Archive of Our Own

Andy spent the whole night wondering if she was doing the right thing by accepting this job a second time. Well, it wasn't exactly the same, but it was the same boss from before. It was the mother of the two gremlins she still kept up with even after everything. The girls somehow managed to get her contact after she fled from runway and never let go of her. She was kind of grateful for that as she came to actually care for the girls after she got to know them. She talked to her friends who encouraged her to do it. They even said she was going to nail it. She knew she was good, but as Brittney Spears sang lucky through her Bluetooth speakers she started to second guess it all over again. 

If she accepted, she would end up working with the same Miranda who broke her world's views (and heart, but now it really isn't the time to think of that incident) and made her do the selfish choice of leaving for her own best self. Twenty years went by and she still thinks that the 23 year old Andy had the balls she wished she had again. She was stone still as she looked at the name of the stations going by while gripping for her life on the railings of the subway. She could not believe that this was happening again. Nigel of all people should know that it wasn't a good idea to reunite them again. But the little shit was never known to be subtle and she was a loser when it came to the silver haired woman. By the time she reached the Elias Clarke building, she was a pile of nerves, and if you asked her she would've said she was on cloud nine as she took the elevator to the 17th floor. A floor she knew so well in her past and now was completely different. She made the byline though the same doors she once went to talk to the first assistant that reminded her so much of Emily and finally went in.

“Hello” she heard herself say and had to hold all her strength not to cringe. 

“Well, look what TJ Maxx dragged in” she rather heard than saw Nigel say, as she was transfixed by the face grimacing on her front. 

“I'm sorry, who is this? Do you know her? Do I?” 

What. The. Fuck? She must be joking. Right? She just stood and felt pretty dumb as she looked helplessly at Nigel who looked like he could not believe the bullshit he was hearing. As if he wasn't the one who heard, watched and kept up with the older woman whining about “her Andrea” for twenty years. Unbelievable honestly, she outdid herself everyday. 

 Andy watched as Nigel's face became more and more red, she did not know if it was from amusement or annoyance.  she knew for a fact that hers was both. She quickly figured that if Miranda wanted to play dumb, she could too. So she presented herselfwoth the same stupidity she said the first hello and could only watch as the neck of the woman who seemed completely oblivious of her identity became as red as her friend's face. She did not consider herself as a revengeful person, but it was often that she caught herself being mean when she thought or was in the presence of the devil herself. 

“oh, I'm sorry. I'm Andy, Andrea if you may. i was one of the ‘emilys’ back then”

“Oh, really? where was ii then?” she feigned an innocence that she knew wasn't going to fool any one in the present room. She let herself seem to be thinking for a while before adding “Ah, yes,” Miranda said smoothly, not a single hair out of place as she leaned back in her chair. “The parade of assistants. Forgive me, Andrea, but the past twenty years have been remarkably full of far more memorable things.”

​Nigel let out a sound that was half-choke, half-cough, quickly disguising it by checking his watch. ​Andy didn't flinch. Twenty years ago, that tone would have had her spiraling, re-evaluating her entire life trajectory. But today? Today, the ghost of the what ifs of the past and the i_don't_know_what_the_hell_are_we but you might as hell mourn the illusion. Miranda could pretend Paris never happened. She could pretend the late-night tears in the hotel room were a figment of Andy's imagination. But Andy was there, Andy was in the car ride minutes before the whole abandoning her post thing happened. She was there and she did not forget it. 

​"Of course," Andy replied, offering a smile that was entirely professional and completely empty of the old warmth Miranda used to effortlessly drain from her. "It’s hard to remember every girl who managed to survive you. But Nigel assured me Runway needed someone who already knew how to dodge the collateral damage."

​Miranda’s eyes narrowed, a tiny, subtle shift that anyone else in the room would have missed. But Andy knew that look. It was the exact moment Miranda realized the 23-year-old girl who threw her phone into a Parisian fountain had grown into someone who couldn't be broken by a cold shoulder anymore. Honestly she was pretty proud of herself for not shit her pants right there. 

​"Nigel," Miranda murmured, never taking her gaze off Andy, "has always had an overactive imagination regarding what this magazine needs."

​"And yet," Andy said softly, "here we both are."

“Right. Well,” sensing the homicidal feeling starting to rise. Nigel interrupted the moment of sepulchral noise inside the room, his voice slicing through the thick static between them. “Since we’re all caught up on memory lane, I’m taking our new editorial consultant to inspect her desk before she decides to throw her phone in another European fountain, New York's version this time.”

​Miranda didn't answer. She simply let out a long sigh and picked up a pen, dismissing them both with a subtle flick of her wrist.​The moment the heavy glass door clicked shut behind them, Nigel grabbed Andy by the elbow and yanked her into the safety of an empty fashion closet.

​“Are you completely insane?” Nigel hissed, though his eyes were dancing with delight. “You almost made her draw blood on your first five minutes back! you're both completely insane honestly.”

“She was the one who treated me like a who, i just responded to her the way she deserves” she scoffed,leaning on a rack of dresses. Nigel being Nigel let out a amused laugh that made her want to beat the smile off his face, she was feeling peachy and the fact that she did not had a good night of sleeping was starting to show 

“Six, don't be naive, you're not 23 anymore, she knows exactly who you are. You have no idea how she's been acting these past 20 years.” she blinked, wait what?

“what are you talking about? i spent the entire week spiraling because of you and now you drop this on me, come on nige” she said with annoyance, what the heel she was thinking when she said yes this had to be the most fuckass thing she did to herself counting the past 10 years alone. Her therapist was going to hear so much the next session. 

“She kept every single one of your published articles,” he said leaning closer as if he was confounding her with a national secret. “she read every featured story, every magazine cover, every op-ed you ever did for the new yorker. she spent two decades tracking you like a hawk, she was mad crazy when you did that coverage about the government leakings, she thought you were in active danger, pretty stupid if you if you ask me, but she spent two decades keeping an eye for you, complaining none of the girls had your insufferable competence,” Nigel shook his head and kept the wry smile from before on his face. “My take is that she's terrified of you, you were the only one who walked away and survived the wrath, the only one that she truly cared about, six.”

her ears couldn't believe what they just heard. She could swear she felt the floor tilt beneath her boots. terrified? cared about? she was in complete silence as she let the words hang in the cramped air of the closet she was fast fond of again. She could only stare at the man in front of her, she waited for the punchline, the same laugh he once let out when they entered the room, but his face was stone cold serious. His eyes didn't flicker behind the rim of his glasses. 

“no, you're lying,” she heard herself muttering, her voice sounded tiny even to her, she rubbed her temples, suddenly the sleep she did not have came crashing on her all over again as a blind wave of exhaustion. “You're lying so I stay, Miranda does not care for anyone other than her daughters.”

“Believe what you want six, but please know that you have haunted every bright eyed, brunette, aspiring journalist that entered these doors ever since just because they weren't you” the man said, passing a smooth hand on a piece of fabric that was by his desk.

Andy took a steady breath to try and calm herself. She could not believe what her life was right now. It freaked her to know that Miranda had kept taps on her every step. It freaked her to know she was watched and that she had read all she made through the years. It freaked her to know that the other woman had worried about her when she took the investigative piece she wrote in Washington. Because what the hell?! 

“So,” she took an exasperated breath as to dramatize even more her situation “she's going to act like I'm a ghost and I'm going to pretend that I'm not being hunted?” 

“Exactly,” Nigel said beaming. “And for the record,” Nigel added, pausing just as his hand touched another fabric on his desk, a wicked little glint returning to his eye, "if you think you were being slick keeping in touch with the twins all these years? Think again.”

Andy froze with a hand halfway through fixing her hair “what?” 

“She knows six, you really didn't think that two teenagers could hide how exciting it was for them to receive your gifts even if you made a point of not labeling, she knew it was you. as far as i know having a twenty year secret friendship with Andrea Sachs was all she devil herself wished for,” he said this time fitting her face hoping to see another reaction other than pure shock on his beloved friends face “She never said a word to them about it, of course, but whenever they came back from seeing you, her entire mood for the week would shift."

“How come her week shifts? the girls make huge points not to say anything about her” she was feeling suddenly very dense and very cold. Heart hammering and all. 

“Oh dear boy, she was insufferable,” he said, reaching closer so he could finish fixing her own hair since she did not do a good job trying in the first place. “she terrorized at least 15 girls the following week of your first lunch. Let's just keep it there.”

Deciding that was enough for a day,the brunette just turned and left the closet. leaving a very amused nigel behind and too many questions that right now she felt she had no rush attending to. She took a deep breath,smoothed her blue blazer and made her way back to the elevators, she walked through the bustling elias clarke 17th floor, she registered the noise, the people running around to do all kinds of chores she was all but familiar with, but figured it did not reach her. The revelations she just had were far more heavy than the reality in front of her. Twenty years of believing she had slipped off Miranda's radar, only to find out she had been a steady pulse in the background of Miranda’s world the entire time. The sheer absurdity of it all made her want to laugh right in the middle of the floor, Miranda priestly, the devil in prada, queen of fashion, yearning for her. She guessed it was about time she gave it a chance, right?

The next weeks went worse than she first figured they could go. Miranda barely acknowledged her work as the new features editor, she spent weeks trying to write good stories, new ways to make the public be more interested while still maintaining the usual public on. She was trying to do God's work, and her boss was the secretary sent from hell to torment her sad little life. She was trying so hard to please her she was starting to get a headache, the kind she got when being second assistant to her was still the reality. She tossed another draft onto her desk already knowing it would be considered too bad and let herself sink on her chair, staring at the yellow lights she made a point to get in her office she started to rethink the point of being there (other than the fact that she would be unemployed). She had published award winning pieces, handled pain in the ass like editors and coworkers, managed complex assignments without ever dropping a single sweat and yet, she found herself shrinking under Miranda's grip again. Andy rubbed her eyes, feeling the dull ache of late-night writing sessions settling behind her temples. The initial adrenaline of standing her ground during week one had worn off, replaced by the reality of daily editorial survival. She wasn't twenty-three anymore, which meant she wasn't going to cry in a bathroom stall over a rejected draft. But she was exhausted.

​Her phone buzzed on the desk, a text from one of the twins asking how "the dragon" was behaving today. Andy couldn't help the dry, tired laugh that escaped her lips.God she loved those kids, She typed back a quick 'Still breathing fire, as usual' 

A second later, another text popped up on her screen.

​‘Well, the dragon is currently being distracted by a very late salad and some boring meeting, which means you have an hour window to escape. Meet me at the bistro on the 48th?’

​Andy blinked at her phone, the frustration of the last few weeks momentarily lifting. Cassidy. Of course. Leave it to one of the twins to track her mother's precise lunch schedule like a tactical operation. ​She quickly typed back: ‘I’m already putting my coat on.’

​Grabbing her bag and sliding her yellow legal pad, yes yes she knew it was the technology era but she couldn't let go of her old habits. Andy stood up from her desk. She passed Nigel on her way to the elevators, who gave her a knowing, approving nod over the rim of his glasses, no doubt having caught wind of the covert lunch plan himself. Cassidy was a sweetheart, but she had a pretty big mouth.  Ten minutes later, Andy was sliding into a quiet, sunlit booth four blocks away from the chaos of Elias Clarke. Across the table, Cassidy was already sipping an iced coffee, looking every bit like a high-powered young professional, yet wearing the exact same mischievous smirk she’d had as a child.

​"You look like you've been run over by a fashion truck," Cassidy said by way of greeting, sliding a menu across to Andy.

​"That’s a lovely way to describe working for your mom Cass," Andy sighed, resting her head in her hand as the exhaustion finally caught up with her. "Your mother has officially rejected four of my feature drafts this week alone. I gave her an investigative piece on sustainable textiles yesterday that took me three days to outline, and she didn't even look at it before telling me it lacked 'vision.'"

​Cassidy laughed, a sharp, clear sound that instantly broke through the fog in Andy's brain.

​"Andy, come on," Cassidy said, leaning forward. "You know how she operates better than anyone. If she actually thought your work was bad, she’d pass you off to a sub-editor and never look at your pages again. The fact that she’s micro-analyzing every single word you write means she’s holding you to a ridiculous standard."

​Andy stared at her for a moment, a fond, tired smile touching her lips. "You sound terrifyingly like Nigel right now. stop please"

​"I grew up in the splash zone, Andy. I know the weather patterns," Cassidy teased, taking a sip of her drink. "She’s testing your boundary because you're the only person in that building who doesn't tremble when she sighs. Don't let her wear you down."

​Hearing it from Cassidy, someone who had watched the entire circus from the inside, gave Andy a sudden, grounding reality check. She was an established journalist doing a job, and she didn't need to let Miranda's relentless high bar bleed her dry.

​"Alright," Andy said, picking up her menu with a newfound sense of ease. "Point taken. Now, enough about that mother of yours. Tell me what’s going on with you, hon.” Cassidy leaned back in the booth, her expression instantly softening as the conversation shifted to her own life.

​"well, for starters, Caroline and I are finally finishing up the studio space downtown," Cassidy said, a bright, genuine smile breaking across her face. "It's taken six months of fighting with contractors and dealing with city permits, but we’re officially opening next month."

​Andy’s face lit up. She remembered when the twins had first pitched the idea of opening their own independent design and photography studio, a project completely separate from their mother’s massive shadow. Of course Miranda was one of the greatest supporters, but even she knew when to step down when it came to her daughters. 

​"Cass, that’s incredible!" Andy said, reaching across the table to give her hand a quick squeeze. "I knew you two would make it happen. Is Caroline losing her mind over the launch details yet?"

​"Oh, completely," Cassidy laughed, shaking her head. "She's already reorganized the inventory catalog four times this week. Honestly, watching her stress out makes me realize she inherited way more of Mom's micromanaging genes than I did. Thank god for that gzeez."

​"I could've told you that ten years ago," Andy teased, taking a sip of her water.

The two spent the next hour talking through every detail, from the studio's layout to the opening night guest list, and even Cassidy's recent disaster of a blind date that had Andy laughing hard enough to draw subtle glances from the neighboring tables. ​For the first time in weeks, the heavy static of Runway completely cleared from Andy's mind. Being around Cassidy was a reminder of the real world, the life she had built, the relationships she had nurtured outside of Elias Clarke, and the simple truth that Miranda Priestly's high-pressure environment was just a small corner of her existence, not the center of it.Contrary to what she often caught herself thinking since she came back. ​By the time the check arrived, Andy felt lighter than she had since stepping off the elevator on her first day back.

​"Thanks for dragging me out of the fortress," Andy said as they walked back out into the crisp afternoon air.

​"Anytime, Ma," Cassidy grinned, giving Andy a warm embrace before turning to head toward her subway line. "Now go back in there and show her why you're the best editor in that building."

​Andy felt her breath stop on her throat every time the twins played tricks like that on her. like, calling her that. She remembered the first time Cassidy did that and she spent the rest of their encounter sobbing like a lost child. Today, she just watched the youngling go with her head down instead of paying attention to the actual street, took a deep, grounding breath, and adjusted her coat, she went ahead on her own way. Armed with a renewed sense of confidence and a belly full of good food, she turned the corner to head back to the building. 

That day was the first she ever got to experience the wrath of Miranda knowing she had an appointment with one of her daughters. When she stepped back onto the office the atmosphere was almost glacial and she had to hold a loud chuckle because of course Nigel was right. She walked past his office just in time to see him glance at her and made her way to her own room. As soon as she entered she tossed her bag on the floor but before she could even think of sitting down she heard the buzz of the intercom she knew she would hate since day one. 

“Andrea” 

shitshitshitshit  

Not a summons relayed through an assistant. Just Miranda’s low, unmistakable tone, cutting through the speaker with surgical precision. ​​Andy squared her shoulders, adjusted her jacket, and walked out into the corridor. Passing Charlie's desk, she caught him offering a slow, sympathetic wince over the rim of his glasses. ​When Andy stepped into the corner office, Miranda wasn't looking through flat-plans, nor was she skimming her tablet. She was sitting perfectly still behind her glass desk, hands draped over an unread memo from Elias-Clarke corporate, her gaze fixed entirely on the Manhattan skyline. wild sight if you asked her.

​"Miranda," Andy said, keeping her voice light, poised, and unbothered.

​Miranda didn't look at her right away. She let the silence stretch for five full seconds, letting the weight of her presence settle into the room before she slowly turned her head. Her icy blue eyes locked onto Andy, sharp and unreadable.

​"I find it remarkable," Miranda began, her voice barely above a whisper—the dangerous volume that usually preceded an execution, "that despite the mountain of unvetted feature drafts currently decaying on your desk, you manage to find the leisure to host midday summits."

​Andy didn't flinch. "I took a short lunch break, Miranda,” she hesitated a little before adding. “With Cassidy."

​A microscopic shift occurred in Miranda’s posture. Her chin raised a fraction of a millimeter. It wasn't the frustration of an editor-in-chief dealing with a tardy staff member, it was a deep-seated, sharp-eyed protectiveness she had already seen once before, it was a territorial barrier surrounding the only part of her life she guarded with absolute violence.

​"My daughters," Miranda said softly, her words laced with razor wire, "are not a pitstop for your personal itinerary. Nor are they an avenue for you to comfort yourself into this institution."

​"We're friends, Miranda," Andy replied calmly, holding her ground. "She invited me."

​"You are the Features Editor of Runway," Miranda snapped, the quiet fury flashing in her eyes before she buried it back under layers of pristine polish. "You were brought back to this building by Irv Ravitz under the naive impression that your 'journalistic integrity' would save our autumn numbers. Yet all I see is an editor who is remarkably unfocused."

​Miranda picked up a single white document from her desk, the quarterly projection report from corporate, and tossed it onto the glass with a quiet slap.

​"Irv wants a cover profile that bridges the gap between our print prestige and digital subscriber growth," Miranda said, her voice dropping back into its flat, demanding rhythm. "He suggested Sasha Barnes."

​Andy’s eyes narrowed slightly. Sasha Barnes was Silicon Valley royalty who had retreated to a fortress-like estate in Montauk following a high-profile, bitter divorce. She hadn't granted a single press interview in three years, despite every major publication in the country begging for one. She could almost see how that was going to end. 

​"Sasha Barnes doesn't talk to fashion magazines," Andy stupidly said as a matter of fact. "She thinks print media is predatory."

​"Which makes her the ideal subject for an editor of your supposed caliber," Miranda countered dryly, resting her chin on her hand. "Unless, of course, you find the task too demanding for your current schedule."

​The challenge hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Miranda was putting Andy in a corner again: prove her worth beyond the shadow of corporate politics and personal ties, or be pushed out entirely.

​"I'll get the interview," Andy said, her voice steady, an edge of quiet determination taking over.She already felt the panic rising on her, this woman could not be real. 

​Miranda leaned back, picking up her pen and clicking it once against the desk. "You have twenty-four hours to secure her consent. If you come back to me with excuses, Andrea, I will personally inform Irv that his little prodigal project has failed. That 's all."

She was fucked through and through 

The moment the heavy glass door to Andy’s office clicked shut, her composed, untouchable editor face completely fell apart. Not that shutting the door helped all that much, she was practically living in a fishbowl anyway, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass that offered every passing staff member a front-row seat to her spiral. ​Andy spent a solid thirty minutes pacing the length of her new, beloved Persian rug, running both hands violently through her hair, a frantic movement she caught herself doing far too many times this sole week alone. Her legal pad on the desk was a crime scene of crossed-out phone numbers, aggressive red ink, and desperate arrows connecting obscure contacts. This was going to be way too long, twenty four hours. 

​"Come on, come on, think, Sachs," she muttered under her breath, staring at her laptop screen as if she could force an email response into existence through sheer willpower. "Think!"

​Her phone buzzed on the glass, making her jump out of her skin. She snatched it off the desk so fast it nearly flew out of her hand, ducking beneath the sightline of her glass walls so passersby wouldn't see the full-blown panic etched across her face.

​"Tell me you have good news," she blurted out, completely abandoning all executive decorum.

​"Andy," Nigel’s voice sang smoothly through the speaker. "I’m just calling to inform you that Her Majesty has already glanced at the clock twice in the last ten minutes. How are we doing over there? Do I need to start drafting your obituary, or should I order flowers?"

​"Nigel, I am two seconds away from throwing this phone out the window," Andy hissed, lowering her voice to a frantic whisper. "I'm sure if I try contacting her publicist will shut me down. Her legal team will for sure threaten a cease-and-desist if I email them! I have one day before Miranda turns me into a cautionary tale for the next generation of features editors! Honestly at this point I'm starting to consider planning for the funeral a good thing."

​"Deep breaths, Six," his calm, rhythmic voice came through. "You didn't get brought back to this building by following the corporate script. Stop acting like an assistant asking for permission and start acting like the smartest journalist in the room. What does Sasha Barnes actually care about?"

​Andy froze, her eyes drifting back up to her laptop screen, landing on an open tab she’d saved at two in the morning, a dense, academic journal article about coastal land preservation in Long Island.

​"She doesn't care about the clothes," Andy whispered, the frantic pulse in her throat suddenly dropping an octave. "She cares about the house."

​"There you go," Nigel murmured approvingly. "Now go make Her Royal Highness look foolish for ever doubting you."

​Andy hung up, slammed her hands down on her desk, took one deep, ragged breath to shake off the panic, and opened a fresh draft. The freakout was officially over. It was time to hunt. thank god for late night doomscrolling on the internet huh? She leaned over her keyboard, her eyes locked on the academic article about Montauk’s coastal preservation. Sasha Barnes hadn't retreated to the Hamptons to hide her wardrobe, she’d bought that historic estate because the shoreline was eroding, and she was single-handedly funding its restoration. ​Andy opened a fresh, blank email draft. No publicist CC’d. No press team attached. Just Sasha’s direct private address, which she’d dug up through an old architectural trust source. ​She began typing, her fingers moving across the keys with a quiet, steady rhythm.

​Subject: The Montauk Shoreline & The Legacy of 1920s Preservation

​Ms. Barnes,

​I’m not writing to ask you about fashion, and I’m certainly not writing to ask about your divorce. I’m writing because Runway is preparing an autumn feature on heritage structures, and your work with the Montauk restoration trust is the only project in Long Island actually keeping that history above water.

​Give me two hours on Saturday morning. No fluff, no tabloid angles, just an honest look at the architecture and the land you’re saving before the tide takes it.

​Best, > Andy Sachs > Features Editor, Runway

​Andy hovered her cursor over the send button. Her heart did a quick, nervous flip, but she didn't hesitate. ​She clicked Send. ​Now, all she could do was wait for the clock to hit her deadline. When the next day came, the sun had barely broken over the Manhattan skyline when she got the notification from a new message. What a way to wake up. She paid little attention to what she was throwing on herself as she rushed to the building and walked into the runway  offices. The floor was eerily quiet as for the hour, the only sound was her ragged breath and the hum of the HVAC system. She sat on her desk and immediately opened her email inbox and there it was. Andy’s heart did a sudden, violent thud against her ribs. She clicked on the reply.

​From: Sasha Barnes

To: Andy Sachs

Subject: Re: The Montauk Shoreline & The Legacy of 1920s Preservation

​Ms. Sachs,

​Your angle is the first sensible thing an editor from your building has put in writing all year. My groundskeeper will open the gates at 9:00 AM sharp this Saturday. Don't bring an entourage, don't bring PR reps, and don't be late.

​— S.B.

​Andy stared at the screen, letting out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since yesterday afternoon. A triumphant, slow smile spread across her face. She let herself act like a school girl, she let out a loud cackle and imagined every possible scenario where this did not work. she was damn glad that she just had to imagine because she didn't know what the hell she would do if this went sideways. 

​Ten minutes later, the sharp, rhythmic sound of heels echoed down the hallway. Miranda had arrived. and Andy being her considerate self gave it twenty minutes just so she could settle on her own office before she busted in. she even printed out the fucking emil, smoothed her shirt and went for it. ​Andy pushed open the heavy glass door to the corner office. Miranda was behind her desk, glasses resting on the bridge of her nose, flicking through the morning's digital flat-plans with an unreadable expression.

​"Miranda," Andy said, her voice steady, cool, and completely devoid of yesterday's frantic energy.

​Miranda didn't look up immediately. "I trust you aren't coming in here to ask for an extension, Andrea. Because I assure you, my patience with this experiment has reached its limit."

​Andy simply walked up to the mahogany desk, laid the printed email flat on the glass, and stepped back, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

​"Sasha Barnes agreed," Andy stated quietly. "Exclusive access to the Montauk estate this Saturday at nine in the morning. No PR team, no fluff. Just a feature on the heritage land preservation."

​Miranda froze ​for three long, agonizing seconds, the suite fell into dead silence. Miranda didn't reach for the paper right away. Slowly, her eyes drifted down to the crisp printout, reading the short text from Sasha Barnes. ​Then, her gaze flicked back up to Andy. ​For a fraction of a second—a micro-moment that anyone else in the building would have missed, Miranda’s impenetrable polish fractured. Her icy blue eyes widened ever so slightly, a subtle shift of genuine, stunned awe breaking through her guarded demeanor. She had set an impossible bar, fully expecting Andy to stumble, and Andy had cleared it with terrifying precision. Again mind you. ​Miranda swallowed quietly, recovering her formidable composure so fast it was almost frightening. She leaned back in her chair, taking off her glasses with deliberate slowness.

​"Montauk," Miranda murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, though the sharp edge had softened into something complex and unreadable. "Saturday morning."

​"i guess Roy can drive me out Friday evening," Andy offered smoothly, holding Miranda's gaze without a hint of arrogance.

​Miranda stared at her for a moment longer, clearly calculating every layer of what had just happened and failing miserably to do so.

​"See that he does," Miranda said finally, setting her glasses down on the desk. "And Andrea," ​She paused, her sharp gaze locking onto Andy's with that deep, possessive intensity from yesterday lingering just beneath the surface. ​"Make sure the photography captures the structural detail. I won't have an exclusive look like an amateur blog post." Miranda picked up her pen, looking back down at her papers.

As one can only imagine, the week went by with a blur. A high speed haze of getting tape recorders, transcribing, and polishing every single word of the Sasha Barnes piece. The interview had gone better than she could have dreamed, Sasha was brilliant, sharp, and genuinely thrilled that someone was actually interested in the architectural legacy of her estate rather than picking through her personal life. Andy was so happy she was actually enjoying the interview and spent the whole time in absolute awe. The house itself was amazing, Sasha had done a wonderful job with it. She was amazed that she'd been the one to do it really. By Thursday afternoon, the feature was ready and sitting on Miranda's desk. 

Andy was sitting in her glass fishbowl office, taking a slow sip of cold brew and catching her breath, when Amari appeared in the doorway. ​She didn't say hello, obviously. She simply stepped into the office, set a small, heavy cream card onto Andy's closed laptop with a single, sharp movement, and looked at Andy with a completely blank expression as per usual. 

​"Miranda's orders," Amari said, her tone utterly flat. "You're expected at the East Hampton estate this weekend for the preservation gala. Roy is picking you up tomorrow afternoon at four sharp."

​Andy blinked, her mind grinding to a halt. "Wait—what? The Hamptons?"

​ "Don't be late," Amari added, already turning on her heel to walk out. "She said if you're late, you can walk."

​Andy sat frozen, staring down at the card on her desk. Hand-written on crisp cardstock was the East Hampton address, followed by a time.

​The Priestly house. In the Hamptons. For three days straight. and she didn't have the clothes for it. This woman is going to be the death of her very soon. So as soon as Amari was off her door she went straight into Nigel's arms for what felt like the hundredth time since she came back. 

“Oh lord not again,” he groaned, as she opened the door interrupting a shooting that was taking place there. She almost felt sorry. almost. “what is it, Andrea?” 

“First of all, dont call me that. second, i dont own anything for the hamptons and she practically summoned me, i dont do hampton, ive never been hamptoned.” she gasped not caring about the people there witnessing her trailing around Nigel as she walked into the place alreadying knowing what to grab. 

“​Calm down,” Nigel said smoothly, tossing a dismissive hand as he kept moving through the racks. "I once put together a whole sweep of summer looks for Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and she slayed."

​Andy followed him past the towering shelves of designer heels, her hands twirling her necklace in sheer anxiety. "Okay, so... a weekend in the Hamptons. with the people, I mean, does this mean I'm in?"

​Nigel stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to look at her like she’d lost her mind.

​"No."

​"So when can I relax—"

​ "Never," Nigel interrupted with absolute authority, throwing his hands open as he stepped into the main wardrobe archive. "You relax when you're dead, Six! Now stand there and let me fix this before Miranda sees you looking like a suburban tourist. We need to show her you belong in the room. if not by her side."

She chose to ignore the last part for her own sake. Nigel, although a great friend, often seemed to forget to manage his big mouth, so much like his goddaughter. She prepared for the weekend, sent a hopeful pleading message to the twins asking if they would be there otherwise she would spontaneously combust. which she received a cheerful joint text saying that it would be a shame to deal with their mom if she did that. and that of course they would be attending the gathering. She went home that night and instead of getting sleep she spent most part of her night talking to Lily. She spent three solid hours on the phone with Lily, who was currently sprawled on her own couch in Brooklyn, absolutely refusing to let Andy panic in silence.

“Girl, listen to me," Lily’s voice buzzed through the speaker over the faint background hum of her television. "You survived the first round at Runway. You survived Paris. You literally just secured an impossible interview by being a brilliant journalist. You belong there, Nigel wasn't wrong when he said that. But if you want to be oblivious, be my guest."

​"Lily, it’s her house," Andy groaned, staring up at her bedroom ceiling, surrounded by the open suit bags Nigel had packed for her. "It’s not the office where I can hide behind a desk or run to the closet. It’s seventy-two hours of Miranda Priestly in her natural habitat. What if I say something stupid over breakfast? What if I use the wrong fork?"

​"If you use the wrong fork, she’ll probably make a quiet, cutting remark that you’ll analyze for the next five years, and I'll have to listen to it," Lily laughed softly. "But then you'll say something smart back, and she’ll secretly respect you for it. Like she always does."

​Andy let out a long, shuddering sigh, rubbing her temples. "The twins said they’d be there, at least. That’s something."

​"See? You have your allies in the compound," Lily said warmly. "Now stop staring at the ceiling, pack those absurdly expensive clothes Nigel picked out, and try to get two hours of sleep. You’ve got a four o'clock town car to catch."

​The next afternoon, the ride out to East Hampton in Roy’s car was two hours of pure, quiet tension. Andy spent the entire journey watching the Manhattan skyline melt into private drives, towering green hedges, and sudden, gorgeous glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean. ​When the car finally turned up the long, winding gravel driveway, Andy’s stomach did a nervous flip. The Priestly estate was an ivy-covered, classic coastal mansion that managed to look both impossibly grand and deeply secluded. But today it was buzzing with too many people with champagne in their hands. ​The moment Roy pulled up to the front entrance, Andy barely had her foot out the door before Caroline and Cassidy bounded down the front steps to meet her.

​"Look who survived the Long Island Expressway," Cassidy grinned, grabbing one side of Andy’s duffel before Roy could even reach the trunk.

​"We were fifty seconds away from sending a search party," Caroline added, pulling Andy into a quick, welcoming hug, already urging her to come inside. "Mom’s been acting all calm and collected, but she is all stiff and annoyingly went on a clean spree just this morning."

​"I am currently operating on two hours of sleep and pure anxiety," Andy admitted as they led her inside through the airy, high-ceilinged foyer. "Please tell me the weekend plan involves me staying quietly in a corner. I was about two seconds away from jumping out on the highway," Andy admitted, letting out a long, relieved exhale as she walked with them, with Caroline still hunched over her frame. "Thank God you're actually here."

​"Oh, we wouldn't miss this for the world," Cassidy said, taking a slow sip of her iced tea. Her eyes flicked past Andy’s shoulder. "Especially considering Her Majesty has been pacing the living room checking her watch for the last forty-five minutes."

​Before Andy could process that, a sharp, familiar chill settled over the air.

​"Andrea."

​Andy turned around. Miranda was standing at the center of the open concept kitchen. She wore a fluid, backless olive-silk gown that looked utterly effortless, her silver hair catching the golden hour light. ​For a fraction of a second, Miranda’s eyes swept down Andy’s tailored outfit, lingering just long enough for Andy to feel the heat rise in her cheeks. Whatever test Nigel’s wardrobe choices had been meant to pass, Miranda’s subtle, approving nod proved they’d hit the mark.

​"You are late," Miranda said smoothly, though there was no real bite in her voice.

​"Traffic on the Expressway, Miranda," Andy replied, keeping her voice steady.

​"Hmm." Miranda stepped closer, trailing a faint scent of rare lavender and white tea. Without a word of warning, she reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against Andy’s shoulder as she subtly adjusted the lapel of Andy’s linen blazer, Caroline must’ve crumpled when she dragged herself into her. The touch lasted less than two seconds, but it sent a shockwave straight down Andy's spine.

​"Come," Miranda murmured softly, turning toward the crowded terrace without removing her presence from Andy's side. "There are people you need to meet."

​Behind them, near the balustrade, Cassidy nudged Caroline with her elbow, her eyes wide.

​"Did you see that?" Cassidy whispered. "She just fixed her jacket. Mom never touches people."

​Caroline raised her glass, a knowing grin spreading across her face. "Twenty years of tension, Cass. Tonight's the night."

Miranda spent the rest of the afternoon making Andy actually talk to people, she smiled, she engaged and then she would feel a touch on her lower back, the older woman would go on proceeding to present her to whomever she wanted ‘this is Andrea’ ‘my features editor’ it was great. She didn't know half of those people, but she could tell they were very important to Miranda, and was there to please her host. The evening flowed smoothly as the terrace settled into a soft twilight. The warm glow of the estate lanterns cut through the cool ocean breeze, creating an intimate backdrop for the party winding down.

​ Andy held a half-empty glass of sparkling water, chatting effortlessly with a museum director Miranda had steered her toward twenty minutes earlier. She was glowing from the momentum of the day, the undeniable warmth of Miranda’s quiet, constant presence at her side made her feel at ease. ​Every time Miranda made a subtle hand gesture or cast a fleeting glance in Andy's direction, the subtext hung thick in the air. The long-standing professional boundary had blurred into something far softer, far more personal. Andy was happy with the trust she seemed to be willing to give her. The other woman did not let someone in after they left her. Still she was there by her side. The noise of the party slowly faded as midnight approached. Guests drifted off to their own place or called for town cars, leaving the sprawling house wrapped in the heavy, peaceful quiet of the Montauk coast.

​Andy’s feet were aching, but her mind was still humming. The afternoon had been a surreal blur, Miranda guiding her through groups of influential patrons, the frequent, grounding touch of a hand on the small of her back, the quiet pride in Miranda's voice every time she introduced her as "my features editor." It was the closest they had ever been without the safety net of office walls or professional distance. ​Unable to sleep, Andy crept downstairs in oversized flannel pants and a worn t-shirt, padding barefoot down the grand hallway toward the kitchen to get a glass of ice water. ​The massive, marble-lined kitchen was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft gold glow of the under-cabinet lights. She tried to walk in very quietly, but when she reached the room she stopped dead in her tracks.

​Miranda was standing near the central island. She had stripped off her evening gown, replaced by a simple, fluid cream silk pajama set. Her silver hair was loose, brushed back without a drop of hairspray, and her feet were bare against the cool stone floor. She was leaning against the counter with a steaming mug of tea between her hands, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the dark ocean. ​Without the tailored suits, heavy coats, and dark sunglasses, Miranda Priestly looked almost small. Vulnerable. Completely unguarded. She was brought back in time, twenty years to be exact. 

​Andy hesitated at the threshold, her hand lingering on the doorframe. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. I can come back."

​Miranda didn't startle. But she slowly turned her head, her deep blue eyes finding Andy in the dim light. She took a slow, deliberate sip from her mug before setting it down on the marble with a soft, echoing clink.

​"Don't be ridiculous, Andrea," Miranda murmured. Her voice was stripped of its sharp, commanding edge, it was low, slightly raspy from talking all day, and soft enough to blend into the sound of the ocean waves outside. "You're not disturbing me."

​Andy took a slow, tentative step into the room. The quiet stretched between them, not tense or uncomfortable, but heavy with twenty years of unsaid feelings, late-night deadlines, stolen glances across busy newsrooms, and unspoken devotion.

​"It was a wonderful evening," Andy said softly, leaning her back against the far counter across from Miranda. "You host an impressive crowd."

​"They are exhausting," Miranda replied quietly, though a ghost of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. She shifted her weight, turning fully to face Andy. "You handled them with remarkable grace. Better than most who have stood in your position." 

huh?

​ "I had a good guide," Andy offered, her pulse quickening slightly as Miranda’s unreadable gaze locked onto hers. But because she was feeling brave, she added. "Every time you put your hand on my back, it kept me grounded."

​The silence returned, breathing through the room. Miranda didn't look away. Instead, she took a slow step forward, closing half the space between them.

​"I wasn't trying to ground you, Andrea," Miranda confessed softly, her breath catching just slightly.

​Andy held her breath, her chest tightening. "Then what were you doing?"

​Miranda paused, looking down at her own hands resting on the edge of the island before raising her eyes back to Andy's. The centuries of executive walls, corporate armor, and carefully guarded composure seemed to melt away right there in the quiet ocean air.

​"I was making sure you stayed," Miranda whispered, the truth hanging raw and completely unfiltered in the space between them. "I was making sure you didn't leave again."

That hit her like a brick, or better, since she was by the beach let as well do some beach themed analogy. It was like she was reaching the shore after being drowned and as she got the first breath of air, the waves got her again. She was stunned to say so. She wasn't expecting the woman to acknowledge her departure ever. Neither her yearning for her to stay. She stood there gaping like an idiot while Miranda waited for her to react.

“Miranda. I,” Andy’s voice was barely a whisper, slipping into the quiet air between them. "You never said a word."

​"Didn't I?" Miranda replied gently. She didn't look away, nor did she pull back into the defensive posture that usually guarded her emotions. She simply stood there in the soft golden light of the kitchen, vulnerable in a way that felt almost surreal. "I gave you every reason to stay, Andrea. And when you left anyway, I assumed..." ​She trailed off, a rare moment of hesitation creeping into her tone.

​"You assumed I didn't want to be there," Andy finished for her, the realization settling heavily in her chest.

​"I assumed you had finally grown tired of the demands. Of me," Miranda murmured, setting her cup down on the counter with deliberate care. The slight tremble in her fingers was subtle, but to Andy, who had learned to read Miranda's slightest shifts over two decades, it was as loud as a thunderclap. "It was the sensible choice for you to make."

​Andy took a slow step forward, closing the remaining distance between them until they were standing face-to-face across the corner of the marble island.

​"It was never about being tired of you, Miranda," Andy said, her gaze steady, completely stripped of any lingering fear or insecurity. "I left because I was terrified of how much I wanted to stay. I was 23 and It scared me that I was so sure of how i felt, it actually felt wrong to.”

“And how exactly did you said you felt, Andrea?” she said with an inquisitive brow raised as to prove a point. 

“i… I didn't, I left before I gave it a chance. I'm sorry Miranda”

She let the quiet settle between them. She let Miranda study her. She let herself be an open book, the kind she knew the older woman would know how to read. Her raised brow softened, her eyes shimmering with a sudden, raw vulnerability that Andy had never seen in all their years together.

​"You were twenty-three, Andrea," Miranda whispered, her voice trembling slightly under the crushing weight of two decades of missed chances. "You were terrified. And I... God help me, I was far too proud, far too stubborn to ever tell you what you meant to me."

​When Miranda reached out, her hand was visibly shaking. Her fingers brushed against Andy’s cheek, her thumb tracing Andy's cheekbone with an aching tenderness, as if convincing herself that Andy was truly standing right there. The touch itself was very soft, but Andy felt like it burned, every inch of her skin were Miranda's hand touched. 

​"I don't require an apology for your fear," Miranda continued, reaching out with agonizing slowness. Her fingers brushed lightly against Andy’s cheek, a touch as soft as the ocean breeze slipping through the terrace doors. "I only require that you stop running from it now."

Tears pricked at the corners of Andy’s eyes, the knot in her chest finally unraveling into pure relief. She didn't pull back. Instead, she leaned into Miranda's touch, resting her hand gently over Miranda's trembling fingers, holding her close.

​"I'm not running," Andy promised, her voice thick with emotion, but steady as a rock. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

​A tear slipped down Miranda’s cheek, unnoticed or unbothered, for once in her life, and a breathless, beautiful smile broke across her lips, stripped entirely of control or guard.

​"Good," Miranda whispered, resting her forehead gently against Andy’s, letting out a long, heavy exhale as if she were finally, truly breathing for the first time in twenty years. "Because I couldn't bear to lose you again."

Andy let out a sharp breath of relief as she heard the words coming from the woman she absolutely loved. Right there, in the middle of Miranda's Priestly kitchen in the Hampton's house, she let herself be held by the woman herself. She felt completely at peace with the outcome this trip had taken. She took another dragged breath and leaned in. At first touch, both of them were surprised by what was actually happening. But when Miranda got her grip back,she kissed her like she was a woman starved. Andy thought she could die right that instant, she would die perfectly happy and exactly where she wanted to be. She let out a chuckle mid-kiss that had the older woman stopping it to look at her like sed grown a second head. 

“what Andrea?,” she watched the brunette with an amused face. “You don't have an inch of seriousness on you don't you?”

"I do! I promise," Andy laughed softly, her head resting gently on Miranda's shoulders as she hid her dumbstruck expression. "It's just... I've replayed this moment in my head a thousand times over the last twenty years, and none of those versions came close to this."

​Miranda's expression softened, the faint hint of a smirk lingering at the corner of her lips. She reached up, her hand lightly tracing Andy's back with an unspoken warmth that made Andy's heart skip a beat.

​"You always did have a terrible sense of timing, Andrea," Miranda murmured, though there was no real bite in her tone, only a soft, quiet affection. "Interrupting a perfectly good moment."

​"I can be serious," Andy said, her smile turning a little softer, lifting her gaze to Miranda's. "I'm serious about you. I'm serious about staying."

​The quiet hum of the ocean waves outside filled the room as Miranda studied her face, taking in every word. For the first time, there were no defenses left to hide behind.

​"Good," Miranda whispered, leaning in again to press a soft, lingering kiss to Andy's forehead before pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "Because I intend to hold you to that."

They could use the remaining hours to catch up with the years they lost. But when the first big yawn came, Miranda made a point of dragging Andy to her suite and into her bed. If she wasn't so clouded by her sleepiness she would have protested against it. But as soon as her head hit the pillow she knew it was a lost fight. The quiet hours before dawn faded slowly into Saturday morning, bringing a bright, warm sunlight that flooded through the tall French doors of the estate. Andy woke up to the warm sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the master suite. Beside her, Miranda was still fast asleep, a sight so rare and peaceful that Andy took a quiet moment just to watch the soft rise and fall of her shoulders, completely free of her usual guarded intensity. ​Careful not to disturb her, Andy slipped quietly out from under the heavy duvet. She padded barefoot across the room, grabbed a warm knit cardigan, and crept down the hallway toward the kitchen to brew the morning's first pot of coffee.

​By the time she stepped out onto the sunlit terrace with one mug in hand, the ocean breeze was cool and fresh. ​She wasn't out there long before she heard the soft rustle of the patio door sliding open behind her. Andy turned to see Miranda stepping into the light, wearing a silk robe, her silver hair slightly tousled, rubbing the faint sleep from her eyes with a quiet, rare vulnerability. She held a cup of black coffee in one hand, stopping a few feet from Andy. The house was dead quiet except for the distant hum of the lawnmowers down the coast and the soft clink of china from the dining terrace. The brunette was still feeling a surreal sense of ease settling into her chest. 

​"You're up early," Miranda noted, her voice carrying a soft, low rasp that belonged only to mornings away from the city.

​"Habit, I guess," Andy replied, an easy smile touching her lips. "Plus, the view out here is a little hard to sleep through."

​Miranda walked over to stand beside her, looking out toward the horizon. For a moment, neither of them said anything, just watching the golden light hit the breaking waves. The silence between them wasn't charged with panic or unspoken history anymore, it was grounded, comfortable, and completely open. Talking really did wonders in a relationship. 

​"The girls will be down shortly," Miranda murmured, taking a quiet sip of her coffee. "They generally demand a full spread on weekends."

​"I can handle the twins," Andy teased gently, glancing sideways at her. "I've had twenty years of practice."

​Miranda’s lips twitched into a genuine, faint smile. Without looking away from the ocean, she reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against Andy’s hand resting on the window frame before settling into a quiet, warm hold.

​"Yes, darling," Miranda said softly. "I suppose you have."

​"Darling?" Andy repeated softly, an affectionate, teasing glint in her eyes. "Are we using pet names now, Priestly? Should I be alarmed?"

​Miranda didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she squeezed Andy’s fingers just a fraction tighter before taking a slow, unhurried sip of her coffee.

​"Don't push your luck, Andrea," Miranda murmured smoothly, though the unmistakable curve of a smile remained at the corner of her lips. "It is far too early in the morning for your relentless commentary."

​"Right, of course," Andy chuckled, leaning her shoulder lightly against Miranda's. "Wouldn't want to ruin the moment."

​Before Miranda could reply, the faint sound of footsteps echoing through the house signaled that the peaceful solitude was coming to an end. A door slammed upstairs, followed by the muffled sound of Cassidy complaining about Caroline taking too long in the bathroom. Miranda let out a quiet, long-suffering sigh, though her eyes held a soft warmth as she slowly released Andy's hand to set her mug down on the glass terrace table.

​"And so it begins," Miranda said mildly, turning toward the French doors just as the twins burst out onto the patio.

​"There you two are!" Cassidy announced, taking in the scene with a sharp, perceptive gaze. "We were beginning to think we’d have to make our own breakfast."

​"Which would have ended in a kitchen fire," Caroline added, sliding into a patio chair with an exaggerated slump. "Morning, Andy. You look surprisingly rested."

​Andy exchanged a quiet, knowing look with Miranda before smiling at the girls.

​"Morning," Andy said, stepping over toward the breakfast spread. "Let's get you two fed before you burn the place down."

“Hey, by the way, does that mean we can actually call you Ma openly now?” she heard Cassidy shout as they entered the kitchen.

Andy froze mid-step, her hand lingering on the edge of the kitchen island. ​Miranda, however, didn't so much as flinch. She simply picked up the silver coffee pot, pouring a fresh cup with the calm, measured precision of someone who was completely unbothered by her daughters' antics.

​"Cassidy, if you shout in this house before nine in the morning again, you will be making your own breakfast for the remainder of the summer," Miranda said smoothly, setting the pot back down with a quiet clink.

​"That wasn't a no!" Caroline pointed out cheerfully, sliding onto a barstool next to her sister and reaching straight for the pastry basket. "I'm taking that as a full endorsement."

​"It was an instruction to lower your volume," Miranda replied, though her sharp tone lacked any real bite. She walked past the island, her fingers lightly skimming the back of Andy’s sweater as she passed, a gesture so natural and automatic that it made Andy’s chest warm. 

​Andy bit back a laugh, pouring orange juice into two glasses and sliding them across the marble to the twins. "She's right, you know. You're pushing your luck."

​"Traitor," Cassidy muttered, though she took the juice with a small, appreciative nod. "You used to be on our side."

​"Im still on it," Andy teased, leaning against the counter and catching Miranda’s eye across the room. “I just want you to be in one piece by the end of the day.”

 "A noble pursuit, Andrea, though utterly unnecessary," Miranda replied smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate sip from her cup.

​"She's right, Ma," Caroline chimed in, grabbing a fresh croissant and slathering it with jam. "We're harmless. It's Mom you usually have to worry about surviving."

​"Caroline," Miranda warned, a single raised eyebrow cutting off any further commentary as she set her coffee mug down on the marble counter.

​"Just stating the facts," Caroline muttered with a grin, raising her hands in mock surrender.

​Cassidy leaned her elbows on the island, looking back and forth between the two of them with an amused, knowing smirk. "So, what's the plan for today? Are we actually relaxing on the beach, or are you two going to pretend you aren't constantly working?"

​Andy chuckled, looking over at Miranda, whose expression had softened into that rare, quiet warmth reserved only for this kitchen, away from the rest of the world.

​"No work today," Andy said firmly, holding Miranda's gaze with an easy, confident smile. "I think we've earned a day off."

​Miranda didn't object. Instead, the faint curve of a genuine smile touched her lips as she looked at Andy. "For once, Andrea... I entirely agree."