29. Exit Stage Left

“Emily.”

Emily and I lock eyes across the room. Unless Miranda’s suddenly decided to downgrade me back to wrong-name status, she really does mean Emily.

I can’t remember the last time that happened.

Before Miranda has to repeat herself—and all hell breaks loose—Emily scurries into the office.

Whatever is said behind that door is too low to catch. A few minutes later, she reemerges, face chalk white and eyes wide, blinking like she’s just stepped out of a time warp.

“What is it?” I half stand, terrified of what could be so wrong on a Friday afternoon, but she waves me off.

“Oh hush, just… just let me have this, alright?”

I sit, though everything in me leans forward. I go back to typing, rhythm steady, but my eyes stay on her. Seriously, she’s so pale, I’m half convinced she’s going to faint.

Silence stretches. Only the keys under my fingers and the occasional click of a stiletto in the hallway break it.

Then, finally—

“I’m being promoted to the Art Department,” she says, chin lifted, voice steely. “Effective next Friday.”

She locks eyes with me, daring me to gloat or pity.

She doesn’t need to worry. I’m too stunned to manage any of the above.

“Wow, Em, that’s—”

She turns on her heel before I can finish, cutting off my attempt at congratulations with a swift march back to her desk.

“Yes. Well. God knows how you’re going to survive without me.” She doesn’t look at me as she sits down, adjusting her keyboard like it’s a weapon. “But you must. You will not ruin this for me.”

The glare she shoots across the room could burn holes in drywall. Nine months ago, I would’ve wilted. Now?

I keep my mouth shut.

And I let her have this. Besides, I have my own shit to figure out.

I’m going to be First Assistant. Really First Assistant—not just doing the work while still getting the shorter lunch break and the worse pay.

Somehow, it all feels too soon. But is it, really? Emily’s been First Assistant for nearly a year now, and March is as good a time as any to send her off to bigger, better things. Not that the Art Department is glamorous, but editing layouts for Nigel has to be less stressful than ensuring Miranda’s coffee is exactly 170 degrees.

“Andrea.”

My heart has developed a new kind of flutter every time she summons me now, but I shove it aside and hope the frequent little arrhythmia won’t kill me.

Miranda motions to the chair across from her desk. I sit. She stands, starting to pace—casually, but with purpose.

“In a week, Emily will no longer be with us,” she says, as if Emily is about to die. “You will be First Assistant.”

She pauses, catching my eyes. There’s the barest twinkle in hers.

“Of course, not much will change there. But I do expect you to find an appropriate subordinate.”

I nod, already typing ideas into my tablet.

“Mm,” she hums. “You have a week. That’s all.”

Three interviews in and I already need an aspirin, a drink, or a lobotomy. Maybe all three.

Candidate 4 brings a vision board.

“I just think Miranda Priestly is, like, an icon,” she says, flipping her laptop around so I can see it. “I actually made this in Canva to manifest the job.”

Her collage includes: a Starbucks order with two cups, a picture of Miranda mid-stride on the Met Gala steps, and a quote in gold script: ‘Every day is a fashion show and the world is your runway.’

“Right,” I say. “You know the job is mostly scheduling, dry cleaning, and occasionally surviving verbal obliteration?”

“Oh, totally,” she chirps. “That’s why I included fireproof mascara in the survival kit section.”

I close my laptop like it’s the lid on a coffin.

Candidate 5 was a VP at Estée Lauder.

“This feels like a step... sideways,” I offer gently.

“I’m embracing minimalism,” she replies, serene. “The grind was depleting me. I want something with... fewer decisions.”

“Right,” I say. “We once lost a courier and had to GPS track the bag to Brooklyn in a snowstorm.”

Her smile doesn’t even twitch. “Sounds rejuvenating.”

I write “RUN” at the top of her form. In all caps.

Candidate 6 is filming the interview. 

The ring-light setup attached to her phone is blinding. 

“Hey guys! Welcome back to A Day in My Life Trying to Get the Job at Runway,” she stage-whispers to her phone. “This is Andrea Sachs, she’s Miranda’s First Assistant. No spoilers but she’s SO CHIC.”

I smile, dead behind the eyes, and slowly reach for the power button on her phone.

Candidate 7 brings a ferret. Unironically.

“He’s my emotional support animal. Don’t worry, he’s hypoallergenic and he loves loud music. Honestly? Big Rick Owens fan.”

The ferret is currently trying to eat my pen.

“I’m going to be honest,” I say. “That’s a sentence I never expected to hear.”

Each night, I deliver The Book, dry cleaning, and a rundown of the day’s disastrous results. 

“A ferret?” Miranda asks Wednesday night. “The girls would certainly be amused.”

I smirk. “Yeah, because they liked when Mad-Eye Moody flung ferret-Draco around in the air.”

Miranda smiles into her coffee. I almost miss it—the slight tightening in her cheeks.

“Yes, well. They’ve always been a bit ... bloodthirsty.” 

“I like that about them. They’re fearless.” 

Miranda’s eyes soften—just for a moment—before she clears her throat.

“Any promising candidates scheduled for tomorrow? You won’t be happy if there’s no one to take Emily’s desk come Friday.”

I gulp, all too aware of the hell my life would be without someone—anyone—to pick up the slack, even if they’re an incompetent mess.

“A few hopefuls.” I hope I’m not lying. “I’ve been meaning to ask.” Something I wouldn’t have dared three months ago. “Why Friday? For Emily’s promotion, I mean. It just seems a little… random.”

Miranda sits back in her chair, one arm propped on the arm rest, her chin resting on a finger. She could’ve been posing for the magazine, but instead she’s just looking at me. Like I’m the only thing in frame.

Some part of me knows I should be falling over myself, apologizing for overstepping, praying I don’t lose my job. 

I don’t. I look back at her. She’ll answer if she wants, she’ll tell me to get out if she wants. But these strange little nights of ours have earned me a question—once a decade, maybe.

Finally, one corner of her lips twitches upward, a few millimeters shy of a smile. 

“Hardly random, Andrea. Every day has meaning, if you know where to look for it.”

Cryptic, I think later on the way home. But maybe also a challenge.

I decide I might as well take her up on it. It could be a fun game, assuming I survive the week to play. 

The next interview is already five minutes late.

I sigh and pull up the résumé. Theater major. Minor in… interpretive dance? Great. She’ll either cry during the interview or burst into song. Or both.

The glass doors swing open dramatically. Not exaggerated for effect—dramatically. A woman enters like she’s taking center stage. Head held high, chin lifted, eyes wide with purpose. She's wearing a blazer three sizes too big and metallic platform boots that have absolutely no business being in this office.

“Hi! Lark Jensen,” she beams, like we’re long-lost friends. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The B train got stuck and then there was a saxophone battle in the station and I couldn’t not watch for a second—anyway, I brought my own pen!”

She produces a pen like it's a peace offering. Or a magic wand.

“Have a seat,” I say, trying not to blink too hard. “You’re applying for the second assistant position?”

“Yes! I know the listing said administrative support but, like, I felt it. I’m very admin-minded. Super organized. I once called a two-hour delay during tech week because our lead lost her voice from stress and I knew no one else would. That’s leadership, right?”

I blink once.

“Let’s start simple. What do you know about Runway?”

“Oh, I mean—it’s Runway, right? It’s the magazine. Fashion, power, Miranda Priestly—who, by the way, has the presence of Lady Macbeth but like, with taste? In a good way. I don’t know much about the actual fashion industry but I am so ready to learn. I’ve been watching YouTube recaps of fashion week and I think I’m starting to understand silhouettes?”

There’s no guile in her voice. Just raw, unfiltered enthusiasm.

“Have you worked in an office before?”

“Yes,” she says immediately, then adds, “Well… no. But I have stage-managed two full-length productions and one disastrous improv showcase that I don’t like to talk about.”

My lips twitch. I press them into a line.

“What about high-pressure environments?”

Lark straightens like she’s been called to war. “I once had to duct-tape an actress into a corset while our director sobbed about a lighting cue and someone else was on fire backstage. Literally. But also, like, emotionally. So yeah. I thrive.”

I glance at her résumé again. It’s glittery. The paper is glittery.

She is not qualified. She is not normal. But something in my gut won’t let me move to the next file.

I look up.

“Can you start tomorrow?”

Lark gasps. “Seriously?!”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Oh my god. I will not. I swear. You won’t even know I’m here. Except for when I’m being helpful. I’m extremely helpful.”

She’s already halfway out the door before I can respond, talking to herself about needing new pens and learning Miranda’s coffee order “like scripture.”

The door shuts behind her.

I rub my temples and whisper to myself,

“What have I done?”