Chapter Text
Walking through Elias-Clarke is nothing like the first time, and yet, somehow, eerily the same.
Two decades have passed, but the sterile lobby still greets her with that familiar blast of climate-controlled air that’s crisp enough to nudge a person’s confidence downward by a degree or two.
The reception desk has morphed into a seamless expanse of pale marble, its edges razor-sharp. And behind it, a towering video wall now loops the latest magazine covers: statuesque faces, impossibly angled cars, stark typography, and the same cycle of iconography until the images blur into one hypnotic mantra.
The intimidating security checkpoints and uniformed guards of the past have been replaced by silent biometric scanners and chrome arches pulsing with blue light. The atmosphere is oddly intimate now, despite the lack of personnel.
The lobby is quieter at this hour. With fewer people rushing by, Andy confidently walks through the space undisturbed, her heels echoing on polished tile.
She’s grown comfortable in her own skin over the last 20 years. Today, she’d chosen a tailored coat and practical slacks. Her hair styled in a way that suggested both indifference and an excellent stylist. Her bag is simple, expensive, and entirely sensible.
As the arches scan her palm, the miniature lights flash green, and the gate opens. She shouldn’t be surprised that she’s somehow already been cleared in the system.
Her phone buzzes twice in her coat pocket and she silences it as the elevator doors glide open. The space inside looks smarter but is definitely slower – an optimization that clearly prioritizes sleekness over speed, she decides. Miranda probably hates it.
Andy almost smiles at the thought, but catches it and quickly smooths her expression back into place.
She surveys herself in the mirrored walls – cataloging everything from her posture, to the slight curve of her jaw, to the faint crease of concentration between her brows. She smooths a stray strand of hair, then lets it fall exactly where it should. The fabric of her coat feels reassuringly substantial under her palms.
She’s here for one purpose: to help reshape this magazine.
Runway isn’t dying. But it has definitely lost its edge in this ever-growing digital landscape – and she’s being brought in to drag it back to relevance.
At floor seventeen, the doors part, and she steps into Runway for the first time in 20 years.
The corridor before her is walled in glass, each office bare and minimalist. The floors have been replaced with white-toned resin panels that mirror the track lighting overhead.
The old "show" wall has been replaced by a kinetic sculpture that twists and shivers, its thin rods of polished steel moving in subtly erratic patterns. It looks both mesmerizing and slightly unhinged, as though the creative process itself were caught in perpetual tremor.
There are fewer people sprinting about, but the ones that remain flit between the desks – some clutching clipboards, others balancing laptops and steaming cups of coffee. Their faces are taut with exhilaration and dread, the same cocktail of emotions that has fueled this magazine for decades.
The office now spans the entire length of the building, with desks grouped into departmental microclimates.
Andy navigates through them all without pause, catching the ripple left in her wake – the slight tremors of attention as eyes lift and quickly pretend not to. She can see their brains connecting the dots. Is that really her?
She continues walking, holding her posture steady, as if she doesn’t notice the scrutiny. She’s already counted three familiar faces, now frozen in surprise.
When she reaches the corridor marking the Editor-in-Chief’s suite, she pauses.
The heavy glass door is unchanged. She lays her palm flat against it, and the lock disengages with a muted sigh.
Inside, the air is even quieter, carrying a faint scent of expensive paper and freshly brewed coffee. The single assistant desk is sleeker and more modern than hers and Emilys had been. On it sits a single red file folder labeled A. SACHS. Andy’s gaze lands on it and a small flash of anticipation moves through her.
She settles into the guest chair and waits, hands resting in her lap, trying to resist the urge to fidget. Her pulse drums behind her ears, but she wills it down.
Beyond the double doors, she hears a voice murmur, "She’s here."
There’s a pause, then a muffled reply she can’t quite make out.
Her throat goes dry.
She can vividly recall the specific energy of this space. The low timbre of Miranda’s commands, the rustle of turned pages, the tension that had crackled when fingers had accidentally brushed. Those memories are still vivid enough to be dangerous if she can’t get them under control.
She curls her hand into a fist until her nails dig painfully into her palm. The pain is preferable to getting swept up in past emotions.
She checks her phone again – two unread emails blink back, along with a calendar alert and three texts from Doug asking how long she’s in town. She ignores them all.
The clock on the wall ticks on mechanically.
She’d been sure to get here fifteen minutes early, knowing that Miranda’s time has always run differently from everyone else’s. It’s one of the few things Andy had both feared and admired about her.
After another few minutes, the outer doors opens, and a young man in a closely tailored suit appears. He holds two cups of coffee in one hand and a sleek tablet in the other.
He sets one of the cups on the desk in front of her without meeting her eyes.
"Ms. Sachs, I apologize for the wait," he starts, voice laced with both awe and uncertainty. "Miranda should be ready momentarily. She’s just finishing up with Nigel."
Andy nods once, keeping her expression unreadable.
He hovers, evidently longing to ask more. "Are you really her–"
"Yes," she interrupts, keeping her tone calm and concise. The single word feels like a line drawn in the air. He blinks, reassesses, and retreats into Miranda’s office with the remaining coffee.
Andy takes the cup in front of her, inhales the bitter steam, and lets it roll over her tongue. The taste of her standard order is comforting and she’s grateful Nigel asked her preference before placing the order.
Taking another deep breath, she reminds herself that she’s not here for sentimentality or forgiveness. She’s here because she’s the best at what she does, and she refuses to be devoured by this place, this woman, again.
Voices rise from deeper in the suite; a sharp intake of breath precedes a controlled, cold laugh that echoes out like a bell.
She straightens just a fraction more.
Her reflection stares back at her from the door, poised and unreadable. For a moment, she sees her younger self staring back, the girl who flinched at every raised eyebrow and biting critique. But she is no longer that naive girl.
The clock ticks on and she pretends not to notice.
When the door finally swings open and the assistant exits with a nod, she stands with a smile and steps forward.
The threshold feels charged, as though she’s crossing an invisible line. Still, she steps through the doors.
Inside, Miranda presides over a flood of daylight from behind her desk, slender fingers curled around a fountain pen, and glasses poised at the tip of her nose.
Nigel stands beside her, immaculate as always in a dark gray suit, softly whispering something with what looks like polite insistence.
Exhaling once, Andy steps fully into the room.
"Hello," she announces, her voice warm against the low hum of overhead fluorescents.
Nigel’s head lifts first. His face, immune to the flat perfection of modern Botox, can still telegraph ten layers of emotion at once: pleasant surprise, amusement, a hint of mischief, and even a fleeting recognition of the ridiculousness of this moment.
He lets his gaze drift over her, then says – loud enough for Miranda to hear every syllable – "Well, look what TJ Maxx dragged in."
Andy can’t help a soft snort but reins it in before it echoes. "Glad you can still recognize quality on a budget," she replies coolly, the two of them trading the easiest kind of greeting.
Nigel’s lips curl into a familiar crooked half-smile. "Please. You know I only shop vintage."
At those words, Miranda finally lifts her gaze. She lowers her sleek, black-rimmed glasses and fixes Andy with a stare so cold it could frost the window behind her.
For one heartbeat, Andy thinks she spots the faintest spark of heat in the glacier's coolness, but it’s extinguished almost instantly as her expression remains neutral.
"Sorry," she says blankly, "Who is this? Do you know her? Do I know her?"
The words land like a slap she didn’t know she still remembered feeling.
Nigel’s eyes widen fractionally, but he inclines his head in confirmation. Miranda’s gaze remains unmoving, but the air between them shifts, suddenly taut.
Andy lets the sting pass through her, "Andy Sachs.”
She lets her name sit for a beat, then offers the next like a correction. "Andréa." She borrows the French inflection Miranda once favored, a small challenge parried back.
She watches every fraction of movement in Miranda’s face, looking for a tell – a twitch, a blink, anything. But Miranda gives nothing away.
Does she really not remember?
Nigel leans in closer and says, "She was one of the Emilys."
Andy keeps her spine steady as she waits.
Miranda’s pen, poised over a neat stack of stationery, taps against the page. After a long, loaded silence, she glances back at Nigel and asks dryly, "One of the what?"
Nigel’s lips flatten. For one second, Andy thinks he might actually intervene on this ridiculous charade – but Miranda lifts one finger in a silent No.
Nigel’s eyes flick to Andy quickly, warning her off with the barest shake of his head. Don’t push it.
Andy feels the old instinct to comply rise up like a muscle memory, but she ignores it. "I used to work for you. A long time ago."
Miranda’s pen finds its way back to the page in front of her as her eyes drift down and she murmurs in that devastatingly soft tone, "Is that so? In what capacity?"
Andy doesn’t blink. “I was your assistant.”
Miranda makes a swift note, then looks back up at Andy with perfectly measured disinterest. “Apparently not a memorable one.”
Andy allows a small, sharp smile to curve her lips to hide the sting that causes, "Apparently not."
Nigel slips in seamlessly, as if to rescue them both. "I hired Andy here to be our new Features Editor. We needed some fresh blood, and she comes highly accredited," he says, each word carrying the weight of a formal introduction.
Andy thinks she sees Miranda’s eyes widen briefly, but it passes quickly.
“Is that so?”
Andy keeps her expression controlled, but her stomach tightens as she waits for Miranda to continue – to say no and make it abundantly clear that Nigel does not get to spring surprises on her, regardless of his newfound control over certain parts of the magazine.
If Miranda decides this is a mistake, Nigel's promises and Andy's merits will be irrelevant.
Miranda turns her attention to Nigel momentarily - cold and calculating. Andy knows all too well what it feels like to be under that gaze, but Nigel doesn’t flinch.
His smile remains steady. He’s bracing himself, holding his ground, and daring Miranda to challenge him.
Miranda holds her gaze on him, reading the defiance, before returning it to Andy.
Her eyes scan Andy, familiar in a way that tightens her stomach further. She can’t decipher Miranda as easily as before, but she’s acutely aware of the memories flooding both their minds.
She knows one misstep could end this before it begins. So she lowers her guard slightly and meets Miranda’s gaze fully.
Miranda’s mouth tightens.
“Fine,” she snaps her pen shut and stacks her papers neatly. “Is that all, Miss–?”
She pauses with a perfectly timed blank stare.
"Andréa is fine," Andy supplies again, maintaining a calm voice despite the tension still growing between them. "Just Andréa."
Miranda looks at her directly again, now pure of ice, and the room seems to grow colder by several degrees.
"Andrea," she eventually says, stripping the name of any embellishments and flattening it into something ordinary. "I trust you’ll adjust well here. We expect a great deal from our editors."
The lack of inflection and the flatness of her voice hit harder than expected, and she feels that old, stupid instinct to apologize rise within her. She swallows it down.
"Yes, I’m well aware," she replies stiffly.
Miranda’s gaze hardens at the tone, but a chime from her phone interrupts whatever she was about to say next. She answers it in one fluid motion, as if the interruption had been choreographed down to the microsecond.
"Of course," she murmurs, her voice smooth as she rises from her chair with the grace of someone who has never once stumbled in her Louboutins. "I'm on my way."
Without looking back, she issues a crisp command: "Put her somewhere she won’t be disruptive."
"Already done," Nigel responds, watching her retreating form. "The paperwork's already there, waiting."
She doesn't acknowledge him, refocusing on her phone. For a moment, Andy simply watches her, noting how the afternoon light slices through the blinds to stripe across her ivory blouse.
There is nothing in Miranda's profile but concentration, lines drawn sharply from years of perfecting the same expression. The slight furrow between her brows is as familiar to Andy as her own face. That intense focus used to unnerve her; now, it's almost reassuring.
She catches Miranda's eyes one last time as she passes her at the threshold. She holds the contact a fraction longer than propriety allows, feeling the electric current that still runs between them despite the twenty years of careful distance.
Her lips curve slightly, not in victory but in quiet recognition of the game they're apparently playing.
Miranda strides out without looking back.
Nigel looks at Andy, shakes his head with a kind of prideful sorrow, and gestures toward the door. "Come on," he says, his voice honeyed with conspiracy. "I’ll escort you to your new kingdom."
Andy hesitates, just for a second, then follows him, her heels clicking on the polished floor.
"She always did have a flair for the dramatic," he says softly as the door clicks shut behind them.
"Wouldn't want to disappoint," Andy murmurs, tasting the irony on her tongue.
Nigel smiles warmly and leads her down a corridor lined with historic Runway memorabilia: a signed Manolo with its red sole gleaming under spotlights and every first issue of the magazine encased in resin.
The walk down the hall is shorter than Andy expects. He gestures with a grand sweep at a cluster of glass offices.
"You're here on the corner. A commanding view and easy access to our illustrious leader, should the need arise."
Andy takes in the proximity; her office directly faces Miranda's.
"Convenient," she says dryly.
"For whom?" Nigel smirks.
"We'll have to wait and see, I suppose."
In Miranda's absence, her pulse begins to even out, replaced by a bone-deep resolve.
Nigel glances sideways. "You handled that superbly well. Very grown-up."
Andy shrugs, her blazer whispering against her silk blouse. "I remember the rules."
He pushes open a door with frosted glass that reads: Andrea Sachs, Senior Features Editor.
Inside waits a desk of polished walnut, a panoramic view of the Hudson River glittering in the afternoon sun, and enough surface area to stage a military campaign.
A leather-bound welcome packet sits precisely centered, alongside a matte-black Runway-branded water bottle and a meticulously aligned stack of past issues, their glossy covers catching the light.
The window is cracked open two inches, letting in spring air carrying hints of cherry blossoms and the distant Manhattan symphony of honking taxis.
Nigel closes the door behind them with a soft hiss and lowers his voice. "She's furious, she hates surprises," he says. "And I did a very good job of keeping this under the radar."
Leaning against the desk edge, Andy replies, "That's not my job to manage anymore."
Perched on the window seat, Nigel picks up a nearby paperweight – heavy Lucite with a miniature vintage Runway cover from 1994 inside.
"Perhaps not, but you were very good at it.” He pauses slightly before continuing, “For what it's worth, she does remember you. She'll just need some time to warm back up. Give her some grace, she’s never played this particular game before, and she doesn’t like to lose."
"I’m not here to play games. I’m here to work," Andy responds.
Nigel tosses the paperweight, catches it again. "That's the spirit. Make her believe that."
From the outer office, Miranda’s voice slices through the closed door. "Nigel."
He sighs and sets the paperweight down with a dull thunk. "Guess the introductions are over. Go ahead and get settled. I’ll be back later to take you on the official "re-acquaintance" tour."
Andy grins, feeling tension release from her jaw for the first time since she stepped off the elevator." Be sure to tell her I said hello…again."
Nigel raises a perfectly groomed brow. "Should I tack on ‘Andréa’ to that, or do you still prefer Andy?"
"Whichever you think will bother her more," Andy smirks.
He smiles and turns slightly as he exits, "It’s good to have you back, Six."
"It’s good to be back, Nige."
Alone in the quiet of her new office, she slides behind the desk, the leather chair embracing her with expensive comfort, and opens her laptop.
She brings up her to-do list. The first item is simply: "Survive Miranda."
She deletes it with a decisive tap and re-types: "Win Miranda over."
Leaning back in the chair, she can just make out Miranda in her office – pacing and gesturing at Nigel.
Andy smiles softly at the scene before she opens a blank document and gets to work on the documents before her.
She'd survived this place once. She can surely survive it again, this time with the benefit of knowing exactly what she’s walking into.