14. Unexpected

More adrenaline junkies should work in publishing, I think as I lean back in my chair, slipping my heels free from the beautiful but deadly stilettos that have been torturing me for hours.

I cross the last item off my list and let out a slow breath. Done.

In just under seven hours, we’ve gone from total disaster to a fully organized shoot with a brand-new concept, all fueled by caffeine, sheer willpower, and blind adrenaline.

Who needs skydiving?

The office feels almost unfamiliar after spending so long buried in emails, phone calls, and minor catastrophes. I glance around, taking it in.

Nigel is still in Miranda’s office, likely going over the last details for the new shoot.

Emily, just hanging up her own phone, swivels in her chair and catches my gaze. She looks as exhausted and victorious as I feel. I flash her a weary smile, and—to my genuine shock—she actually returns it.

And then she rolls her eyes.

Oh well. Emily is Emily. I’ll take what I can get. At least she’s not actively trying to get me fired anymore.

I stand, stretching out the stiffness in my spine, but the moment I do, I sway slightly, unsteady from hours hunched over my desk. I stumble into the side of it, knocking my bag to the floor.

And with it, my copy of Runway goes skidding across the office.

I scramble after it, but of course, I’m too late.

“Since when do you buy Runway?” Emily asks, her eyebrow arching in disbelief as she plucks it off the floor.

My cheeks heat. I try to think of some casual, non-embarrassing explanation, but before I can come up with anything, Nigel—entering the room with Miranda—beats me to it.

“Since she has an article in it.” His smirk is positively insufferable.

I shoot him a glare and quickly grab the magazine from Emily.

“Really?” Emily squeaks. “You? I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, believe it, Em.” Nigel folds his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Our glorious leader gave her a shot, and now Andrea Sachs has her very own byline.” Then, with the kind of mischief only Nigel can conjure, he turns to me fully. “Andrea? Not Andy? Was that part of your deal with the devil?”

What the hell is he thinking?

Miranda is standing not two feet behind him, arms crossed, her expression darkening. That dreaded purse of her lips is forming, the universal sign that someone is about to be annihilated.

I jump in, fast.

“No deal needed,” I say smoothly, fixing Nigel with a look that I hope communicates: shut up before you get us both killed. “That was my choice.”

I let the words settle before adding, “This is Runway, not some sports column. Andy is fine for a newsroom, but here? It’s just sloppy.”

I steal a glance at Miranda, bracing for impact.

Miraculously, she’s relaxed. Her arms are still crossed, but the tension is gone. There’s even a flicker of something almost—God help me—amused in her expression.

She tilts her head slightly, watching me with that unreadable gaze that always makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. What is she thinking?

I don’t have time to figure it out. That’s a lifetime endeavor. For now, I’m just relieved I managed to defuse the bomb before it exploded.

Or so I thought.

“Either way,” Nigel starts up again. What is with him today? Doesn’t he know I just saved both our asses? Just let it go, Nigel! “What did your folks say when you told them? You’re officially a published author. I’m sure they nearly impaled themselves on their pitchforks, fainting in pride.”

I do my best not to impersonate a statue.

“Well, you know,” I chirp, flashing the brightest, most aggressively cheerful smile I can manage. “They’re thrilled. Practically throwing a parade in my honor.”

I turn back to my desk, like that’s the end of the conversation.

Of course, it isn’t.

Emily snorts. Nigel gives me a look so knowing I want to smack it right off his face.

But the worst part? Miranda—who had been hovering in some maybe-soft, possibly-amused limbo—has shifted into something else entirely.

My palms start to sweat.

Does she think I’m ungrateful? That I don’t understand how big of an opportunity she’s given me?

I barely have time to panic before Miranda speaks. Bites out orders, really. The conversation is over, just like that. Nigel and Emily scatter, off to put out the next set of fires.

I turn to Miranda, waiting for my own marching orders.

She says nothing.

Instead, she simply takes a few steps toward me.

I hold my breath.

She reaches out—perfectly poised, perfectly composed—and plucks the magazine from my arms.

I only then realize I’ve been squeezing it like a lifeline.

The cover catches the light, giving Margot Robbie a glowing halo as Miranda studies it.

And then, with effortless precision, she delivers a single, devastating blow.

“How disappointing.”

My stomach doesn’t just drop—it plummets. Free-fall, no parachute.

The air thickens, pressing against my ribs, and my brain short-circuits, scrambling for what I did wrong, what I said, what I failed to say.

I need—

“One might assume,” Miranda continues, her voice cool and measured, “that a parent would be pleased to see their child succeed. To see them excel.”

I swallow.

She turns from the magazine, capturing my gaze with hers, something sharp and knowing in her expression.

“Then again,” she murmurs, softer now, but no less pointed, “not everyone is capable of recognizing talent when they see it.”

She holds my gaze as she hands the magazine back.

For a second, I can’t move.

A bolt of something electric courses through me when my fingers brush against hers.

We stand there—just a beat too long.

Then, as if nothing happened, she turns away. Walks back to her office as if she didn’t just turn my entire world upside down.

“That’s all,” she says, not bothering to look back.

I clear my throat, trying to reorient myself, but my voice still comes out softer than usual. “Yes, Miranda.”

I grab my coat and bag and make my way to the elevator, my mind still spinning.

Alone in the quiet metal box, I press my back against the cool elevator wall, letting the moment settle.

My pulse is still too fast, my head still spinning.

A presumptuous, impossible, dangerous thought wiggles itself into my brain. 

Miranda defended me.

I exhale, stepping out into the crisp night air, blending into the New York foot traffic.

And for the first time today, my smile isn’t because of my article.