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It all started with Miranda. Naturally.
Emily had spent years building her entire life around Paris Fashion Week. Every decision she had made since stepping into the marble foyer of Runway had pointed toward Paris. Every late night, every miserable morning, every humiliating errand, every pair of Louboutins she had ruined pacing across Manhattan pavement, feet bleeding, jaw locked, had been worth it because eventually, she would be there.
Paris. Paris Fashion Week. And, more importantly, the First Assistant’s place beside Miranda.
It was the unspoken law of the castle. The First Assistant went to Paris. Everyone knew it. Everyone who had ever worked within a hundred feet of Miranda Priestly knew it.
Which was why Emily had been counting down the days for months. She had planned her wardrobe down to the seam. She had memorised the schedule, obsessively parsing seating charts and guest lists until she could recite them in her sleep. She had mentally prepared herself for the unique brand of madness that came with accompanying Miranda abroad. She had even submitted to a brutal, punishing diet, living on air and the desperate, occasional cube of low-fat cheese when the room began to tilt.
She was ready.
And then, seven days before departure, Emily caught the flu.
In hindsight, it was the first sign that the universe held a personal, targeted vendetta against her. She spent forty-eight hours wrapped in wool blankets, feverish and sweating, furiously answering emails from her phone because god forbid Miranda discover her first assistant was succumbing to human frailty.
By the third day, the fever broke. By the fourth, she was back on her feet. By the fifth—
She was standing on the plush carpet of Miranda’s office while Miranda calmly informed her that Amari would be taking her place.
Emily stared, her throat suddenly dry. “Amari?”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“I’m aware of the arrangement, Emily.”
Emily opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I’ve completed recovered.”
Miranda didn’t look up from her proofs. The scratch of her pen on paper was the only sound in the vast room. “Yes.”
“I can go. I’m ready.”
“I know.”
A heavy pause stretched between them. Emily waited, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Miranda didn't offer so much as a glance. “So...?”
“So Amari will be going. That’s all.”
That was it. No discussion. No sharp rebuke. Just Miranda turning a page, utterly indifferent to the fact that she had just ripped away the singular goal Emily had bled for and handed it to a secondary who barely knew how to order a proper skim latte.
Emily walked out of the office with a flawless, brittle smile pasted across her face. She made it down the corridor, through the bullpen, and past the glass doors without shedding a single tear. She deserved an award for the performance alone.
She survived the next hour. She answered phone calls. She reorganised Miranda’s schedule. She smiled at people. She corrected Amari on two critical itinerary details, swallowing the sheer acid in her throat when she forced herself to apologise for sounding bitter, even though she was absolutely bitter. She survived lunch. She survived a editorial meeting. She survived three separate people asking if she was "so excited for the Tuileries."
By three in the afternoon, her teeth ached from clenching her jaw. She fled.
The executive restroom was cold, smelling faintly of expensive jasmine soap and bleach. Emily slipped inside, threw the deadbolt, dropped her handbag onto the counter, and stared at her reflection.
For three seconds, she held it together.
Then, "Oh, fuck this."
She slammed both palms flat against the marble. The reflection staring back was infuriatingly pristine. That was the worst part, her hair was immaculately styled, her skin flawless, her smoky eye, a look she had spent forty minutes practicing specifically for Parisian nights, entirely intact.
She was furious.
"I worked for this," she whispered. Her voice cracked, a pathetic, wavering sound that made her instantly hate herself. "No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this."
She straightened her spine, took a shaky breath, and pressed her fingertips carefully beneath her lower lashes, desperate to stop the heat building behind her eyes. She could not cry. She refused to cry. Not here. Not after everything.
Her chest ached. She swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. "It's fine." It was a tragedy.
"It's completely fine." She was ready to burn the building down.
She sniffed, desperately trying to regain control, when the heavy door clicked open.
Emily froze. Footsteps crossed the marble floor, slow, measured, unhurried. She instantly stood tall, sweeping a hand under her eyes and forcing her features into an icy mask of efficiency. She kept her gaze fixed on the sink, hoping whoever it was would just wash their hands and leave.
She didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent hit her first, something rich, warm, and distinctly un-fashion-week, dark vanilla, tobacco, and clean cedar.
Andy Sachs. Senior features editor.
At forty-three, Andy possessed a low-key, effortless authority that Emily found deeply unnerving. Andy had been Miranda’s assistant twenty years ago, had walked away to write real journalism, and had returned months ago like a prodigal hero to pull Runway out of a public relations tailspin. She was brilliant, sharp, and terrifyingly self-assured, one of the few people in the building who could look Miranda in the eye without flinching.
And yet, unlike the rest of the executive masthead, Andy was... human.
She remembered the names of the freelancers. She said thank you to the mailroom staff. She occasionally stopped by Emily's desk just to drop off a spare galley proof or ask if she had managed to eat lunch. Small things. Polite things. Nothing Emily had ever dared to read into.
Emily kept her eyes locked on her own reflection as Andy stepped up to the adjacent sink. The faucet turned on, the water running in a quiet rush.
Just stay still, Emily thought wildly. Just don't look up.
Andy turned off the water, pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, and paused. Through the glass, Emily caught the sudden flick of Andy’s dark eyes, taking in the rigid tension in Emily’s shoulders, the pale line of her jaw, the faint, betraying pink rimming her lower eyelids.
Emily took a steadying breath. She could handle this. She would nod, offer a brisk, professional greeting, and walk out.
"Hey."
Emily’s gaze shifted up. Andy was watching her through the mirror, her head tilted slightly. There was an unhurried focus in her dark eyes that made Emily's stomach do a strange, nervous flip.
"What's wrong, cutie?"
Emily blinked. Cutie? Did she just call me cutie? I am a twenty-three-year-old hardened fashion professional who survives on low-fat cheese and sheer hatred. I am terrifying. I strike fear into the hearts of freelancers.
She turned around slowly. Andy had tossed the paper towel and was leaning casually back against the counter, arms loosely crossed over a silk blouse. Close up, the contrast between them was striking, Emily in her sharp, armorer tailoring, Andy in soft, tailored charcoal trousers, radiating an easy, grounded warmth.
The smile Andy offered wasn't the polished one she used for press junkets. It was real, the kind that Emily had rarely seen in this industry.
Emily’s composure crumbled in real time. "Miranda," she blurted out, the word escaping like a haemorrhage.
Andy nodded slowly, sympathetic without being condescending. "Of course."
"She's taking Amari."
"Ah."
"Instead of me."
Andy’s dark eyebrows pulled together. "Oh."
"Because I had the audacity to get sick for forty-eight hours." Emily's voice was rising, the sharp British cadence cutting through the quiet room. "I was feverish for two days! Two! I recovered! I’m fine! And she still pulled my name off the list."
Andy didn't interrupt. She just stayed anchored where she was, listening.
"I’ve spent months preparing for this," Emily continued, pacing a short line across the tile, her hands gesturing wildly. "I memorised every line sheet. I reorganised the entire European schedule. I live on cheese, Andy! Cheese! I built my whole life around this trip."
The moment the words left her mouth, Emily stopped dead. The admission hung in the cold air of the bathroom, heavy and pathetic. Her shoulders slouched, the anger draining out of her, leaving only a hollow, humiliating ache.
"I know," Emily murmured, looking at the floor. "It sounds stupid."
"It doesn't."
Emily looked up.
Andy’s gaze was steady, her tone quiet and devoid of judgment. "It’s not stupid, Em."
The soft, shortened version of her name hit Emily right in the chest. Her eyes stung again, blindingly hot. "Oh, God. No. I am not crying in the washroom."
"Hey." Andy stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Don't."
"I can't help it," Emily choked out, furiously trying to blink it back. "My makeup—"
"Is fine."
"It took forty minutes!"
A low laugh rumbled in Andy’s chest, warm and incredibly fond. "There she is."
Emily scowled defensively. "What?"
"You." Andy paused inches away. "You’ve been holding your breath for an hour."
Before Emily could process the proximity, Andy reached up. Her fingers were warm and steady as she pressed a soft tissue against the corner of Emily's eye, gently blotting away the moisture with practiced precision.
Emily froze. She stopped breathing.
Andy was slightly taller, holding her gaze with a calm, intent focus as she shifted the tissue to the other cheek. "There," Andy murmured, her voice dropping an octave. "Don't waste tears on Miranda's power plays."
"I spent years working for this," Emily whispered, trapped by the warmth of Andy’s hands, by the absurd reality of senior features editor Andy Sachs carefully fixing her mascara.
Andy lowered the tissue, but she didn't step back. Her eyes searched Emily’s face for a quiet, lingering beat. "Okay."
Emily blinked. "Okay?"
Andy’s mouth curved into a slow, mischievous smile. "Guess what?"
"What?"
"Come with me instead."
Emily let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "What?"
"To Paris," Andy said smoothly, as if suggesting they pop down to the lobby for an espresso. "Be my assistant for the week."
The words floated in the space between them, surreal and absurd. Emily stared. "You... what?"
"Jin got promoted to last month," Andy explained, leaning back just an inch, her hands resting lightly on her hips. "I haven't hired a replacement yet because I haven't had the time. So, technically, I have an open slot on my team’s travel budget."
"Andy, I—"
"You know the schedule better than anyone in this building," Andy reasoned, stepping seamlessly into problem-solving mode. "You know the designers. You know how I work. And frankly, I’d much rather have someone brilliant beside me than go solo."
Emily felt the room shift on its axis. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious."
"Why would you do that for me?"
The question slipped out before Emily could filter it. It was too soft, too raw.
Andy’s expression softened. For a second, the light banter vanished, replaced by something deep and unreadable that sent a ripple of static down Emily's spine.
"Because I couldn't bear seeing you miserable, cutie," Andy said softly.
Before Emily could decipher the weight of that, Andy tapped her chin gently. "I'll handle the logistics with HR and clear it with Miranda. Don't worry about a thing." She smoothed a stray red hair away from Emily's temple, a light, fleeting touch, and offered one last brilliant smile. "Dry your eyes. We have a flight to catch tomorrow."
Andy turned, push open the door, and stepped into the corridor, leaving the quiet scent of vanilla and cedar in her wake.
Emily stood alone in front of the mirror, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
If she calls me cutie again, I’m going to throw myself off the Eiffel Tower. Or marry her. Whichever comes first.
She looked at her reflection, her eyes slightly flushed, her lips parted, her skin still warm where Andy’s thumb had brushed her cheek.
She had no idea that Miranda, in a single act of casual cruelty, had just altered the trajectory of her life. She had put Emily directly in Andy Sachs's orbit.
Emily went to Paris in business class.
It was, in itself, absurd. She had spent the lead-up to the flight bracing for impact, expecting Miranda to make a scathing remark, expecting Amari to glare, expecting upper management to treat her like a coat-tail rider.
Instead, she found herself reclining in a plush leather seat, wrapped in a cashmere throw, sipping a glass of vintage champagne she hadn't ordered.
Things just... happened around Andy.
Where Miranda ruled by terror, Andy operated with a fluid, magnetic charm that made people jump to accommodate her. Editors moved schedules for her, photographers saved extra lighting setups, airlines upgraded her tickets without being asked. Emily had always admired it from afar.
It wasn't until twenty thousand feet over the Atlantic that Nigel clued her into the real story.
Emily was sitting across the aisle from Nigel, quietly reviewing line sheets, when she launched into a subdued rant about Miranda's latest seating assignment. Nigel listened, an insufferably knowing look playing on his lips.
"What?" Emily demanded, lowering her tablet.
"Nothing, darling."
"That is your 'I know a secret that would ruin you' face, Nigel. Spill."
Nigel sighed, leaning across the aisle, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You really have no idea how you got into this cabin, do you?"
Emily frowned. "Andy had an open slot on her press budget."
Nigel let out a rich laugh. "Oh, sweet child. Management flatly refused the expense. There was no 'open slot' for an extra assistant during peak fashion week."
Emily went rigid. "What?"
"Runway wouldn't authorise the ticket," Nigel said softly. "So Andy had a rather extraordinary shouting match with Finance, marched up to Miranda's office, and told her that if Runway wouldn't treat you like a professional, she would handle it herself. Andy paid for your seat out of her own pocket, Emily."
The cabin air suddenly felt very thin. "She... she bought my ticket?"
"She did," Nigel said smoothly. "She told Miranda she wasn't going to stand by and watch another young assistant get chewed up and thrown away for nothing." He gave Emily a pointed look. "She went to bat for you. Hard."
Emily looked down at her hands, her heart performing a strange, dizzying gymnastics routine in her chest. "Why?"
Nigel tilted his head, a subtle smirk touching his eyes. "Perhaps she likes having you around."
"She's nice to everyone, Nigel."
"Is she?" Nigel murmured, picking up his copy of Harper’s Bazaar. "If you say so, dear."
Later that night, the cabin lights dimmed to a soft, twilight blue.
Emily worked until her eyes burned, staring at the glow of her laptop screen until her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Eventually, exhaustion won, and she drifted off to the low hum of the jet engines.
When she woke hours later, the air was cold.
She shifted, noticing the heavy, soft weight draped over her shoulders. Someone had carefully unfolded a dark grey blanket and tucked it around her neck, pinning the draft out.
She assumed it was a attentive flight attendant. She pulled the warmth closer and went back to sleep.
It wasn't until they were standing in the crowded, chaotic baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle that Nigel casually dropped another brick onto her chest.
"She's quite gentle when you're sleeping, you know," Nigel remarked, watching the luggage carousel.
Emily looked at him, pulling her coat tight against the chill. "Who?"
"Andy. She got up twice during the flight to adjust your blanket so you wouldn't freeze under the air vent."
Emily froze. "No she didn't."
"Emily, I was awake fixing a page layout. I have eyes." Nigel pointed discreetly toward the terminal lounge.
A few yards away, Andy was leaning against a pillar, checking her phone. She looked dark-eyed, effortlessly stylish in a beige trench coat, oblivious to the fact that Nigel was dismantling Emily's reality.
As if feeling Emily’s gaze, Andy looked up. Her eyes found Emily’s through the crowd, and her face softened instantly into a small warm smile.
Emily’s heart gave a violent thud. She forced a polite smile back, then jerked her head away so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
It’s just a blanket, she told herself sternly, staring at a floating suitcase. She’s being nice. She’s an older colleague being generous. That’s all.
Except the hotel had only reserved one suite.
"There's been a mix-up," Andy said smoothly, holding up a single keycard as they stood in the opulent lobby of Hotel Costes.
Emily looked at the card, then at Andy. "One room?"
"Fashion Week," Andy replied with an apologetic shrug. "The city is totally booked out. They can't give us a second room without kicking out a Italian editorial team."
What Andy didn't mention, and what Emily only figured out much later, was that Andy had spent the remainder of her personal travel budget on Emily’s flight, leaving nothing for a second luxury room.
"It's fine," Emily said quickly, desperate not to sound ungrateful. "Really! I'm not going to complain about a suite at the Costes."
Andy smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good."
The suite was breathtaking, velvet drapery, tall French windows opening out over the Paris rooftops, a massive king-sized bed, and the scent of fresh white lilies.
While Emily stood mesmerised by the view, Andy shed her trench coat and began efficiently unzipping her luggage. There was something overwhelmingly intimate about watching her, Andy rolling up her crisp sleeves, unbuttoning her collar, moving around the quiet room with casual domestic ease.
That night, they went over the schedules. They sat side-by-side on the edge of the massive bed, papers spread out between them, their shoulders occasionally brushing as Emily pointed out double-booked showroom visits. Andy was patient, listening intently, her low voice filling the quiet room as the Parisian rain tapped against the glass.
When the lights finally went out, the silence in the room was dense and heavy.
Emily lay on her side, staring into the dark, listening to the steady, rhythmic sound of Andy’s breathing just a foot away. The mattress was enormous, yet Emily felt hyper-aware of the space Andy occupied.
She had never shared a bed with a woman like this, someone older, someone brilliant, someone who had looked Miranda in the eye and demanded Emily be treated well.
She drifted off to the sound of Andy's breath.
When Emily woke early the next morning, the room was bathed in a pale, blue dawn light.
She didn't move. She turned her head slowly on the pillow.
Andy was still sound asleep beside her.
Without her crisp tailored coats and authoritative stance, Andy looked strikingly different. Her dark hair was tousled across the white linen, her face was relaxed, the sharp lines of stress around her eyes completely smoothed out. She looked younger. Softer. Beautiful.
Emily lay there, her heart executing a sudden, violent series of backflips against her ribs.
Oh, God, her brain whispered, instantly falling into a helpless chaotic spiral. Look at her. Look at her face. Why does she look like that? Why is she sleeping so peacefully while I am actively unravelling three inches away?
Please let me look at you just a little longer, her internal monologue pleaded desperately, ignoring every single professional rule she had ever learned. Please let this morning never end. Please don't wake up yet. Just give me five more minutes of this quiet room, of you sleeping beside me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Please don't stir, she prayed, her gaze tracing the soft curve of Andy's cheekbone, the gentle rhythm of her breathing. If you wake up, I'll have to put my armour back on. I'll have to be first assistant again. I'll have to act like being this close to you isn't completely ruining me.
Please just let the clock stop right here, Emily thought, her chest aching with a terrifying helpless warmth. Just five more minutes. Please, please, please.
-
Over the next four days, Emily discovered a terrifying truth, that working for Andy Sachs was nothing like working for Miranda Priestly.
With Miranda, precision was a shield against destruction. With Andy, precision was an art form that Andy actually noticed and appreciated.
Emily was brilliant at her job. She anticipated every need before Andy could articulate it. She had the line sheets organised, the press passes pre-sorted, the driver waiting five minutes early at every venue.
Before a major interview with an Italian design house, Emily reached up without thinking and smoothed down a lapel on Andy’s jacket, her fingers lingering for a second to brush away a speck of lint.
Andy paused, looking down at her. "Thank you, Em."
It wasn't the dismissive nod Miranda gave. Andy said it warmly, her eyes dark and attentive.
By day three, an unmentioned ritual had formed. Every morning, Andy would wander back to their hotel room holding two paper cups from a local cafe. She’d hand one to Emily, a perfect oat milk latte, hot, no sugar.
"I never told you how I take it," Emily blurted out on the third morning, holding the warm cup.
Andy offered a knowing smile as she took a sip of her own dark roast. "You didn't have to. I pay attention."
The breaking point came on Thursday afternoon outside the Louvre.
They were running behind schedule for a private preview when Andy suddenly stopped in the middle of the crowded courtyard, patting down her coat. "Shit. My tablet."
Emily’s instinct kicked in instantly. "Did you leave it on the coffee table in the suite?"
"I think so, I—"
"I'll get it."
"Em, no, the driver can—"
"I’m faster," Emily called over her shoulder, already turning on her heel and sprinting back down the Rue de Rivoli in her four-inch boots.
Ten minutes later, breathless, her cheeks flushed red from the cold air, Emily skidded to a halt outside the venue, holding the tablet out like a trophy. "Got it."
Andy took the tablet, but she didn't look at the screen. She looked at Emily, at her glowing skin, her chest heaving slightly, her dedication over a piece of technology.
Andy’s gaze softened into something impossibly tender. "Thank you, baby."
Emily’s brain stalled.
Her lungs literally stopped operating. The noise of the Paris traffic faded into a dull background hum as heat flooded her face, rushing from her collarbone straight to her forehead.
Baby.
Did Andy Sachs just call me baby in the middle of the Place du Carrousel? In front of the Louvre? In front of French people?
Emily’s internal monologue threw itself off a cliff.
I ran four blocks in four-inch Christian Louboutins for a piece of circuitry and she called me baby. I will run to Berlin right now. I will sprint across the Atlantic Ocean. Give me another errand. Tell me to steal the Mona Lisa, Andy. I will do it.
Andy tilted her head, watching the sudden dramatic change in Emily’s complexion with an amused twist of her lips. "You okay?"
"Yes!" Emily squeaked, her voice an octave too high. "Perfect! Splendid! Let's go!"
Andy let out a soft laugh, turning toward the entrance. "Good girl."
Emily stood frozen on the pavement for two full seconds, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Baby.
It was an endearment. A casual, American slip of the tongue. People said it all the time. It meant nothing.
Except, coming from Andy’s low, rich voice, it felt like an electric shock.
The rest of the trip blurred together in a dizzying sequence of high fashion, late-night champagne, and quiet moments that Emily found herself hoarding like contraband.
Andy touching the small of her back to guide her through a crowded after-party. Andy calling her sweetheart when hand-delivering her a bowl of greek yogurt at 6:00 AM. Andy slumping into the seat beside her in the back of town cars, their shoulders pressed together, sharing an exhausted silence that felt more comfortable than anything Emily had ever experienced.
On the flight back to New York, the cabin was dark again.
Andy had tried to review article drafts for twenty minutes before her tablet slipped from her hand onto her lap. Her eyes closed, her breathing evening out into deep sleep.
Emily sat beside her, working quietly on her laptop.
Half an hour in, the plane hit a mild pocket of turbulence. Andy shifted in her sleep, her head tilting sideways, until it landed softly against Emily's shoulder.
Emily went completely rigid. She stopped typing. Her breath hitched in her throat.
Do not move. Do not breathe. Do not even blink.
Andy’s cheek was resting heavily against her sleeve. A strand of her dark hair brushed against the bare skin of Emily's neck, sending a violent shiver straight down her spine.
Wake her up, Emily’s brain screamed. Move. Adjust. Tell her.
Instead, Emily sat like a marble statue.
She looked down. In the dim light of the cabin, Andy looked completely vulnerable, the fierce, intimidating senior editor absent, replaced by a woman who looked quiet, tired, and remarkably soft.
Please don’t wake up so soon, her internal monologue screamed, completely going off the rails. Please, please, please just stay right here. My arm is yours now. I’m not moving. I am literally glued to this seat forever. I am officially flight equipment. I am a human headrest and I am yours. If I shift an inch and wake her up, I will personally resign from Runway, open the emergency exit, and throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean. My left arm is already going completely numb. I don't care. Amputate the arm. Leave it on the plane. The arm belongs to Andy Sachs now.
Slowly, careful not to disturb her, Emily dropped her shoulder by an inch, allowing Andy to rest more comfortably against her.
She spent the next forty-five minutes staring straight ahead at the seatback screen, her pulse racing, her shoulder burning where Andy touched her.
When the flight captain finally announced their descent into JFK, Emily swallowed hard and leaned down slightly. "Andy."
No response. Just a soft, warm exhale against her neck.
Emily’s lips curved into an helpless smile. "Andy. We’re landing."
Andy stirred, her dark eyes opening slowly. For two seconds, she looked disoriented, and then she realised where she was resting.
She sat up quickly, rubbing the back of her neck. "Oh. Oops."
Emily tried desperately to mask the disappointment surging through her chest.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Andy murmured, her voice thick with sleep as she gave Emily an apologetic, warm look. "I didn't mean to use you as a pillow."
Emily nearly suffered a cardiac event.
Sweetheart. Again. Her brain immediately abandoned all professional decorum and went into full, desperate spiral.
Please don't ever be sorry, her internal monologue screamed. Please put your head back down. Please do that again. In fact, pull the blanket back up and fall asleep on me again. I will literally turn into a human pillar and never move an inch again.
Instead, she forced her mouth into the picture of polite, unbothered composure. “No, no. It's completely fine.”
Andy offered a sheepish, half-awake grin. “I fell asleep.”
“I noticed.”
Andy laughed softly, a low sound that vibrated right through Emily’s ribs. “Sorry.”
Stop apologising and put your head back on my shoulder, you brilliant, oblivious woman, Emily thought wildly, fighting the desperate urge to physically guide Andy’s head back down.
Instead, she offered a tight, perfectly practiced smile. “Don’t be. It’s really not a problem.”
Andy smiled back, that effortless, warm look that made Emily want to throw herself into the Atlantic, and reached for her coat. “Come on, then. Let’s get home.”
Emily followed her down the aisle of the plane, watching the confident sway of Andy's shoulders ahead of her.
She told herself it was over. Paris was a fever dream, a temporary break from reality. They were going back to Runway, back to the bullpens, back to the age gap and the executive hierarchy and the professional boundaries.
It was just a plane ticket. Just a hotel room. Just a blanket. Just a nickname.
At least, that’s what Emily tried to tell herself.
She had no idea that somewhere between a tearful breakdown in an executive bathroom and a quiet flight over the Atlantic, she had completely, helplessly lost her heart to Andy Sachs.
It wasn't until they were back in New York that Emily began to realise Paris hadn't just been a detour, it had rewritten her entire internal wiring.
She noticed it the very next morning.
Emily was always early. Ridiculously early. It was a golden rule Miranda had hammered into her from day one: If you’re ten minutes early, you’re late. If you’re on time, you’re already disappointing someone.
So Emily was routinely at work before the building’s heavy glass doors even unlocked. But that morning, she was early on an entirely unhinged level. She had barely slept three hours. Her suitcase sat open and half-unpacked on her bedroom floor, and her mind was still suspended somewhere over the Atlantic.
And, inexplicably, she had made a deliberate detour to the coffee shop three blocks out of her way.
She knew Andy's order now. She hadn't even had to consult a note. She paid for the single dark roast, took the paper cup, and carried it into the quiet, dim atrium of the office.
Stopping at her desk, she set the cup down and picked up a black ink pen. She hesitated, her pulse humming in her ears, before carefully tracing small, slanted letters along the cardboard sleeve:
Thank you for Paris.
She stared at it. It was neat. Professional. Appropriate.
Then her hand moved completely independent of her brain. Right after the period, she added a tiny, delicate heart.
Emily froze. “Oh, God.”
She nearly threw the entire cup straight into the recycling bin. She stared at the tiny, incriminating little shape, her cheeks burning in the empty bullpen. It was pathetic. It was transparent.
Then, accepting her own impending doom with a deep, resigned sigh, she picked the cup back up. Fine. Whatever. She was doing this.
She walked down the hallway to Andy's corner office and knocked softly.
“Come in.”
Emily pushed the door open. Andy was standing by the high bookshelf, flipping through a layout folder, dressed in a crisp soft blue blouse that made her skin look impossibly warm.
When she looked up, her face brightened instantly. “Morning, Em.”
“Morning.” Emily stepped into the room, suddenly painfully aware of the paper cup in her hands. She extended it toward Andy using both hands, like an offering. “I got you this.”
Andy looked mildly surprised. “For me?”
“Yes.”
Andy took the cup, her fingers brushing Emily’s. As she turned the sleeve, her dark eyes caught the hand-written message, and the tiny heart at the end.
A gorgeous smile spread across Andy’s face. Not her media-trained executive smile, but something real and unrestrained. “That is so sweet.”
Emily felt a wave of heat rush right up her neck. “It's nothing.”
“It isn't nothing,” Andy murmured, stepping closer.
Before Emily could brace herself, Andy reached up and lightly ran her fingers through the side of Emily’s hair, carelessly ruffling the perfectly styled locks. Emily’s brain blew a fuse.
“You really don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. It was my pleasure,” Andy said softly, her thumb brushing the tip of Emily's ear as her hand lingered. “Did you have a good time?”
Emily stared at her, frozen in place. Under normal circumstances, if anyone touched her hair without explicit permission, Emily would have sliced them down with a single look. But this was Andy. And Andy’s fingers were still gently threading through her hair, warm and impossibly grounding.
Please do that again, her internal monologue screamed, spiralling into total, chaotic anarchy. Please press me against this bookshelf and mess up my hair all you want. In fact, ruin the blowout completely. Ruffle it, wreck it, pull it, I don't care. Just never, ever stop calling me sweetheart.
She had to physically fight the terrifying, desperate urge to lean her cheek straight into Andy’s palm. It took every ounce of British restraint she had left not to press her face into Andy’s warm skin right then and there.
Instead, she forced her jaw to unlock, managing a tight, tiny little nod that probably looked like a neck spasm. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Thank you,” Emily managed to choke out.
Andy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Emily’s heart did a violent, sickening flip. She nodded once, turned on her heel, and made a swift tactical retreat to her desk.
The second she sat down, she dropped her head into her hands. She could still feel the lingering phantom warmth of Andy's fingers on her scalp. She touched her hair, then immediately slammed her hand back onto the desk.
This was getting completely out of hand. She needed to get a grip. She had spent five days in Europe with her senior editor. That was all. And somehow she had returned to Manhattan with a pathological, desperate need to be touched by her.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Emily buried herself in work for the rest of the week, hiding behind spreadsheets and line sheets. And for a while, the distraction worked.
Until Thursday night.
It was nearly ten o'clock. The floor was pitch black except for the emergency exit signs. Amari had left hours ago with the Book for Miranda’s townhouse. Emily had stayed, buried under a mountain of schedule cross-referencing that technically could have waited until morning, but served as a convenient excuse not to go home to an empty apartment.
Eventually, her throat felt dry enough to force her up. She pushed away from her computer and headed toward the pantry for water.
Her heels clicked softly against the concrete floor. As she passed Andy’s office, she noticed the slice of yellow light cutting through the glass.
Andy was still there. She was leaning back in her chair, staring tiredly at her laptop screen with one hand propping up her chin.
Emily stopped. She should have kept walking. She knew the rules of self-preservation.
Instead, running on pure exhaustion and zero self-control, she pushed the glass door open.
Andy looked up, her tired features instantly melting into a soft, surprised grin. “Hey, baby.”
Emily stopped breathing for a second. That word again. Dropped so casually, so warm, as if Andy didn't even realise she was doing it.
“It's so late,” Andy said softly. “Why are you still here?”
Emily opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She was exhausted. Her posture collapsed. She looked at Andy, and remembered everything Paris had taught her. Andy was safe. Andy was kind. Andy protected people. Andy had protected her.
Without thinking, Emily crossed the floor.
Andy barely had time to stand up from her chair before Emily wrapped both arms tightly around Andy's waist, burying her face directly into the crook of Andy's neck.
She just folded into her, exhaling a long, trembling breath against warm skin that smelled faintly of cedar and expensive perfume.
Andy went utterly still.
For two long seconds, she didn't move, caught off guard. Then, the surprise melted away. Andy let out a quiet sigh, her arms coming up to wrap firmly around Emily, pulling the younger woman flush against her chest.
“Hey,” Andy murmured into Emily’s hair.
“I'm tired,” Emily whispered, her voice muffled against Andy’s lapel.
“I can tell.”
Emily tightened her grip around Andy’s waist, digging her fingers into the soft fabric of her blazer. “I don't want to go home.”
Andy’s hand began to move in long, soothing strokes down Emily's back. “You don't?”
“Not yet,” Emily murmured, shaking her head slightly against Andy's neck.
“Okay.”
Emily’s eyes drifted shut. There it was, that overwhelming sense of safety. She didn't have to be sharp here. She didn't have to be hyper-competent or defensive or perfectly put together. She could just... exist.
I could stay like this forever, Emily thought, her chest aching with the sheer, crushing weight of it. Please never let go of me. Please, please, please. Just lock the office door, throw away the key, and hold me right here until the sun comes up. I will literally surrender my entire career if it means standing in this room with your arms around me.
She dug her fingers a little deeper into the wool of Andy’s blazer, completely unraveled by the scent of cedar and the solid, unyielding warmth against her cheek.
Andy’s hand continued its slow, soothing sweep down Emily’s spine. “You've been working too hard,” she murmured, her breath fluttering the stray hairs at Emily's temple.
“I know.”
“Why are you still here, Em?”
“Because there's work.”
“There will still be work tomorrow.”
Emily let out a faint, tired laugh against Andy’s skin. “Miranda doesn't believe in tomorrow.”
Andy chuckled softly, the vibration traveling right through Emily’s chest. “Fair enough.”
They stood there in the quiet office, held together in the dim light.
Eventually, Andy shifted, her hands moving to Emily’s upper arms to gently create an inch of space. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you home.”
Emily reluctantly lifted her head. Because of the close distance, their faces were inches apart. For a silent moment, neither of them moved. Emily's pulse hammered wildly against her ribs.
Andy offered a soft, impossibly gentle smile. “Better?”
Emily swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Andy reached up, smoothing a few stray hairs back from Emily's forehead.
Emily squeezed her eyes shut for a second, fighting the urge to lean into the gesture. “Thank you.”
Andy’s smile deepened. “Anytime, baby.”
Emily looked down at the floor, her heart racing. Andy had no idea what those words did to her. Absolutely none.
And that was the scariest part of all.
For the next week, Emily actively avoided her. Not professionally, she still delivered the line sheets, managed Andy's call sheet, and stood beside her during editorial briefings. But the second a meeting ended, Emily vanished.
Whenever Andy smiled at her, Emily suddenly found an urgent email to read on her phone. Whenever Andy stepped close, Emily subtly took a step back. Whenever Andy dropped a casual sweetheart, Emily’s face flushed bright pink and she rapidly began reciting circulation statistics.
Andy didn't force the issue. She just watched with quiet dark eyes. Waiting.
It reached its boiling point on Friday evening.
They were the only two people in the central elevator, riding down from the 17th floor. The silence between them was thick enough to cut with a fabric sheer.
Emily stared straight ahead at the metallic doors, her fingers twisting nervously in front of her jacket. She picked at her thumbnail, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Andy glanced down at Emily’s hands, then up at her profile. “What's on your mind, sweetheart?”
Emily’s stomach plummeted. “Nothing.”
Andy offered a faint, knowing smirk. “Em.”
Emily locked her gaze on the floor indicator lights. 12. 11. 10.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Andy asked quietly.
Emily swallowed hard. That was the exact problem. She knew she could. Andy had proven it in Paris. Andy had proven it every day since.
She opened her mouth, intending to deliver a crisp, professional excuse. She was going to say she was tired. She was going to say work was stressful.
Instead, her mouth completely betrayed her. “Because I think I have feelings for you.”
The elevator plunged in total silence.
Emily’s heart stopped. She felt the blood drain from her head, then rush back in a blinding heat. Panic seized her, and she began babbling, the words tumbling out in a frantic, runaway British cadence.
“I mean, I know I do. I think! I don't know! It's just—no one's ever been so sweet to me,” she rushed on, her voice rising an octave. “And no one's ever really recognised how hard I work, and you keep calling me cutie and baby and sweetheart, and—”
She cut herself off, horrified, but the momentum was unstoppable. “And you smell really nice!” she blurted out, wincing instantly. “And you look impossibly good all the time, and you're confident, and you're kind, and—I think I like you. Romantically.”
8. 7. 6.
Emily couldn't bring herself to look at Andy’s face.
“And you don't have to like me back!” Emily added frantically, gesturing wildly with her hands. “I know this is wildly inappropriate, and you're technically a senior editor, and there's a twenty-year age difference, and I'm not asking you to do anything! I just—I felt like I was going to combust if I didn't say it out loud!”
She finally forced herself to turn her head and look at Andy. “I really like you.”
Andy was staring at her. For one terrifying second, Andy’s expression was unreadable, and Emily felt her entire life end right there on the elevator floor.
Then, Andy’s face softened. The surprise melted away, replaced by an expression of absurd, overwhelming warmth.
“Aww,” Andy murmured softly.
Emily wanted the elevator floor to open up and swallow her whole. “Don't do that.”
Andy smiled, her dark eyes glittering. “Sweetheart.”
Sweetheart again. She is doing this on purpose. She is actively trying to induce a fatal heart attack so she doesn't have to deal with my ridiculous confession.
“I am going to throw myself out of this building,” Emily muttered, covering her face with both hands.
“Is that why you've been dodging me all week?” Andy asked, stepping closer.
"Yes!" Emily muffled behind her palms. "Because every time you look at me, my brain turns into liquid! Because you're forty-three, insufferably attractive, ridiculously kind, and I am standing in an elevator looking like an insane person while you treat me like a stray puppy!"
Andy let out a low, warm laugh that made Emily’s chest ache. “Oh, Em.”
“Don't laugh at me!”
“I'm not laughing at you, cutie.”
“You are!”
“I’m really not.” Andy reached out and gently took Emily’s wrists, pulling her hands away from her flushed face. Then, with that same maddening, effortless affection, Andy reached up and lightly ruffled Emily’s hair again. “Aww. You're just so adorable.”
That is IT.
Something inside Emily snapped. The humiliation, the tension, the weeks of desperate longing exploded all at once.
“Stop saying that,” she snapped.
Andy tilted her head, a playful spark in her eyes. “Why?”
“Because—”
“Because what?”
Emily grabbed both lapels of Andy's dark grey blazer and yanked her down.
She kissed her.
It wasn't a neat, elegant kiss. It was sudden, desperate, and impulsive.
For half a heartbeat, Andy went completely still with shock. Then, Emily felt the subtle curve of a smile against her lips, and Andy kissed her back.
Everything inside the elevator stopped.
Andy’s hand came up, her warm palm cupping the side of Emily’s jaw, while her other arm settled firmly around Emily’s waist, pulling her flush against her. The kiss shifted, deepening, slowing down into something deliberate, heavy, and intoxicating.
Emily’s brain went into total, absolute overload.
Please don’t stop, her internal monologue screamed, completely unraveled. Please, please, please never let this kiss end. Kiss me longer. Kiss me deeper. Take me right here—fuck the elevator, fuck the cameras, fuck everything, just don’t stop touching me.
She clutched at the lapels of Andy's blazer like a drowning woman, drinking in the scent of cedar and dark vanilla, feeling Andy’s fingers press firmly into her jaw.
Just take me back to your apartment, Emily prayed desperately, her head spinning as Andy’s lips parted against hers. Directly there. Right now. I don't care about the age gap, I don't care about Runway, I don't care about anything else in this miserable world. Just kiss me until I lose my mind.
When Andy finally pulled back, it was only by an inch. Their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing slightly fast in the quiet metal box.
Emily kept her eyes closed for a second, her heart hammering wildly.
Andy let out a low exhale, her thumb softly tracing Emily's cheekbone. “Well.”
Emily opened her eyes, feeling exposed and breathless. “Well?”
“I think that answers a few questions,” Andy whispered, a small, dark smile touching her lips.
Emily let out a breathless, nervous laugh. “Yeah.”
Andy’s expression shifted, becoming slightly more serious as her gaze searched Emily’s face. “You're sure about this, Em?”
Emily nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”
“Because if we do this, we have to be extraordinarily careful,” Andy said quietly, her tone dropping into that grounded, authoritative register. “You work at the same publication. I'm twenty years older than you.”
“I know.”
“And I need to know you're not just confused because I was nice to you after Miranda was cruel.”
Emily looked right into Andy’s eyes, her gaze steadying. “I liked you long before I knew what to do with it.”
A look of pure, unguarded tenderness swept over Andy’s face. “Okay.”
Ding.
The elevator chime shattered the quiet as the doors slid open to the empty, brightly lit lobby.
Emily’s internal monologue instantly slammed into a brick wall. Oh, fuck this world, she thought bitterly, glaring at the open doors. Fuck the lobby. Fuck the security guard. Fuck timing. Fuck whoever invented the ground floor.
Andy chuckled softly, stepping back and smoothing down her blazer. “We should probably step out before the night security guard gets suspicious.”
Emily let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, adjusting her coat. “Fine. But I hate it.”
They walked out into the lobby together, maintaining a professional foot of space between them. But as they neared the heavy glass revolving doors leading out into the cool Manhattan air, Andy stopped.
“Em.”
Emily turned.
Andy’s expression was serious now, the senior editor taking over, but with a protective edge that made Emily's chest swell.
“If we do this, it stays entirely between us. No one can know.”
“I know,” Emily agreed instantly. “I won't say a word.”
“And it’s not because I’m ashamed of you,” Andy added firmly, reaching out to briefly take Emily’s hand, squeezing her fingers. “Never that.”
Emily looked down at their joined hands, then up into Andy's eyes. “Then why?”
“Because I will not let anyone in this building say you slept your way into a career,” Andy said, her voice hard with conviction. “People love to diminish young, ambitious women in fashion. I won't give them the satisfaction of turning your hard work into gossip.”
Emily felt a lump form in her throat. She squeezed Andy’s hand back. “I don't care what they say about me.”
“I do,” Andy said softly. “And I’m not going to let your hard work be compromised.”
Emily’s lips curved into a stubborn smile. “I won't let you risk your reputation either.”
Andy raised an eyebrow, amused. “Mine?”
“Yes. You've worked just as hard.”
Andy shook her head, a fondly resigned look on her face. “You are ridiculously stubborn.”
“I’m first assistant,” Emily said proudly. “It’s in the job description.”
Andy squeezed her hand one last time before letting go as they continued toward the exit.
Not touching now. Not looking at one another too much. Just two high-powered editorial colleagues leaving work late on a Friday night, maintaining a perfectly professional distance.
To anyone watching through the glass, it was entirely ordinary.
Inside Emily’s head, however, fireworks were exploding.
Look at us, her internal monologue declared, practically vibrating with smug, breathless triumph. Look at us walking out of here like absolute professionals. Look at me, behaving myself! Acting like Andy Sachs didn't just have her hands on my waist. Acting like she didn't just kiss me until my knees turned into jelly.
Andy held the heavy glass door open, stepping out into the cool Manhattan air first. Emily passed by her, catching that faint, intoxicating trail of cedar and vanilla.
We kissed, Emily screamed internally, her chin held high as her heels clicked against the sidewalk. We actually kissed! senior features editor Andy Sachs, the most brilliant, terrifyingly gorgeous woman in this entire city, just told me she likes me. She stroked my hair! She called me sweetheart! And now we have a secret!
She glanced sideways at Andy, who was raising a hand to hail an approaching yellow cab, her profile sharp and beautiful in the streetlamp light.
Suck it, Miranda, Emily thought, a glorious, unhinged smirk threatening to break through her cool composure. Suck it, Amari. You got Paris, but I got Andy Sachs. I am literally the most powerful woman in New York City right now.
The cab pulled up to the curb. Andy opened the door and offered Emily that private, devastatingly warm smile. "After you, sweetheart."
Emily stepped into the back seat, her heart soaring into the stratosphere. I win, her brain sang as the taxi door clicked shut. I win at life. I win at everything.