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By seven-thirteen that morning, Emily Charlton had already been assaulted by Manhattan twice.
The first offense had been weather-related.
February in New York was, in Emily’s opinion, a deeply unserious concept. The city became damp in ways that felt personally vindictive. Not proper rain, which one could at least prepare for elegantly, but freezing gray slush flung aggressively through avenues by wind sharp enough to peel skin directly from bone.
Emily emerged from Starbucks already irritated to discover the sidewalk outside Lexington Avenue resembled maritime warfare. Dirty snowbanks crowded the curbs. Taxi tires hissed through puddles the size of small lakes. Wind whipped violently between buildings, attacking scarves, umbrellas, and human dignity indiscriminately. Honestly, Manhattan contained entirely too much weather.
Emily tightened one gloved hand around her umbrella and stepped carefully around a crater-sized puddle near the curb just as a yellow cab flew past at approximately criminal speed.
A wave of icy gray water surged upward. Directly onto her.
Emily stopped walking.
For one sacred, suspended second the entire city seemed to pause around the catastrophic realization settling slowly through her nervous system. Cold slush dripped from the hem of her coat. Her tights clung wetly to one leg. Melted street grime splattered across black wool and leather with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for hate crimes.
Somewhere nearby, a man muttered, “Jesus.”
Emily stared silently after the cab disappearing into traffic. Then very calmly said, “I hope your children forget to call you on holidays.”
A woman passing beside her looked alarmed and hurried away immediately.
Emily inhaled sharply through her nose and continued toward Elias-Clarke with the rigid controlled posture of someone suppressing several felonies.
Unfortunately, the universe was not yet finished humiliating her.
Because approximately forty feet later, the heel of her right boot caught briefly against uneven pavement. Not enough to fall. Emily Charlton did not fall in public. She simply suffered with elegance.
However. The sudden jolt snagged her tights against the rusted wire of a sidewalk trash bin.
Rrrrip.
Emily froze again. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
She looked down slowly. A thin black ladder now stretched viciously along the side of her calf. Emily closed her eyes briefly beneath the umbrella while freezing rain tapped softly overhead. This day had the energy of a personal vendetta.
-
By the time she finally stepped through the revolving doors of Elias-Clarke fifteen minutes later, she was already spiritually exhausted.
The lobby gleamed around her in polished marble and cold morning light. Assistants hurried across the floors balancing garment bags and coffee trays with expressions of concentrated panic. Somewhere upstairs, phones already rang with the particular frantic rhythm unique to fashion publishing.
Emily handed her dripping umbrella to security with the air of someone surrendering evidence after a violent incident.
“Good morning, Miss Charlton,” the guard offered carefully.
Emily looked at him. “Debatable.”
Then she strode toward the elevators before anyone else could attempt conversation.
Unfortunately, Georgia was already waiting upstairs.
-
The second Emily stepped into Miranda’s office suite she sensed disaster instinctively.
The phones were ringing. One assistant from accessories stood near the desk looking frightened. Georgia herself was leaning awkwardly over the counter trying to carry one iced coffee, three folders, her phone, and what appeared to be absolutely no survival instincts whatsoever.
Emily saw the collision happen approximately three seconds before it occurred. “Georgia—”
Too late.
The iced coffee tipped sideways instantly, lid popping loose in a burst of caramel-colored horror directly across Emily’s desk. Coffee flooded over paper samples, appointment notes, yesterday’s call sheets, and the edge of Emily’s planner before dripping elegantly onto the polished floor.
Silence.
Georgia stared at the spreading liquid in dawning terror. Emily stared at it too. Very slowly, she removed her gloves.
Then Emily inhaled once through her nose with the terrifying restraint of a woman moments away from becoming internationally wanted.
“Georgia,” she said very softly, “tell me honestly.”
Georgia looked ready to cry already. “I’m so sorry—”
“Have you perhaps been cursed by a vindictive little woodland witch.”
“…What?”
“Because at this point,” Emily continued with dreadful calm, “it genuinely feels supernatural.”
“Oh my God,” Georgia breathed. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”
Emily continued staring at the coffee with the stillness of someone moments away from becoming a true crime documentary. Twelve minutes into the workday. Twelve.
“I’ll get napkins,” Georgia blurted desperately.
Emily looked at her at last. “Will that unspill it, Georgia?”
The girl visibly faltered.
“You can’t even staple correctly,” Emily muttered darkly while snatching up the nearest stack of untouched documents before the coffee reached them. “Why are you handling liquids.”
The assistant from accessories immediately fled the vicinity with survival instincts Emily respected deeply.
Georgia scrambled toward the kitchenette while Emily lifted ruined pages carefully from the desk with the expression of someone handling human remains. Her planner. Sticky now. Fantastic.
Georgia reappeared clutching paper towels with all the panicked energy of a golden retriever responding to a house fire. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No you didn’t,” Emily replied flatly while blotting coffee from the desk, “that would’ve required thought.”
Georgia hovered helplessly nearby while Emily attempted to salvage the morning schedule before Miranda arrived.
Which, naturally, was exactly when Miranda appeared.
The office shifted instantly. Conversations lowered. Footsteps quickened. The entire atmosphere tightened with invisible tension as Miranda Priestly emerged from her office in immaculate charcoal silk and winter white cashmere, carrying her bag and an expression of refined dissatisfaction.
Her eyes landed first on Emily. Then on the coffee-stained desk. Then on Georgia.
A long silence followed.
“…What,” Miranda said softly, “happened here.”
Georgia made a tiny sound resembling the death rattle of a woodland creature.
Emily answered immediately. “A minor spill. I’m handling it.”
Miranda’s gaze lingered one second longer on the ruined paperwork before returning to Emily herself, sharp and assessing. “You’re wet.”
Emily blinked once. “A taxi lost its will to live.”
“Mm.” Miranda handed over her coat without visible interest in further explanation. “Patrick called twice already. And someone from Rome needs final confirmation before noon.”
“Of course they do,” Emily muttered under her breath.
Miranda paused halfway toward her office. “Emily?”
Emily straightened instantly. “Yes, Miranda.”
“That was not quiet enough to qualify as private.”
Then she disappeared into her office, leaving devastation in beautifully tailored heels behind her.
Emily shut her eyes briefly.
Georgia whispered nearby, “I can clean the desk more?”
Emily opened her eyes slowly. “Please stop helping.”
By nine-fifteen the day had deteriorated beyond recovery.
Emily sat at her desk attempting to reorganize Miranda’s Rome itinerary while her tights continued disintegrating silently beneath the desk like a collapsing civilization. Her coffee was gone. Her replacement coffee tasted burnt.
And Georgia had now asked six consecutive questions with answers already provided in previous emails.
“Should I confirm the hotel under Miranda Priestly or Runway Magazine?”
“Miranda Priestly.”
“Right. And the car service?”
“Under Miranda Priestly.”
“And the airport transfer?”
Emily looked up slowly. Georgia blinked at her. The phones rang violently around them. Somewhere nearby an intern dropped a stack of lookbooks with a crash loud enough to trigger spiritual damage.
Emily folded her hands together carefully atop the desk. “Georgia.”
“Yeah?”
“If you ask me one more question answered directly in the itinerary I emailed you at seven-forty this morning, I will personally throw you into the Hudson.”
Georgia looked genuinely stricken. “Sorry.”
“Mm.”
Emily returned to typing with lethal force. Unfortunately, technology itself had apparently joined the conspiracy against her. Because halfway through updating Miranda’s revised AltaRoma schedule, her computer froze. The cursor stopped moving.
Emily paused. Clicked once. Nothing. Clicked again. Still nothing. The screen stared back at her blankly. Emily stared back too.
Around her, Runway continued in full chaotic motion. Phones. Footsteps. Garment bags. Editors arguing near fashion closet doors. Someone laughing too loudly three desks away. And in the middle of it all sat Emily Charlton motionless at her desk clicking furiously through increasingly unresponsive tabs while the cursed little rainbow wheel spun endlessly at the center of the screen like a personal insult.
“…Don’t,” she said quietly.
The computer remained frozen. Emily pressed another key. Then, with the slow inevitability of divine punishment, the screen went black completely.
No.
Emily physically stopped breathing. ”I am genuinely asking,” she said aloud to nobody in particular, “what exactly have I done to deserve this.”
Georgia looked over immediately. “What happened?”
“My computer just died.”
“Oh.”
Emily turned toward her with frightening calmness. “Do not say ‘oh’ to me right now.”
Georgia raised both hands defensively. “Okay.”
Emily jabbed the power button violently. Nothing. Inside her skull, something ancient and exhausted began screaming.
At that exact moment, an intern from appeared beside the desk holding several garment bags and absolutely no awareness of danger.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Do you know where I’m supposed to put these?”
Emily stared at her. The girl smiled nervously.
Emily glanced once at the garment bags. “Those are shoes.”
“Oh.”
“Which means they would not logically go in beauty, would they?”
Another pause.
“…No?”
Emily inhaled slowly through her nose. Somewhere deep in the office from where she was standing by a rack, Serena glanced over once, visibly sensed the homicide building in the air, and immediately looked away again. Smart woman.
The intern escaped seconds later clutching the bags awkwardly while Emily dropped her forehead briefly against the dead computer screen.
She had not eaten breakfast. She had consumed approximately three sips of burnt coffee and one vitamin gummy at seven in the morning. Her tights were still ruined.
And now Georgia was speaking again.
She appeared beside the desk immediately afterward holding a folder incorrectly. “Emily? Sorry. Tiny question.”
Emily looked at her with dead eyes.
Georgia hesitated. “…How do I know which Rome itinerary is the updated one?”
Emily blinked once slowly. “The one,” she said carefully, “that says updated itinerary.”
Georgia looked down at the pages. “…Right.”
Emily turned back toward her computer before she committed a felony.
Unfortunately Georgia remained standing there.
“And, um,” Georgia continued nervously, “the flight to Rome got cancelled?”
Emily went still. Slowly, very slowly, she turned back around. “What.”
“The airline emailed this morning.” Georgia held up her phone weakly. “Something about weather in London?”
For one suspended second, Emily experienced complete spiritual evacuation from her body.
Because of course. Of course Miranda Priestly’s AltaRomaAltaModa travel plans had collapsed during the same morning Emily’s tights ripped, her coffee died, and technology betrayed her personally.
Somewhere deep in the building, a phone rang. Emily could physically feel a stress headache forming directly behind her left eye.
“Did you rebook it?” she asked quietly.
Georgia froze. Emily already knew the answer. God gave her the strength.
“…I thought maybe you’d want to approve the options first?”
Emily stared at her for so long Georgia visibly began shrinking inward.
Then finally, “Georgia.”
“Yes?”
“If Miranda Priestly discovers she no longer has a flight to Rome because you were waiting for spiritual guidance,” Emily said calmly, “they will identify your body using dental records.”
Georgia looked horrified.
Emily stood abruptly, snatching the phone from her desk. “Move,” she said, already dialing the airline herself. “Before I develop a criminal record.”
Honestly, why hadn’t Miranda fired her. At this point Emily had begun suspecting Georgia possessed compromising information about upper management. There was simply no other explanation.
-
Meanwhile, across Manhattan, Andrea Sachs was having a deeply pleasant morning. Which, in hindsight, should probably have worried her.
Because life lately had developed a suspicious tendency to alternate unpredictably between, a) emotional yearning, b) workplace stress, or c) Emily Charlton. And occasionally all three simultaneously.
But today, somehow, things at the New York Mirror felt calm. Almost offensively calm.
By eleven-thirty Andy sat tucked into her desk with one leg folded beneath her chair, typing steadily beneath the low familiar hum of keyboards and half-finished conversations drifting through the office. Rain tapped softly against the windows overlooking midtown while weak winter sunlight bled pale silver across desks cluttered with notebooks, coffee cups, and aggressively overused office supplies.
The Mirror felt different from Runway in every conceivable way. Messier. Louder. Human. Nobody here moved like they were being hunted for sport. Nobody visibly flinched when editors approached. People interrupted one another casually. Someone nearby was openly eating chips at their desk without fear of divine punishment descending from above. Honestly, the emotional atmosphere alone still startled Andy sometimes.
At the moment she was halfway through drafting an article on technology convergence and modern media integration, which sounded extremely sophisticated but mostly involved interviewing three exhausted software developers and one aggressively pretentious man who kept referring to the internet as “the future architecture of civilization.”
Andy had spent twenty minutes deleting variations of: “Sir, respectfully, calm down.”
Across from her, Melissa sat cross-legged in her chair editing copy while absentmindedly chewing strawberry gum and periodically commenting on Andy’s facial expressions like a wildlife researcher observing unusual bird behavior.
“You’re smiling at your laptop again,” she noted without looking up.
Andy blinked. “No I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m literally writing about telecommunications.”
“Mm,” Melissa replied. “And yet somehow you still look emotionally moisturized.”
Andy frowned. “Emotionally moisturized isn’t a thing.”
“It is when someone’s in love.”
Andy nearly hit the wrong key. “Can everybody stop saying that so casually?”
Melissa finally glanced up over her glasses. “Sorry, would you prefer emotionally doomed?”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” Melissa smirked faintly. “You’re too busy mentally decorating your future brownstone with Emily Charlton.”
Andy looked appalled. “What brownstone?”
“The imaginary one.”
“I don’t have an imaginary brownstone.”
“You absolutely do.”
Andy opened her mouth to argue further just as her desk phone rang.
Melissa immediately perked up. “Oooh. Maybe it’s your terrifying British wife.”
“She’s not my—”
The phone rang again. Andy picked it up quickly mostly to end this conversation before Melissa invented shared retirement plans. “Andy Sachs.”
“Well, well,” came Christian Thompson’s smooth familiar voice through the receiver. “Alive after Felice 56. Impressive.”
Andy groaned instantly. “Oh no.”
Melissa’s head snapped upward immediately at the tone.
Christian sounded delighted already. “You know, most people buy me dinner before emotionally manipulating me into impossible reservations.”
“You offered.”
“Yes, and now you owe me.”
Andy leaned back in her chair. “I knew this call was going to become blackmail eventually.”
“Not blackmail,” Christian corrected lazily. “Payment.”
Melissa mouthed dramatically across the desk: WHO IS THAT.
Andy ignored her violently.
Christian continued, “Tell me you’re free for lunch.”
Andy glanced briefly at the clock in the corner of her computer screen. Nearly noon. “I mean… probably?”
“Excellent.”
“No, wait,” Andy narrowed her eyes instinctively despite him not being physically present. “Why are you being this cheerful.”
“Because today,” Christian announced smugly, “is identity reveal day.”
Andy froze. Across the desk Melissa immediately sensed incoming disaster and leaned forward like a shark detecting blood in water.
“…What.”
“You heard me.”
“No.”
“You promised me details eventually.”
“I absolutely did not promise—”
“You absolutely did. And considering I saved your romantic life through strategic reservation acquisition, I think I’ve earned lunch.”
Andy dropped her forehead briefly against one hand. Because unfortunately, technically, he had. Back before dinner at Felice 56, Andy had spent nearly twenty consecutive minutes trying to secure a table through normal means only to discover Manhattan apparently required blood sacrifice and political leverage for decent Italian reservations after seven p.m. on a twenty-four hour notice.
Christian had secured one in under six minutes. Which was both helpful and deeply irritating.
“You’re unbearable,” Andy muttered.
“Yes,” Christian replied pleasantly. “But useful.”
Melissa was now openly pretending to organize papers while listening with the concentration of federal surveillance.
Andy sighed. “Fine. Lunch.”
“Excellent. One o’clock.”
Then Christian gave her the restaurant name before adding casually, “Oh, and I need a favor.”
Andy should have hung up immediately. Instead she made the fatal mistake of asking, “What kind of favor?”
“There’s a florist near the Mirror, three blocks east. I ordered flowers this morning but I’m trapped in meetings and won’t make it in time.”
Andy blinked. “You want me to pick up flowers for you?”
“Yes.”
“…Why.”
“Because you’re already nearby.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough of one.”
Andy laughed despite herself and leaned back in her chair. “You know, most people say hello before assigning errands.”
“And yet here we are.”
Melissa mouthed: FLOWERS???
Andy waved her away blindly.
Christian continued, “Just grab the bouquet and bring it to lunch.”
Andy frowned slightly. “Wait, are these flowers for a woman?”
Christian sounded offended. “Andrea. I’m deeply charming, not dead.”
“Honestly debatable.”
“Cruel.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“Absolutely none of your business.”
Andy gasped dramatically. “Wow. Hypocrite.”
“I prefer selectively private.”
Melissa was now fully invested in the conversation despite hearing only one side.
Andy glanced toward her helplessly before asking, “What kind of flowers?”
“A bouquet under Thompson.”
A pause.
Then, “And don’t judge me when you see them.”
Andy narrowed her eyes immediately. “That sounds threatening.”
“You’ll survive.”
The line clicked dead before Andy could interrogate him further. Slowly, Andy lowered the phone from her ear.
Melissa stared at her expectantly across the desk. “…Well?”
Andy exhaled. “Apparently Christian’s collecting payment for helping me get the reservation at Felice.”
Melissa’s eyes widened instantly. “Oh my God. Is this the reveal?”
Andy groaned softly. “Unfortunately.”
“The reveal of WHAT,” demanded a nearby columnist immediately overhearing the phrase.
Melissa pointed dramatically across the desks. “Andy had secret romantic dinner plans last week.”
Andy looked horrified. “Melissa.”
“What?” Melissa grinned. “The newsroom deserves enrichment.”
“No it doesn’t.”
Three nearby coworkers immediately became interested.
“Wait,” one of them leaned over. “Was this a date?”
“It wasn’t—”
“It was absolutely a date,” Melissa interrupted.
“It was dinner.”
“With feelings.”
Andy buried part of her face in her hands. Because somehow this had become her life now. She used to be a serious journalist. Now coworkers tracked her emotional deterioration in real time like a sporting event.
Nearby, an editor called out, “Wait, who’s the flowers for?”
Andy blinked. “Apparently some woman Christian’s seeing?”
Melissa narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What kind of flowers?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should investigate.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s journalism.”
Andy laughed helplessly despite herself.
Outside the windows, rain drifted steadily over Manhattan while the newsroom buzzed warm and alive around her. Someone argued near the copy desk about baseball. Phones rang lazily. Coffee smelled burnt in the comforting familiar way all newsroom coffee eventually did.
And somewhere beneath all the noise and warmth and teasing chaos, another thought drifted quietly through Andy’s mind. Emily. She wondered briefly how Emily’s morning was going. Then immediately felt guilty for the answer instinctively arriving. Probably catastrophic.
Because honestly, Emily and mornings at Runway existed in a state of ongoing mutual warfare. Andy smiled faintly to herself while reopening her article draft.
Somewhere across the city right now, Emily Charlton was almost certainly terrorizing interns while surviving entirely on caffeine and resentment. The thought felt strangely fond.
Then Melissa spoke again without warning. “You’re smiling.”
Andy looked up immediately. “Am not.”
“You literally just thought about her.”
Andy pointed accusingly. “You need hobbies.”
Melissa grinned. “I have one. It’s this. It’s unbelievably entertaining.”
-
By twelve-forty, Andy found herself standing once again inside the florist shop. Which honestly felt suspicious.
Because lately flowers had somehow become emotionally significant in ways she had not prepared for psychologically.
The little bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, winter air following briefly behind her before warmth swallowed it whole again. The shop smelled faintly of damp greenery and fresh stems and expensive candles pretending to smell like forests.
Soft instrumental jazz drifted lazily overhead.
“Hello?” she called. “I’m here to pick up a bouquet under Thompson.”
She turned over to the counter, and immediately—yellow.
Andy stopped walking so abruptly the door nearly swung back into her. “Oh,” she said out loud before she could stop herself.
Sunflowers. A massive arrangement of them sat waiting near the counter wrapped in thick cream paper and tied with dark green ribbon. Bright gold petals spilled outward in huge cheerful bursts beneath the warm overhead lighting, enormous and dramatic and wildly overcommitted emotionally. Honestly, the bouquet looked less like flowers and more like a declaration of intent.
Andy stared. And immediately, against her will: Emily in the alleyway. Emily clutching sunflowers against her coat. Emily smiling tiredly beneath weak amber light. The warmth of Emily’s cheek beneath her mouth during that quick terrified kiss.
Oh no. Andy physically pressed one hand briefly against the side of her face like she could stop the memory from replaying there.
The florist behind the counter looked up knowingly almost immediately. “You again.”
Andy blinked. “What?”
The woman smiled faintly while reaching for the bouquet. “Sunflower girl.”
Andy looked horrified. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Andy narrowed her eyes suspiciously while approaching the counter. “Please tell me this bouquet isn’t for another emotionally overwhelming woman.”
The florist laughed softly. “Afraid I can’t help you there.”
Then she slid the arrangement carefully across the counter.
Up close, the bouquet looked genuinely absurd. Huge sunflowers bloomed between eucalyptus leaves and cream roses and smaller golden filler flowers Andy didn’t know the names of but strongly suspected cost unreasonable amounts of money. The entire arrangement looked expensive in the effortless way Christian himself somehow managed. Honestly, it looked like a bouquet purchased by someone who believed subtlety was for cowards.
Andy stared at it with growing disbelief. “How is anyone supposed to carry this?”
“Very carefully.”
“This thing has structural engineering.”
The florist grinned.
Andy reached for the bouquet cautiously, nearly losing balance under the sheer size of it. “Oh my God,” she muttered. “Christian Thompson, you deeply dramatic man.”
Then, because curiosity was unfortunately alive and thriving inside her nervous system, Andy’s eyes drifted toward the small cream envelope tucked neatly among the stems. A card.
Now. Technically. Looking would be invasive. Morally questionable. Potentially rude.
But also, who the hell was this ridiculously humongous bouquet for???
Andy looked at the florist.
The florist looked back calmly with the expression of someone who had witnessed human curiosity destroy lives before. “…Don’t,” she advised mildly.
Andy lasted approximately four seconds. Very subtly, she tilted the card just enough to glimpse the elegant handwriting across the front.
Vanessa.
Andy blinked. Vanessa??? Who on earth was Vanessa?
Immediately several possibilities formed:
- glamorous art curator
- French actress
- terrifying model
- wealthy divorcee
- emotionally unavailable architect
Honestly, Christian Thompson did not seem capable of casually dating women named Amber. Vanessa sounded expensive.
Andy stared at the card one second longer before guilt finally returned. Right. Privacy. Humanity. Ethics.
She straightened quickly. “I didn’t see anything,” she informed the florist.
The florist snorted softly. “Mm.”
Five minutes later Andy found herself power-walking through midtown Manhattan carrying what felt less like a bouquet and more like agricultural infrastructure.
The flowers were enormous. Actually enormous. Pedestrians physically moved aside for them.
One little girl passing with her mother pointed openly and whispered, “Whoa.”
Andy adjusted her grip desperately while cold wind whipped strands of dark hair into her face. “How rich is this man,” she muttered aloud.
Because genuinely, the bouquet looked capable of hosting smaller bouquets inside it.
And the entire time she carried it through Manhattan, all Andy could think about was Emily. Again. Because now every sunflower in existence apparently belonged emotionally to Emily Charlton. Which frankly felt unfair.
The memory arrived in fragments while she walked. Emily holding the bouquet against her chest. Emily trying not to cry in that alley. Emily saying “These are aggressively yellow.” Emily blushing afterward while Serena spiritually ascended nearby.
Andy smiled helplessly into the cold air. God. She really liked her. The realization no longer arrived with panic now. Only warmth. Terrifying warmth, admittedly, but still.
Somewhere above the avenue the sky hung pale gray with winter haze while taxis hissed through damp streets below. Manhattan moved around her in restless motion: people rushing past in dark wool coats, steam curling upward from subway grates, headlights smeared gold against wet pavement.
And right in the middle of all of it walked Andrea Sachs carrying a comically oversized bouquet for Christian Thompson while thinking about Emily Charlton’s smile. Honestly, her life had become deeply strange.
By the time she reached the restaurant, her arms hurt.
The place sat tucked along a quieter side street downtown, all dark glass and warm amber light spilling softly onto wet sidewalks outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the corner of the building, revealing glimpses of polished wood interiors and softly glowing shelves lined with bottles behind the bar. It looked expensive in a restrained, self-satisfied kind of way. Very Christian.
Andy paused briefly outside the window adjusting the massive bouquet in her arms before spotting him immediately inside. Of course she did.
Christian sat alone near the bar with his back partly turned toward the windows, one elbow resting lazily against polished dark wood while he spoke absently to the bartender. Dark coat. Expensive watch glinting beneath warm light. Entire posture radiating the confidence of a man who had never once worried whether he belonged somewhere. Honestly, irritating.
Andy pushed through the front doors with the bouquet first because there was no elegant way to enter carrying that much sunflower.
Warmth rushed over her instantly alongside low jazz music and the scent of garlic and wine and expensive cologne.
Christian looked up. Then physically blinked at the size of the bouquet.
“Oh good,” Andy announced immediately while marching toward him. “You bought a floral hostage situation.”
Christian burst out laughing.
Several nearby diners glanced over as Andy reached the table and dropped the bouquet dramatically onto the polished surface with a heavy thud. The flowers practically consumed half the table instantly.
Christian leaned back slightly, grinning openly now. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“They’re the size of Connecticut.”
“You survived carrying them though.”
“Barely.”
A waitress appeared moments later trying very hard not to look amused while Christian smoothly ordered drinks for both of them like this entire absurd situation was perfectly normal.
Andy collapsed into the seat next to him with profound relief. “My arms actually hurt.”
Christian glanced toward the bouquet fondly. “Worth it.”
Andy narrowed her eyes immediately. “You really like this woman.”
Christian only smiled into his drink. Aha. Interesting.
The waitress returned with drinks while afternoon light slid softly through the giant windows beside them, pale gold against polished wood and dark leather seating. Outside, Manhattan blurred cold and gray beneath drifting rain. Inside everything glowed warm.
For a while conversation stayed easy. Christian complained about an editor in Florida who apparently communicated exclusively through emotional warfare. Andy told him about a source interview involving a man who referred to computers as “society’s final evolution.”
At one point Christian physically removed his glasses just to stare at her. “You genuinely attract lunatics professionally.”
“I learned from Miranda.”
“Fair.”
Their food arrived soon afterward. Pasta for Andy, something aggressively expensive and minimalist for Christian.
And eventually, inevitably, Andy leaned back in her chair and asked casually, “So.”
Christian looked immediately suspicious. “Dangerous tone.”
“Who’s Vanessa?”
He smirked instantly into his wine glass. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on.”
“No.”
“You made me transport the flowers.”
“Yes,” Christian agreed calmly. “And now you’re emotionally involved.”
Andy pointed accusingly across the table. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet charming.”
“Debatable.”
Christian smiled lazily. “Trade for a trade.”
Andy narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”
“You tell me who your mysterious Felice dinner was with.” He gestured lightly with one hand. “Then I tell you about Vanessa.”
Andy nearly laughed. Absolutely not. Because the thing was, Emily would hate that. Not because Emily disliked Christian exactly, hell, she didn’t even know him to begin with, but because Runway functioned like a predatory ecosystem emotionally fueled by gossip and humiliation. And Andy knew with complete certainty Emily Charlton would rather fling herself bodily into the Atlantic than become Christian Thompson’s Interesting Romantic Update.
Christian watched her carefully now. “Well?” he prompted.
Andy reached for her drink casually. “No deal.”
“Come on.” His grin sharpened slightly. “You already gave me one clue.”
Andy froze faintly. “…Did I?”
“You called the reservation a ‘she’ over the phone that night.”
Oh. Right. Oops.
Christian leaned back looking deeply entertained now. “Honestly, Andrea Sachs, you continue to surprise me.”
Andy laughed despite herself. “How scandalized are you exactly?”
“I’m not scandalized.” A pause. “Curious, absolutely.”
“Mm.”
“A woman though.” He tilted his head slightly. “Interesting.”
Andy took another sip of her drink trying very hard not to think about Emily currently somewhere across Manhattan probably surviving entirely through caffeine and violence.
Christian watched her face carefully. Then smirked slowly. “Oh, you really like her.”
Andy nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
“That expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one happening right now.”
Andy pointed aggressively at him. “You’re projecting because of Vanessa.”
Christian only looked delighted. “Deflection.”
Andy groaned softly and leaned back in her chair.
Then suddenly an idea occurred to her. A terrible idea. Which naturally meant she immediately committed to it.
“Fine,” Andy sighed dramatically. “I’ll tell you.”
Christian straightened instantly. “Really?”
Andy nodded solemnly. “Come closer.”
His eyebrows lifted in intrigue immediately. “Oh, this is serious.”
“It’s confidential.”
Christian leaned across the table at once, fully invested now. “Tell me.”
Andy leaned forward too. Closer. Close enough now that she could smell expensive cologne and red wine.
Christian turned slightly so she could whisper near his ear.
And softly, sweetly, Andy murmured, “Not bloody likely.”
Then she pulled away immediately with a bright triumphant grin.
Christian stared at her for one full stunned second.
Then barked out a laugh loud enough several people nearby turned to look. “Oh, that’s cruel.”
Andy looked unbearably pleased with herself. “You deserved it.”
“You’re spending too much time with passive aggressive people.”
“Maybe.”
Christian shook his head slowly, still laughing under his breath. “Wow. She’s really got you protecting state secrets already.”
Andy smiled faintly into her drink. Because yes. Actually. She did.
-
Meanwhile, approximately twelve blocks downtown, Emily Charlton was having what could only professionally be classified as a complete collapse of patience. Again.
By twelve-thirty that afternoon, she had already reached the stage of exhaustion where every sound another human being made felt personally disrespectful. And unfortunately, Georgia was still alive. Which frankly seemed increasingly unfair.
The disaster had begun right before Emily’s lunchtime when Miranda decided she suddenly needed the Hermès skirts retrieved personally before the Rome departure in two days because apparently no one at Runway was allowed to experience peace under any circumstances.
Originally, this task had been delegated to Georgia. Originally.
Unfortunately Georgia then proceeded to ask so many catastrophically stupid questions in the span of ninety seconds that Miranda eventually looked up from reviewing layouts with visible irritation and said, “Emily, you take care of it.”
Emily had closed her eyes briefly. Because truly, she no longer understood what Georgia’s actual job description was beyond standing incorrectly, breathing anxiously, and turning manageable tasks into psychological warfare.
Now here Emily was walking through Manhattan carrying approximately eight enormous orange Hermès bags digging violently into her hands while winter wind slapped strands of hair into her face.
The bags swung awkwardly against her knees with every furious step. One contained silk skirts worth more than most people’s rent. Another contained shoes Miranda had apparently decided she hated, loved again, then hated differently. Two more held emergency tailoring adjustments because fashion apparently could not survive twenty-four consecutive hours without crisis intervention.
Emily’s shoulders ached. Her feet hurt. And honestly, she was beginning to suspect the universe itself had developed a personal vendetta against her specifically.
The afternoon air bit sharply against her skin as taxis hissed through wet streets nearby, gray slush gathered at curbs from yesterday’s snowstorm. Manhattan moved around her in chaotic motion. Pedestrians weaving through intersections, horns blaring aggressively, steam rising from subway grates in pale twisting clouds.
Emily marched through all of it radiating the tightly contained fury of a woman one inconvenience away from felony charges.
Then—BARK.
Emily physically startled.
A tiny dog wearing a tartan coat lunged suddenly from beside a café patio table directly toward her heels, barking like it had identified her personally as society’s greatest threat.
“Oh for God’s—”
One Hermès bag slipped immediately from her grip. The bright orange paper bag hit the sidewalk with a horrible crunching sound. Emily froze in complete outrage.
The dog barked again. Its owner gasped dramatically. “Muffin! No!”
Emily stared at the tiny animal with profound hatred.
The dog barked a third time.
“…I swear to God,” Emily muttered darkly while crouching to retrieve the fallen bag, “if I get assassinated by a handbag-related incident today—”
“Sorry!” the owner called again weakly.
Emily rose slowly with the bag clutched against her chest and looked directly at the woman.
“Yes” she replied flatly. “You should be.”
Then she turned sharply on her heel and continued marching down the block before she genuinely bit someone. This day was bullshit. Complete bullshit.
Her phone buzzed again somewhere inside her coat pocket. Probably Georgia. Probably asking whether Rome existed in Italy. Emily ignored it violently.
Cold wind swept down the avenue hard enough to sting her eyes while she strode past storefronts glowing gold against the gray afternoon.
And then—Andy.
Emily stopped walking. And somewhere internally, all movement halted instantly.
Through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows of a restaurant halfway down the block, she spotted dark hair immediately. Andrea Sachs. Warm light spilled around her from inside the restaurant, amber against winter gray, catching softly against familiar dark curls and the curve of her mouth as she laughed at something across the table.
Emily’s chest loosened automatically at the sight of her. Reflex. Instinctive now.
And then she saw the flowers. Sunflowers. Huge ones. Massive golden blooms exploded across the table between Andrea and whoever sat opposite her, bright and unmistakable even through the glass.
Emily slowed unconsciously. Her pulse stumbled once strangely inside her throat. Sunflowers. The exact same flowers Andrea had brought her. The same absurdly warm flowers Emily had spent all night staring at sitting inside her kitchen like tiny captured suns.
For one suspended second, confusion drifted softly through her mind. Then slowly, carefully, her gaze shifted toward the man sitting across from Andrea. His back faced the window, broad shoulders outlined beneath dark wool while one arm rested loosely beside a wine glass. Expensive coat. Blond hair. Elegant posture. A man.
Emily blinked once. No. No, perhaps this was work. A source. A meeting. A friend.
Then Andrea leaned forward. Close. Close enough that from Emily’s angle through rain-streaked glass it looked achingly intimate, her mouth near his ear, her expression bright with mischief and warmth.
And the man leaned toward her too. Interested Focused entirely on her.
Then Andrea pulled away smiling. God. That smile. Wide and pleased and openly delighted in a way Emily had begun selfishly thinking belonged partly to her now.
Something sharp moved suddenly through Emily’s ribs. The city noise around her dulled strangely. Traffic blurred. Wind curled cold against her face. The Hermès bags dug painfully into her fingers.
Inside the restaurant, Andrea looked happy. Happy and soft and glowing beneath warm amber light while giant sunflowers sprawled between her and another person.
Emily stared through the window motionlessly.
And then—the final blow.
Andrea leaned in again. Quickly this time.
From Emily’s angle, all she saw was dark curls moving close beside the man’s face. Close enough to kiss his cheek.
The world seemed to tilt sideways. Emily stopped breathing entirely.
Inside the restaurant, Andrea pulled away afterward wearing the most pleased expression Emily had ever seen on her face. Warm. Flushed. Fond. Like someone thoroughly enjoying herself. Like someone flirting. Like someone completely at ease giving pieces of herself away.
Emily’s stomach dropped violently. No. No no no. A horrible roaring sound filled her ears suddenly. Because the flowers, the fucking flowers, Andrea had made them feel special. Special enough that Emily had carried them home like something precious. Special enough that she’d used her favorite vase. Special enough that she’d stood smiling helplessly alone in her bathroom thinking maybe this meant something.
And now here Andrea was casually handing out sunflowers to men across Manhattan like some kind of emotionally devastating florist.
Emily’s chest tightened painfully. No wonder Andrea had chosen sunflowers so easily. No wonder she’d kissed her cheek so casually. Perhaps this was simply what Andrea did. Warmth everywhere. Kindness everywhere. Affection scattered recklessly across the city like flower petals.
And Emily, idiotically, catastrophically, had mistaken being adored for being unique.
Her throat tightened hard enough to hurt. Because suddenly all those moments replayed differently now.
The lists. The dinner at Felice. Andrea looking starstrucked at her. The subway ride. Andrea asleep against her shoulder. Andrea wearing her clothes. Andrea letting herself be cared for so naturally Emily had begun feeling necessary in ways she hadn’t anticipated surviving.
Then the flowers. the kiss. the texts afterward. “The kiss was also… unexpectedly effective.”
Oh God. Heat flooded sharply into Emily’s face at the memory. Humiliation. Pure humiliation. Because she had sent that. Actually sent that. Like some emotionally unstable teenager in a Nora Ephron film.
Meanwhile Andrea apparently had an entire rotating ecosystem of sunflower recipients scattered throughout Manhattan.
Emily’s grip tightened viciously around the Hermès bags.
Inside the restaurant Andrea laughed again at something the man said.
Emily physically looked away. Something ugly and aching had begun expanding beneath her ribs now, sharp enough she almost felt nauseous.
Jealousy, perhaps. But worse than jealousy. Disappointment. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all her cynicism and caution and carefully maintained emotional restraint, Emily had begun allowing herself to believe this was becoming real. Not casual. Not temporary. Not one more passing flirtation destined to dissolve once Andrea inevitably realized Emily was too sharp, too difficult, too much.
Andrea had looked at her like she mattered. Like she was singular. And Emily, God, pathetically, had believed her.
Wind whipped hard down the avenue, cold enough to sting tears briefly into her eyes. Emily blinked them away immediately. Absolutely not. She would not cry standing outside a restaurant because Andrea Sachs apparently collected attractive people and handed out sunflowers recreationally.
The humiliation burned hotter now the longer she stood there. Because truly, what exactly had Emily expected? Andrea was warm. Beautiful. Earnest in that infuriatingly sincere way that made people orbit her naturally. Of course other people wanted her. Of course Andrea flirted easily. Touched easily. Smiled easily.
And Emily—Emily had somehow seen all that warmth directed toward herself and immediately started building entire emotional cathedrals around it.
Idiot. Complete idiot.
Another burst of laughter drifted faintly through the restaurant windows.
Emily turned sharply away before she could see more. The Hermès bags slammed hard against her knees as she started walking again, heels striking violently against wet pavement.
Her mind churned viciously with every step. So this was what she’d become. A woman who:
- wrote drunken love confessions,
- allowed herself to hope,
- got kissed once in an alleyway and immediately started emotionally furnishing a future around it.
And meanwhile Andrea Sachs, apparently, was out here conducting sunflower diplomacy across New York City.
Emily swallowed hard. Her chest hurt. Actually hurt. Which felt deeply unfair considering none of this had technically been defined properly in the first place. No labels. No exclusivity. No promises. Only: dinner. Warmth. Texts. Flowers. Care. The unbearable intimacy of ordinary tenderness. Enough to make Emily foolish. Not enough to make her safe.
By the time she reached the next intersection, her phone buzzed again.
Andrea Sachs.
Emily looked down automatically.
A message glowed across the screen:
How’s your day going?
Emily stared at it. Then laughed once quietly. A short sharp sound entirely without humor. Of course. Of fucking course.
Her thumb hovered briefly over the screen before she locked the phone without replying and shoved it hard back into her coat pocket.
The city blurred around her in cold gray motion while the ache beneath her ribs spread slowly wider.
And somewhere far behind her, inside a warm restaurant glowing gold against the winter afternoon, Andrea Sachs sat smiling beside giant sunflowers completely unaware she had just broken Emily Charlton’s heart a little.
-
By the time Emily finally returned to Runway, she felt flayed alive emotionally.
Cold air followed her briefly through the revolving Elias-Clarke doors before warmth swallowed her again alongside the familiar scent of expensive perfume, fresh paper, and escalating psychological distress.
Her heels clicked sharply across polished marble floors while the Hermès bags swung heavily against her legs.
She had not calmed down. If anything, the walk back had made everything worse. Because now her brain wouldn’t stop replaying it. Andrea laughing. Andrea leaning close. The sunflowers. That soft pleased smile afterward. Every memory landed like a bruise.
Emily swept past reception without acknowledging anyone, jaw tight enough to hurt. Around her the Runway office still moved in its usual elegant chaos: assistants speed-walking in heels, garment bags gliding through corridors, and phones ringing endlessly somewhere deeper inside the fashion closet. Normally the familiar rhythm soothed her. Today every sound scraped against already-frayed nerves.
And then she saw Georgia. Sitting at her desk. Eating cookies.
Emily stopped dead.
The girl had somehow managed to look comfortable, which immediately felt offensive. A half-open plastic container of cookies sat beside the phone while Georgia typed one-handed with all the urgency of someone emailing vacation photos instead of assisting Miranda Priestly.
Emily stared at her in complete disbelief. She had spent the last forty minutes hauling luxury garments across freezing Manhattan while emotionally imploding in public over Andrea Sachs and a mystery man. And Georgia was eating cookies.
The injustice of it nearly blinded her.
Georgia looked up brightly. “Oh! You’re back.”
Emily said nothing.
Georgia blinked once under the force of the silence. “…Was Hermès bad?”
Something inside Emily snapped cleanly in half. “Bad?” she repeated softly.
Georgia immediately straightened.
Emily dropped the bags onto the desk with enough force to rattle the phones. “No, Georgia. Carrying eight garment bags through sleet while trying to reorganize Miranda’s travel schedule because apparently basic competence escaped this office entirely was delightful.”
Georgia shrank instantly. “I only meant—”
“And while we’re discussing disasters,” Emily continued sharply, stripping off her gloves with furious precision, “why exactly have there been three missed calls from Rome since I left? They had to call my mobile.”
“I thought—”
“No, see, that’s the issue,” Emily cut in coldly. “You don’t.”
Nearby assistants suddenly became extremely interested in not existing.
Georgia swallowed hard. “I was waiting for confirmation—”
“From whom? God? The Pope? Miranda asked you to rebook the flight three hours ago.”
“I know, but the airline kept transferring me and then—”
“And somehow despite possessing both a phone and functioning fingers, this became my problem again.”
Georgia looked genuinely panicked now. “Emily, I’m trying—”
“Yes,” Emily snapped. “Unfortunately unsuccessfully.”
The office had gone noticeably quieter around them now. A few people glanced over before immediately pretending not to.
Emily could feel herself spiraling harder with every sentence, anger surging too fast beneath her skin now to fully control. Because it wasn’t really about Georgia. It was the flowers, the restaurant, and Andrea smiling at someone else.
But Georgia was here. Georgia was tangible. Georgia was asking stupid questions while Emily’s chest still ached violently from humiliation. So Georgia suffered.
“And honestly,” Emily continued, voice dangerously calm now, “if I have to explain one more catastrophically simple task to you today, I may actually lose what remains of my sanity.”
Georgia’s eyes visibly filled. Oh. For one brief flicker of a second, guilt surfaced somewhere beneath Emily’s fury.
The girl looked genuinely devastated now, shoulders tightening as she stared down hard at the desk trying not to cry.
And horrifyingly, she seemed to believe this was all about Hermès. “Emily,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry you had to go instead.”
Emily physically closed her eyes. Because that was the worst part. Georgia had absolutely no idea she was currently absorbing emotional collateral damage from a sunflower-related heartbreak occurring twelve blocks downtown.
“…Just,” Emily exhaled tightly, pressing fingers briefly against her temple, “please call Alitalia again and fix the Rome situation before Miranda asks for an update.”
Georgia nodded immediately, voice tiny now. “Okay.”
Emily turned away before guilt could fully settle in and strode back toward her own desk with rigid efficiency. Her head hurt. Her chest hurt worse. And she still hadn’t eaten lunch. Fantastic.
-
The afternoon dragged afterward in one long blurred stretch of exhaustion.
Emily sat at her desk typing revisions with brutal focus while the office buzzed around her endlessly. Tap of keyboards. Ringing phones. The rustle of fabric samples. Someone laughing too loudly near accessories. Normally she thrived inside this environment. Today every sound felt sharpened.
And despite everything, despite actively trying not to, her mind kept drifting back toward Andrea. Toward that restaurant window. Toward the flowers.
Every few minutes another ugly thought surfaced unwanted. Maybe she gives everyone sunflowers. Maybe the kiss meant nothing. Maybe Emily had simply mistaken kindness for intimacy again.
God. Her stomach twisted painfully. The worst part was she couldn’t even justify feeling angry properly. Andrea technically hadn’t done anything wrong. There had been no conversation about exclusivity. No official declarations. Nothing beyond warmth and tenderness and growing feelings neither of them had fully named yet. Which somehow made this hurt worse.
Because Emily had no right to feel betrayed. And yet betrayal curled hot and ugly beneath her ribs anyway.
Her computer screen blurred briefly. Emily blinked hard and kept typing. Then her phone rang. She glanced down automatically.
Andrea Sachs.
Her pulse lurched traitorously at the sight of the name before immediately hardening again. No. Absolutely not.
Emily inhaled once sharply and answered. “Yes?”
Andy’s voice arrived warm and easy through the line immediately. “Hey.”
Emily stared coldly at her computer screen.
“Busy day?” Andy asked lightly. “You never replied to my message.”
Something bitter twisted sharply inside Emily’s chest. Of course she sounded cheerful. Why wouldn’t she? Probably fresh from lunch and flirting and sunflower distribution.
“Yes, Andrea,” Emily replied crisply, fingers tightening around her pen. “I have a demanding job.”
A small pause.
Andy blinked audibly on the other end. “Okay,” she said carefully. “I know that.”
Emily hated herself instantly. But not enough to stop. “I’ve been slightly occupied all afternoon.”
Another pause.
“…Rough day?”
Emily laughed once under her breath. Rough day. That was one way to describe emotionally witnessing your situationship apparently romancing another person through giant symbolic flower arrangements. “Yes,” she said flatly. “You could say that.”
Andy’s tone gentled immediately in that way Emily usually adored and currently could not survive. “I’m sorry.”
Emily swallowed hard. God. Why did she still sound sweet?
“Anyway,” Andy continued after a second, “I was wondering if you’re free tonight?”
Emily’s stomach dropped.
“Dinner maybe?” Andy asked warmly. “You sound stressed.”
The audacity.
Emily stared blankly ahead while something hot and miserable surged violently through her chest. Dinner? After spending the afternoon apparently kissing men over cocktails and sunflowers? No. No absolutely not. She would not become one more pleasant stop on Andrea Sachs’ emotional Manhattan tour.
Inside her chest humiliation curdled sharply into anger again.
“I can’t,” Emily replied immediately.
A beat.
“Oh.”
Andy sounded genuinely disappointed. Which somehow made everything worse.
Emily kept her voice clipped and professional. “I’ll be here late.”
“That’s okay,” Andy said quickly. “Another night maybe?”
Emily’s throat tightened painfully. Because part of her wanted to say yes automatically. Wanted Andrea anyway. Wanted warmth and subway rides and soft looks across dinner tables. But all she could see now was Andrea leaning toward another person beneath warm restaurant light while giant sunflowers bloomed between them.
“No,” Emily heard herself say coolly. “I’m busy the next few evenings too.”
Silence stretched briefly between them.
Then, “…Okay.”
Emily stared hard at the blinking cursor on her screen.
Andy recovered first with admirable gentleness. “Well. I hope your day gets better.”
The sincerity in her voice nearly cracked something open inside Emily’s chest. Because God, what if Andrea really had meant nothing by it? What if Emily was overreacting completely? What if there was an explanation?
But humiliation arrived immediately afterward crushing the thought flat. No. She had seen it. The flowers. The smile. The leaning in. Emily could not survive sounding pathetic on top of everything else.
“Mm,” she replied faintly. “Goodbye, Andrea.”
“Bye, Em.”
The line clicked dead. Emily lowered the phone slowly back into the desk.
And suddenly the office felt unbearably loud. For several seconds she simply sat there motionless staring at her computer screen while the ache inside her chest spread wider and wider.
Then mechanically, she resumed typing. Tap. Tap. Tap. Words blurred together almost instantly. Because now her mind replayed everything all over again with fresh cruelty. Andrea laughing at lunch. Andrea holding flowers. Andrea sounding warm on the phone just now.
Emily’s throat burned suddenly. Oh God. She wanted, simultaneously, to scream loud enough to shatter every glass wall in Elias-Clarke, and also crawl somewhere dark and private and cry until her ribs stopped hurting.
Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. This was not a breakup. Nothing had technically even happened yet. And still Emily felt heartsick in the most humiliating way imaginable.
Her fingers paused over the keyboard. Across the office someone dropped a stack of folders. Phones rang. Georgia spoke quietly into another line trying not to upset Miranda again. Life continued normally around her.
Meanwhile Emily Charlton sat silently at her desk trying not to fall apart over a woman who had brought her sunflowers and looked at her like she was special. Only apparently, she wasn’t.
-
By the time Emily finally got home, it was ten-thirty and she felt approximately one inconvenience away from dissolving into dust.
The elevator ride up had been silent except for the faint mechanical hum of old cables and the ache pulsing steadily behind her eyes. Her feet hurt so badly now she could feel her heartbeat inside her heels. Her ripped tights scratched irritatingly against chilled skin beneath her coat. And somewhere between Elias-Clarke and her apartment, exhaustion had settled so heavily into her bones that even holding herself upright felt negotiable.
The apartment door clicked shut behind her.
Silence.
Soft amber light spilled across polished floors and marble counters while Manhattan glittered distantly beyond enormous windows, cold and sleepless beneath the winter night.
And immediately—the flowers. Still sitting there on the kitchen counter. Bright. Golden. Warm.
Sunflowers glowing softly beneath under-cabinet lighting like little captured pieces of happiness.
Emily stopped moving entirely.
For one suspended second, anger surged up so fast and violently through her chest she genuinely considered hurling the entire vase directly into the wall.
Just smashing it. Watching water and glass and flowers explode across expensive marble. Destroying the unbearable sweetness of them before they could keep hurting her like this.
Because honestly? Fuck Andrea Sachs. Fuck her stupid warm eyes and impossible sincerity and manipulative little smiles. Fuck the subway rides and coffee and “You’re very stare-able.” Fuck sunflowers.
Emily stared at the arrangement breathing hard through her nose. The vase itself she didn’t care about. It was only glass. An expensive favorite, yes, but replaceable.
But the flowers—God. They still looked so happy. The petals had opened even wider since that day , broad golden faces tilted toward the kitchen lights with stubborn optimism. Bright and alive against the cool sleek lines of the apartment. Soft leaves spilling naturally over the rim of the vase.
Andrea flowers.
They looked exactly how Emily herself had felt two nights ago standing barefoot in this kitchen smiling helplessly at them like some emotionally unstable woman in a Nancy Meyers film.
And now here she was instead: heartbroken over absolutely nothing official, still wearing ripped tights, and seriously contemplating emotional destruction via floral arrangement. Humiliating.
Emily looked away first. “No,” she muttered sharply to herself. “Absolutely not.”
The flowers remained glowing quietly behind her as she shrugged off her coat and moved toward the fridge instead.
Dinner. Right. Food. Normal functional adult behavior.
Emily opened the refrigerator door and stared blankly inside. Eggs. Arugula. Cheese. Leftover pasta. Half a bottle of white wine.
Usually she would make something quick despite the exhaustion. Something simple and efficient while mentally reorganizing tomorrow’s schedule. Tonight the mere thought of cooking felt unbearable. Too many steps. Too much effort. She was bone-tired already. Emotionally concussed. Her feet hurt. Her chest hurt worse. No more chores. No more responsibility. No more goddamn competence.
Emily slowly closed the fridge again.
Then, after one long exhausted pause, she reached for her keys. If she stayed here alone with those flowers all night she was going to lose her mind completely.
-
Twenty minutes later she found herself sitting alone at a downtown bar still wearing ripped tights beneath her black coat. Honestly, at this point the tears in them looked intentional enough to qualify as fashion. Edgy. European. Emotionally unstable chic. Who cared anymore.
The bar itself was dim and vaguely unpleasant in the expensive New York way. Too-dark lighting, sticky wood counters, overpriced drinks, jazz loud enough to prevent introspection but not loud enough to stop it entirely.
Amber light blurred softly across mirrored liquor shelves while strangers laughed too loudly around her.
Emily sat alone at the far end of the bar and ordered vodka. Then another. Then another.
The burn helped briefly. Not enough. Because infuriatingly, Andrea remained everywhere anyway. In every sunflower decoration hanging ironically near the ceiling. In every warm laugh somewhere behind her. In every stupid hopeful couple leaning toward each other over drinks.
Emily swallowed another mouthful of vodka and stared down at the glass bitterly.
Around her the bar pulsed with restless Manhattan energy; ice clinking, music humming low, voices overlapping in blurred waves.
And unfortunately men existed there too. One appeared beside her approximately fifteen minutes in. Tall. Forgettable. Smelled aggressively of expensive cologne and bad decisions.
“You’re British, right?” he asked immediately with the confidence of a man who had never once feared humiliation.
Emily stared ahead. “Observant.”
“I love the accent.”
“Mm.”
“What part of London?”
Emily closed her eyes briefly. God.
“Not now,” she replied flatly.
The man either ignored the warning signs entirely or simply lacked survival instincts. “Nah seriously,” he continued, leaning closer, “say something again.”
Emily slowly turned toward him. “Fuck off.”
He blinked. Then laughed like she’d flirted. “Oh wow. Sexy.”
Emily physically recoiled. Objectively awful.
Ten minutes later another one tried imitating her accent badly enough she briefly considered violence.
“Ello luv,” he slurred.
Emily looked at him with complete horror. “I’m begging you to stop speaking.”
Honestly, men in Manhattan should legally require supervision.
Eventually they left her alone after enough withering looks and outright hostility. Which was fortunate.
Because by now Emily’s thoughts had begun looping dangerously. Andrea Sachs and her goddamn eyes. Andrea Sachs and her warmth and relentless sincerity and catastrophic smile. Andrea Sachs apparently wandering around New York handing out sunflowers and cheek kisses to civilians like some kind of emotionally devastating public service initiative.
Emily knocked back another vodka. Because truly, what exactly had Andrea done since reappearing in her life besides emotionally destabilize her?
First, she nearly made Emily walk directly into traffic on Madison Avenue because she’d called asking “You love me?”. Then she accidentally referred to Emily as an “old friend” at Felice 56 in front of an innocent waiter and Emily had nearly died on the spot. Then she invaded Emily’s apartment and somehow stole her clothes and perfume and half her emotional stability in under twenty-four hours.
And now apparently, apparently, she’d moved on already. The thought landed ugly and sharp inside Emily’s chest. No. Not moved on exactly. That implied Andrea had belonged to her in the first place. Which she hadn’t. Technically.
Emily stared hard into her drink. God she hated this. Hated the jealousy. Hated the uncertainty. Hated how quickly Andrea had become capable of hurting her without even trying. And worst of all, hated how badly she still wanted her anyway.
The list returned to her suddenly then, uninvited. That ridiculous drunken list she’d written trying so desperately to transform love into hatred because hatred felt safer. I hate your eyes. I hate your smile. I hate that you are so relentlessly earnest.
Emily let out a short bitter laugh beneath her breath. What a joke. Because none of those things had become less untrue. If anything, Andrea’s warmth had only grown more dangerous over time.
Another sip of vodka. And another.
The bar blurred softly now around the edges while jazz drifted low through dim light and strangers moved in indistinct shadows around her.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, exhaustion finally cracked something open inside her chest. A slow unbearable ache spreading upward into her throat.
Emily blinked once. Then again. Oh. A tear slipped silently down her cheek.
Emily froze. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. God.
Immediately she looked away from everyone instinctively, one hand rising quickly toward her face. Another tear followed anyway. Hot against cold skin.
Emily swallowed hard. This was absurd. Completely absurd. She was twenty-three years old sitting alone in a Manhattan bar crying over sunflowers, a cheek kiss, and a woman she technically wasn’t even dating. Humiliating.
And yet the tears kept gathering anyway, slow and silent now, betraying her completely beneath dim amber lighting. Because beneath all the anger and jealousy and wounded pride, the truth sat raw and aching inside her chest. Emily had let herself hope. Hope for softness. For tenderness. For being chosen carefully. And now she sat alone at a bar realizing perhaps she had imagined the entire thing.
Across the room someone laughed loudly. Ice clinked against glass. Outside beyond fogged windows Manhattan glittered cold and sleepless beneath the dark.
And Emily Charlton lowered her eyes toward the vodka in front of her while tears slid quietly down her face and thought with exhausted misery.
God, she really fucking hated Andrea Sachs. Unfortunately, completely, hopelessly, she was still in love with her anyway.
-
Her phone buzzed against the bartop.
Emily startled slightly. For one terrible irrational second her exhausted brain genuinely thought, Miranda.
But no. The screen lit up instead with:
Andrea Sachs Calling.
Oh for fuck’s sake. Not now. Absolutely not now.
Emily stared at the phone in horror while her heartbeat lurched painfully against already-frayed nerves. Because currently she was slightly drunk, actively crying, emotionally unstable, and sitting alone at a bar looking like a woman midway through a cinematic breakdown. Under no circumstances could Andrea hear that.
Emily straightened immediately on instinct, wiping quickly beneath her eyes with the heel of her hand before anyone noticed. She inhaled once sharply, forcing air properly back into lungs that suddenly felt too tight. Compose yourself.
Another buzz.
God.
Emily cleared her throat quickly and answered before the ringing could continue. “What.”
The word emerged sharper than intended.
On the other end Andy paused briefly. “...Hi to you too.”
Emily pressed fingers against her temple hard enough to hurt.
Andy’s voice arrived warm through the speaker anyway, low and familiar and immediately capable of making Emily’s chest ache all over again. “How’s your day going?”
Badly, Emily thought instantly. Catastrophically. Emotionally apocalyptic.
Instead she said flatly, “Busy.”
There was soft background noise on Andrea’s end. Traffic maybe. A subway announcement muffled somewhere in the distance.
“You okay?” Andy asked carefully after a second.
The concern in her voice nearly undid her immediately.
Emily swallowed hard and looked away toward the back wall of the bar. “I’m fine.”
Lie.
A pause.
“You sounded stressed earlier.”
Earlier. Right. That phone call at Runway. Dinner tonight? The audacity.
Emily tightened her grip around the vodka glass. “Demanding job, Andrea,” she replied crisply. “As previously established.”
Andy huffed a faint little laugh at that, gentle and tired sounding. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know.”
God. Emily hated how easily Andrea could still sound fond after everything Emily had seen today. Sunflowers. Leaning close. That smile afterward.
Her stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Andy continued carefully, “I just wanted to check on you.”
Something inside Emily’s chest cracked painfully at the edges. Which was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. Because Andrea Sachs did not get to emotionally devastate her all afternoon and then call sounding concerned.
Emily stared hard at the mirrored liquor shelves behind the bar until the lights blurred softly together. “Well,” she said shortly, voice tight, “you’ve checked.”
Another tiny silence.
“Em—”
“I have an early morning tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Andy sounded faintly thrown by the abruptness now. Good. Emily needed distance before she said something humiliating. Or worse, something honest.
“Goodnight, Andrea.”
“...Goodnight.”
Emily hung up immediately afterward and dropped the phone face-down onto the bar.
Her pulse still hadn’t settled properly. God.
The bartender glanced over briefly while polishing glasses. “Everything alright?”
“No.”
He blinked.
Emily sighed tiredly. “Sorry. Yes. Fine. Whatever.”
Honestly she was too exhausted even for proper emotional repression anymore.
The vodka sat warm and heavy in her bloodstream now, softening the edges of the terrible ache lodged beneath her ribs without actually removing it.
Around her the bar continued pulsing lazily onward. Laughter, music, ice clinking softly against crystal.
Emily stared blankly ahead. Rome. Right. She was leaving for Rome in two days. AltaRomaAltaModa. Miranda. Nigel. Work.
Distance.
The thought settled slowly through her exhausted brain like the first reasonable thing she’d heard all day.
Rome would help. Obviously. Geographical separation. Professional focus. Italian infrastructure. Perfect.
She would spend several days aggressively not thinking about Andrea Sachs while surrounded by couture and excellent pasta and historical architecture. Maybe by the time she returned to New York she would finally stop reacting to sunflowers like a recently widowed Victorian woman.
Her phone buzzed again. Emily looked down reluctantly. A text from Andrea.
Hope your day gets less terrible.
Eat something tonight, okay?
Emily stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then, jaw tightening faintly, she silenced the phone completely and shoved it into her bag. No. Absolutely not. She could not survive tenderness from Andrea right now without risking complete psychological collapse in public.
Another twenty minutes and one final vodka later, Emily finally accepted she was approaching genuinely dangerous levels of emotional intoxication.
Which meant it was time to go home before she a) drunk-texted Andrea something catastrophic, b) cried harder in public, or c) committed homicide against another man attempting British accents.
So she paid, ignored one final “cheer up, love” from a stranger with visible hostility, and stepped back outside into freezing Manhattan air.
The cold hit immediately. Sharp wind against damp cheeks. Headlights streaking gold across wet pavement. Steam curling upward through dark streets.
Emily wrapped her coat tighter around herself and hailed a cab with the exhausted grace of someone operating entirely on caffeine, heartbreak, and spite.
The ride home blurred. City lights. Rain-slick streets. Jazz murmuring softly through old speakers. And through it all Andrea remained lodged stubbornly inside her chest anyway.
By the time Emily finally stumbled back into her apartment, the flowers were still there waiting for her.
Bright against the dark kitchen. Warm. Hopeful. Unfair.
Emily looked at them once before immediately heading for the shower because otherwise she genuinely might start crying again before even removing her shoes.
Too late.
The second the bathroom door closed behind her, something inside her gave way completely. Not elegantly. And definitely not beautifully. Just exhausted human collapse.
Her blouse hit the floor. Then earrings. Then tights with another irritated rip.
And by the time hot water began spilling from the showerhead, tears were already sliding silently down her face again.
“Oh God,” Emily whispered hoarsely to herself.
Steam curled thickly through the bathroom while she stepped beneath the water, heat cascading over exhausted skin and aching shoulders. And immediately she broke harder.
Because there was no audience here. No Runway composure. No sharpness left to weaponize. Only exhaustion. Only hurt.
Emily pressed one hand over her mouth as another sob escaped anyway, small and humiliating beneath the rush of water.
This was unbearable. She didn’t even fully know what she was crying over anymore.
The possibility Andrea liked someone else. The humiliation of jealousy. The sheer emotional whiplash of caring this much this quickly. Or maybe simply the terrible realization that Andrea had somehow become important enough to hurt her at all.
God, she hadn’t cried over her ex-boyfriend when they broke up, hadn’t cried over Paris, hadn’t cried over anything. And apparently, now, she was crying over this. Which was utterly pathetic.
Water streamed endlessly down marble and glass while Emily leaned heavily against the shower wall, breathing unevenly.
And because her brain apparently hated her, memories kept replaying anyway. Andrea smiling in the alleyway. Andrea holding out sunflowers. You look prettier when you smile.
Emily squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to ache. “Stop it,” she whispered shakily to herself.
But her mind continued mercilessly onward. Andrea asleep against her shoulder on the subway. Andrea wandering sleepy through her apartment in Emily’s clothes. Andrea laughing softly over coffee in the morning light. Andrea kissing her cheek.
Emily made a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. God. She felt ridiculous. Like some tragic heroine in a romance novel written specifically to humiliate her personally.
The water ran hotter. Steam fogged every mirror completely now until the bathroom became soft and blurry around the edges.
And standing there beneath the endless warmth, crying quietly where no one could hear her, Emily Charlton finally admitted the worst part aloud in a tiny devastated whisper,
“I thought I was special.”
The words disappeared instantly beneath the sound of falling water. But they stayed lodged painfully inside her chest anyway.
-
Eventually, Emily forced herself to stop crying through sheer professional instinct alone. Because absolutely not.
There was heartbreak, and then there was showing up to Runway looking visibly emotionally compromised. Those were two entirely separate catastrophes, and Emily Charlton intended to survive at least one of them.
So after several long minutes standing motionless beneath cooling water, she finally inhaled sharply, wiped hard beneath her eyes, and straightened.
Enough. Tomorrow still existed. Miranda still existed. Georgia, unfortunately, still existed. And Emily would rather walk barefoot through broken glass than arrive at Runway with swollen red eyes looking like she’d spent the night listening to breakup playlists in the dark.
So she moved afterward on pure exhausted autopilot. Shampoo. Conditioner. Rinse. Then towel-drying her hair mechanically beneath soft bathroom lighting while steam slowly faded from the mirrors.
Skincare next. Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer.
The familiar ritual steadied her slightly, each step precise and practiced, tiny motions of control stitched carefully back together around herself.
By the time she finally pulled on soft black pajamas, her emotions had been packed away again into something quieter. Contained. Not gone yet, just folded carefully out of sight for survival purposes.
The apartment remained hushed around her. And infuriatingly, the sunflowers were still glowing faintly from the kitchen counter when she crossed the hallway toward her bedroom.
Emily deliberately did not look directly at them. Cowardice, perhaps. Self-preservation, more likely.
The bed felt cold when she slipped beneath the sheets. Too large, suddenly.
The city shimmered dimly beyond enormous windows, Manhattan still awake in fractured ribbons of gold and white against the dark. Somewhere far below, sirens drifted faintly through the night while radiator heat hummed softly through the apartment.
Emily turned onto her side. Closed her eyes. Nothing. Her mind would not stop.
Thoughts moved restlessly through her head in tangled loops, circling endlessly without resolution. Andrea laughing softly over coffee
Andrea leaning across a restaurant table beneath warm candlelight. Andrea standing in an alleyway holding sunlight in both hands.
And then there’s Andrea inside that restaurant window today. The flowers. That smile.
Emily turned over sharply onto her back again. God. The sheets twisted around her legs while exhaustion sat heavy inside her bones without granting actual sleep.
Outside, Manhattan glowed sleeplessly onward beneath the winter dark, every apartment window another tiny illuminated life unfolding somewhere beyond her own.
And Emily lay awake in the middle of it all feeling horribly, stupidly alone.
Because perhaps this was the cruelest part of wanting someone: once they existed inside you properly, they appeared everywhere afterward. In your empty apartment. In quiet kitchens. In songs overheard accidentally. In flowers. In silence.
Andrea had somehow threaded herself carefully through the fabric of Emily’s ordinary life in only a handful of days, until now even her own apartment felt haunted by her absence.
Emily rolled onto her stomach and pressed one arm beneath the pillow with a frustrated sound. Ridiculous. She was acting ridiculous. People survived heartbreak every day without behaving like tragic nineteenth-century heroines wasting away beautifully beside candlelight.
And technically this wasn’t even heartbreak. Nothing official had happened. Nothing had ended. No promises had been broken. Which almost made it worse somehow.
Because grief without certainty had nowhere to go. Only circles. Only questions. Only endless exhausting maybe.
Maybe Andrea liked someone else. Maybe Emily had imagined everything. Maybe tenderness simply came naturally to Andrea Sachs and Emily had mistaken it for something rarer because she herself had always been starving for it.
The thought settled heavily beneath her ribs. Emily stared toward the dark ceiling. She wondered suddenly whether this was how sleeplessness really began, not from stress exactly, nor caffeine, nor ambition, but from wanting something too much while having nowhere safe to place all that wanting. Like carrying water in your hands. Eventually it slipped through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried holding it.
Another turn across tangled sheets. Another glance toward the clock glowing softly beside the bed. 2:13 AM.
Hopeless.
The apartment stayed silent except for distant city sounds muffled faintly through glass. And somewhere out beyond the bedroom walls, sunflowers rested quietly in her kitchen, still opening patiently toward whatever light they could find.
Emily squeezed her eyes shut. She tried not to think about Andrea choosing them. She didn’t choose them because they were elegant nor because they impressed anyone. But because they looked like happiness.
That thought hurt worst of all. Because Emily had spent years carefully constructing a life built around composure and ambition and beautiful untouchable things. And then Andrea Sachs arrived carrying warmth so casually she made happiness itself seem simple.
Emily turned onto her side again, pulling blankets tighter around herself. Her body ached now with exhaustion. Eyes burning. Thoughts dulling at the edges.
-
Eventually fatigue began overtaking even the ache inside her chest, heavy and inevitable as tidewater.
The city lights blurred softer beyond half-closed eyes.
Her thoughts lost shape slowly after that, unraveling into fragments. Warm subway shoulders. Sunflowers. Coffee steam curling in morning light. Andrea smiling.
And finally, sometime deep into the sleepless Manhattan night, exhaustion caught hold of every sharp restless corner of Emily Charlton and pulled her gently under at last.