Chapter Text
Andrea got the job.
But moreover, Miranda wrote her the reference letter.
It seems unreal. She almost asked her new editor to see Miranda’s letter. “Show me. I need to see it to believe it.” The veiled compliment: “Andrea Sachs had been the biggest disappointment, but you will be an idiot not to hire her.” It plays on a loop in her head, imaginary but so vividly Miranda that it must be close to the truth.
But Andrea’s done enough this month that could’ve ended her career. She already walked away from Miranda Priestly once—she’s not stupid enough to do something reckless again. So instead, she just says “thank you,” gives HR her information, and walks out into the city.
New York is buzzing like there’s no room for her confusion. The sidewalks are full of people who didn’t just betray, disappoint, or long for Miranda Priestly. The world moves on.
But Andrea doesn’t.
She’s walking aimlessly, like the city might solve her. And then she realizes: she’s in front of Elias-Clarke. Of course she is. Some magnetic sliver of her is still aligned with Miranda’s orbit. Still tracking the time, the exits, the exits from the exits. That part of her still notices when Miranda walks toward her car.
She looks up. Hopes for eye contact. Hopes for something.
And then, because she’s not her assistant anymore, because she has nothing to lose anymore, she smiles. And waves.
Miranda stops.
But she doesn’t return the wave. She doesn’t smile. She just disappears behind the tinted window.
Andrea stands there, the city still rushing past her, and tries to figure out why she feels heartbroken.
Her friends take her out to celebrate. Andrea’s dream job. A new start.
She smiles. She laughs. She jokes. She drinks.
But all the while, she’s somewhere else.
She’s stuck in that one-second pause. That moment before Miranda disappeared behind her car door. The moment where there might have been something.
So when Andrea gets home. Buzzed and restless enough to call Miranda.
Miranda picks up.
Andrea hadn’t expected that. She doesn’t even say her name. She just says, “You wrote me a reference letter. I got the job.”
And Miranda replies, without hesitation, “Do you make a habit of committing career suicide on a weekly basis?”
Andrea exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Miranda knows it’s her. Of course she does.
Andrea presses on. She has to. “Why did you write me the reference letter?”
Miranda replies, “I’ve been called many things, but I’m not a liar.”
And that’s when Andrea feels it—the heat behind the words. That familiar, brutal honesty Miranda always used like a scalpel. She didn’t write the letter out of sentiment. She wrote it because it was true.
But Andrea still can’t let it go. There’s something else gnawing at her.
So she asks.
“Even what you said… about how everyone wants to be us?”
She regrets it immediately. She worries Miranda will hang up. That this was too far. That she’s overstepped and this time there will be no letter, no silence, no anything—just nothing.
But Miranda doesn’t hang up.
She says, instead, “Do you want it to be true?”
And Andrea nearly forgets how to breathe.
Because it’s not just a question. It’s a mirror. A lit match. A hand extended and a wall still half up.
Andrea doesn’t answer. She asks, “Do you?”
And Miranda says, “If you want my truth, ask me in person. I know you can do anything, right?”