute."
"We're starting a group chat," Andy said, taking another bite of pie and humming contentedly. "It's called Priestly Partners Anonymous."
"The tagline is: 'You can check out, but you can never leave,'" Nico deadpanned.
Cassidy cracked a grin. "Perfect. Now move, I'm making pancakes."
As Cassidy and Nico began debating which pan to use, Josh leaned in conspiratorially to Andy. "Does this count as passing the test?"
Andy leaned closer, her voice a low murmur. "You're in the house. You're drinking our coffee. And Cassidy let you live after eating the last truffle. I'd say you're golden."
Just as she said it, Miranda’s voice called faintly from upstairs. "Andrea, darling, where’s my phone charger? And did the children take the last of the ginger scones?"
Josh blinked. "She's awake?"
Andy smiled. "Your final test is surviving her pre-coffee tone."
He nodded, a newfound resolve in his eyes. "Okay. I'm ready."
"No one is," Cassidy whispered while washing her hands, a grim certainty in her voice.