13. The Predator’s Game

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the eerily still reception area. 

Alright, Andy. Crisis mode, engage.

With a quick breath, I step out of the elevator and start for the conference room. I try to exude confidence and competence with each step. I learned a long time ago not to show fear, even when the world seems like it’s crumbling down around you. 

“Are you trying to impersonate a deer?” Miranda once taunted me. “One of these days, those big eyes of yours will lock onto an oncoming truck, and someone will have to scrape you off the pavement like all the other prey too stupid to pay attention.”

It had stung at the time. Now, I just smirk. 

Not even a year ago, but it feels like it’s been a lifetime. I’d been racing around, trying to do everything at once, and making a mess of it. 

Miranda had been right. She usually is. 

The world so often comes down to predators and prey. Prey runs—fast, reckless, desperate—thinking only of escape. Prey runs on fear.

No panther dives headfirst into the watering hole, flailing. She waits. Watches. Strikes when the time is right.

So, reminding myself of what Miranda would do, I listen to my heels clack purposefully but not rushing against Runway’s tiled halls. 

Honestly, I’m desperate to just sprint into the conference room and get to work fixing this mess, but I know that sort of entrance would just add unnecessary chaos and nerves to the atmosphere. 

I reach for the handle, pausing for just a second. 

Not prey. Not frantic. Be deliberate.

Then, I push the door open.

“–was confirmed, I checked with them just yesterday, everything was ready to go,” Emily pleads her case. I’m not sure why, this can’t be her fault. She’s able to cause all sorts of disasters, but getting a historic design house to pull a collection at the last minute would be a whole other level. 

“Yes, well done, Emily. Everything was handled—except for the part where we have nothing to shoot.” 

“You pompous, insufferable–”

Emily and Nigel are facing off on opposite sides of the conference table. Nigel looks pissed off, but not rattled, while Emily seems to be T-3 seconds away from a voluntary manslaughter charge. 

Miranda stands at the far end of the room, back turned to us mere mortals, staring out at the overcast city skyline. 

When the door clicks shut behind me, Miranda turns and I’m immediately caught up in her piercing gaze. 

“Andrea, finally.” She prowls to the seat at the head of the table and motions for us all to sit. “I take it you’re all caught up on the tale of this unsinkable ship?”

I nod, quickly taking the seat to her left as everyone else falls into their places. “I’ve called around to check what’s on offer across the board, and I have a few potential options on standby. They’re waiting for our call, if you want to use any of them.”

I pull the piece of paper from my notebook and slide it to Miranda. I fight not to bite my lip as she looks it over. 

Nigel stands and walks to read over Miranda’s shoulder. 

“Dior could work,” he comments. “The samples I’ve seen of their Fall/Winter collection have similar structure and movement to what Lanvin had. It would be as little rework for the shoot as we can hope for.”

“Mm,” is all Miranda says. She leans back in her chair, her focus going from the paper to me, and staying there. 

My foot starts twitching under the table as I try to read her face, desperate for any clue of how badly I’ve messed up. Did I overstep? Was I supposed to wait for her to direct me? I thought I was being proactive and anticipating what she’d want, but maybe–

My spiraling thoughts freeze to a sudden stop.

She’s not frowning. She’s not smiling, either—that’s rare enough on the best of days. But there’s something there. A glint in her eye. Something conspiratorial. Like we’re the only ones playing the same game.

Like I made the right move.

“Call McQueen,” she orders me with a small wave of her fingers. “If you get pushback on the schedule, remind Testa and McGirr that they owe me for last spring.”

I’m pulling out my phone before she finishes, ready to get the ball rolling, but Nigel’s voice stops me cold. 

"Seriously? The McQueen collection doesn’t fit. At all. We’d have to scrap everything—the entire shoot, the concept, the layouts. A complete do-over." He exhales, shaking his head. "I don’t even know why you’d list it as an option, Andy. Six months, and you still can’t tell—"

“She included it,” Miranda cuts in, cool and dismissive. “Because Dior keeps us on schedule. But we relinquish control of the narrative. Lanvin’s creative director was fired for sexually harassing a designer—the very designer whose work we were going to show in Runway.”

She turns to Nigel, and whatever he sees on her face makes him wince.

“It is known we were working with Lanvin.” Her voice is measured, cool, like she’s discussing the weather. “If we use Dior, we admit we were caught off guard and scrambled for a replacement.”

She turns back to me, eyes sharp, considering. “Instead, we choose something unexpected. A decision born from creative fury.”

The faintest glint of approval flickers in her gaze.

“I do have a reputation for unpredictability.”

Miranda stands abruptly. “Andrea. With me.”

With that, Miranda sweeps out of the room. I fall into step, phone already at my ear.

Behind us, Nigel and Emily are silent.