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Brave. That was the word she heard Stuart mutter when she went upstairs. Was she? No, but her head was spinning and each nerve in her body was tingling with an electric current. She was buzzing with anxious energy, she just had to do something. That feeling of "I have to do something" had always been part of her: in elementary school when she punched a boy two years older than her for bullying another girl, when she chose journalism, when she moved to New York, when she did everything and more as Miranda’s assistant, when she tried to warn Miranda in Paris about Irv’s scheme, and when she finally left Runway. Andrea Sachs always has to save someone — a friend, a stranger, an industry, or even herself.
Miranda’s cold expression and that commanding "Go home" made Andrea’s blood reach the boiling point. Common sense and survival instinct shouted at her to follow that command, but Andy had stopped listening to them since she received that call from Irv.
"Oh, like hell I will!" Andrea ran up another flight of stairs. Miranda definitely didn't think Andy would dare to do that. The twenty-something-year-old assistant Andy wouldn't have dared, for sure—but this Andrea absolutely would. Miranda stepped back, recoiling for a second, but she quickly composed herself, returning to her image of The Ice Queen. Andrea reached the same step Miranda was on, their faces only centimeters apart.
"Who do you think you are?" The cold expression remained, but Miranda's voice wavered a bit at the end.
"Your wake-up call!" Andrea was angry. At Miranda, at all those consultants, at stupid Irv and his stupid weak heart, and even at herself. "Are you going to fight this?"
"Don't shout in my house!" Miranda shouted back in a hushed voice. She hadn't used that tone in thirty years, not since her first divorce. Once again, Andrea was making her to show emotions she tried so hard never to reveal again. Shouting means you care, you’re hurt, you want another person to see your pain. Miranda doesn't care, she doesn't get hurt, and she would never let anyone see her pain.
"Or what? You'll fire me? I'd rather be unemployed and broke than work for this spineless version of the once formidable Miranda Priestly! Look at yourself! What have you become? When you look in the mirror, do you even recognize the person you see?"
Miranda stayed silent.
"And you know what? I came here — I returned to Runway — only because I thought that if there is one person in this world willing to fight for publishing, for journalism, for fucking art and creativity, it’s going to be you! To see you playing by the rules of those stupid consultants, being stripped of your agency and your power bit by bit by those idiots, is my worst nightmare!" Andrea shut her eyes as if in agony. She hadn't planned to say — shout — this much, but once she was honest, she was honest fully. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and averted them from Miranda’s face.
"Please," she added, her voice became much calmer. "I beg of you, prove me wrong. Tell me that, as always, you have some grand scheme and you are already ten steps ahead. I'll do anything you need me to do to make that plan work. Tell me you want to change what is happening — just one word — and I'll be there. We'll come up with something. We'll fight this together. I might even do most of the fighting but I need you to want this. Just don't give up. You are my last hope." She looked up at Miranda again.
Miranda’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but she stayed silent. She wanted to fight — it was her nature — but she felt she couldn't. It was her against a bunch of influential nepo-babies in poorly fitted suits who couldn't come up with an idea other than "cut expenses on x, y, z" and who couldn't write an email without AI... who held her career in their hands. She was tired, she needed help and support, yet she'd rather wear Crocs than admit she could not fight this alone. She could never ask for help.
Her useless husband had started talking to her about how "everything comes to an end eventually", her daughters were asking about her plans for retirement, even fucking Donatella had asked whom she was "preparing" for her role. Sometimes, late at night, when anxious thoughts were stronger than her exhaustion, she thought to herself, "Is it worth the effort? Maybe it’s time to end this?"
No one else had ever offered to help. No one offered to fight together, and no one pushed her to fight. Not even Nigel. As lovely as he was, he was about style and image, not scheming and power. But Andrea was offering. It wasn't comfort or a "transition to a new stage of life" that Andrea was offering, she was offering a strong shoulder to lean on. She was offering her strength, her mind, herself fully. And for what? To fight for something they both believed in.
Miranda smirked inwardly. She always knew Andrea had a desire for power, even when she was just a "smart, fat girl," even if it was disguised as a "fight for justice" or some nonsense about morals and values. They both love the work, they both love to achieve great things, they both enjoy the thrill and the late-night hours.
Suddenly, she felt almost giddy. Oh yes, she was going to fight with Andrea by her side. She was going to fight, and she was going to win. Because there was no other option for her, for them.
Could she trust Andrea? Yes. She knew that. She could trust this girl — this woman, now — with her life. She took a shuddering breath and stood tall once again.
"Go home, Andrea." She turned on her heel. "I expect you at eight a.m. in my office. Come with ideas, or with your resignation letter." She turned her head to give Andrea one last look. "That’s all."
Andrea gave her a mock-military salute and smiled at her — that megawatt smile that could light up the whole New York and more. Cheeky. That girl would be the death of her.
And Miranda didn't mind that kind of death at all.