30. Coffee, Glitter, Treachery

Miraculously, Lark arrives on time for her first day. Six-thirty on the dot.

Of course, I told her six—just in case. So she’s actually half an hour late.

She barrels into the office, barely upright, clutching a tray of coffees like a waitress in a wind tunnel. How none of the cups fly free is beyond me.

“I’m so sorry!” she blurts before I can say a word. “My roommate’s cat hid my lucky socks and obviously I couldn’t leave without them, and then the train was late, and I couldn’t show up empty-handed so I stopped for coffee but there were like twenty people ahead of me and—”

I round my desk and place my hands gently on her shoulders.

“Lark,” I say. “Breathe.”

She takes a few enormous gulps of air, like she’s resurfacing from a shipwreck. I ease the tray of coffees out of her hands and set them on the table.

“Okay,” I say, turning back to her. “Let’s get you settled, and then I’ll walk you through the rules.”

Lark nods, eyes wide, nervous system vibrating.

Is that what I looked like?

With a hand on her back, I guide her to Emily’s—her—desk. She plops down in the chair and immediately starts to swivel. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“First thing you need to know,” I begin, sliding a pen and notepad across the desk, “Is that time works differently here. Whatever time Miranda tells you? She actually means fifteen minutes earlier. But for you, that means at least thirty.”

Lark blinks up at me.

“Punctuality,” I say, “is everything.”

She nods quickly.

“You might want to write that down.”

“Oh! Right!” She snatches up the pen and notepad like they’re lifelines. “Thirty … minutes … early. Got it!”

“Next—you have to pay attention. To everything.” I lean in a little. “This is important, Lark. Miranda doesn’t like being asked questions, so you need to just… know.”

Her eyes widen further. “But… what if I don’t know?”

“You call me,” I say. “And you pay attention. Nothing is too small. Any change in routine, anything she places on her desk, a store window she glances at—everything might be important.”

Lark nods, gulping.

“And you need a thick skin,” I add. “Miranda can be… intense. It’ll seem like she hates you. You can’t let it get to you.”

To my surprise, Lark grins.

“Oh, that’s easy. I’m used to being hated.”

I blink. She plows on.

“My entire high school was banned from every Denny’s in a twenty-mile radius because of our after-show dinners.” Her smile turns haunted. “No one should have to live through what we did.”

I decide I don’t want to know.

“Okay,” I say, slapping the desk lightly. “You’ll mostly be in charge of coffee, errands, things like that. Oh—and answering the phone.”

I level her with a serious look.

“If you’re the only one here, you do not leave this desk. Not for a snack. Not for the bathroom. Not even if you slice your hand open with a letter opener. Every call must be answered. Every. Single. One.”

Lark nods solemnly. “I understand. During tech week for The Wizard of Oz, we were doing eighteen-hour days and I was chugging Monsters to stay awake. I had to pee so bad during opening night, but I was in the booth doing lights and I held it until intermission. I had a UTI for a month. Worth it.”

“Theater’s pretty intense, huh?” I smile. “You might just do okay.”

I glance at the clock.

“No more time for chit-chat.” I walk to my desk, grab the bottle of gin and Miranda’s coffee order from my bag, and set both on Lark’s desk.

“I have a deal with the Starbucks down the block. Place the order online, note that it’s for Runway, and Maria will meet you at the back entrance. We trade them a bottle of gin every month for priority delivery.”

Lark eyes the bottle, then me. “Why not just UberEats it?”

I snort. “The gin’s cheaper. And the baristas make sure the coffee is hot. Like, scald-your-soul hot. Now you’d better hurry—Miranda’s scheduled to arrive in twenty-seven minutes. And then it’s off to the races.”

Lark jumps into motion.

She might not be a complete disaster, I think, sipping one of the coffees she brought. Maybe.

As soon as Miranda steps off the elevator, I’m at her side, taking notes as she rattles off orders.

“The April feature needs a new opener. If I see the word timeless one more time, someone is getting fired. And I told the set designers no orchids, and yet—there they are. Am I speaking Mandarin? No, I don’t think so.”

We round the corner toward her office. Lark is sitting at her desk, eyes wide, tracking our every move. 

Without breaking stride or pausing her litany, Miranda tosses her coat and bag onto Lark’s desk.

I follow her into the office and glance back. 

Lark hasn’t moved. She’s just… staring at the coat and bag.

A sharp snap of my fingers grabs her attention. I point from the desk to the coat closet.

“Hang them up,” I hiss.

She blinks out of it and scrambles to comply.

Thank God.

Miranda, meanwhile, is still mid-monologue, facing the window, her fingers idly running the chain of her necklace back and forth.

“Inform Legal I will not sign off on the influencer collaboration,” she says, tone clipped. “Honestly, this is Runway—not an Instagram brand.”

She half-turns toward me, chain still looped through her fingers. 

“I take it that creature is Emily’s replacement?”

I have to fight back a smile. 

“Yes. So far she’s been… not terrible.”

“Hmm.”

Miranda lowers into her chair and starts flipping through papers.

“The cleaners will have your head for all the glitter they’ll be dealing with.”

A beat.

“That’s all, Andrea.”

I’ve just returned to my desk when Miranda calls out:

“Emily.”

Lark perks up, looking around for this mysterious person.

“She means you,” I say, nodding toward the office. “Go.”

Lark jumps up, almost knocking her chair back.

“Coffee,” I remind her without looking up from my typing.

She whirls around, grabs the cup, and resumes her nervous march—jittery enough that I’m suddenly worried the coffee might not survive the trip.

Apparently, theater doesn’t prepare you for Miranda Priestly.

It’s nice to not be the one shaking in my boots this time around.

Lark is immediately thrown into the chaos, darting across the city like a courier on fire.

Typical Miranda. Toss the baby in the pool and see if they sink or swim.

Despite a few frantic calls—how many skirts? what kind of accessories?—Lark is managing.

Miranda hasn’t fired her yet. That’s something.

I’m allowing myself a sliver of optimism—maybe I won’t have to endure another round of interview roulette—when Nigel appears.

“Well, well, well,” he says, sauntering up to lean against my desk. “Looks like somebody’s all grown up.”

I don’t pause my typing. “Me or Emily?”

“You, obviously, Ms. First Assistant. Though I suppose Emily, too. For a while there, it was looking dicey.”

I hit send on an email and start digging through a folder. I know that receipt’s in here somewhere.

“So we both have new minions,” I say, peeking up at him. “How’s she doing?”

“Oh, she’s a disaster,” he says breezily. “Her neuroticism gave me a headache. I came here to recover.”

I grin. “Yeah, that’s Emily. Maybe she’ll level out after the weekend. It probably just needs to sink in.”

Nigel hums, drumming his fingers on my desk. 

“It’s odd, though,” he says, glancing toward Miranda’s office. “Starting her on a Friday.”

Miranda’s cryptic comment about the date flickers back to me. I’ve been too busy to think about it, but now the gears start to turn.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “It is.”

March fifteenth. It’s not a holiday. No birthdays, not on my calendar. But Miranda said it wasn’t random. And she doesn’t do random.

She’s calculating. Strategic. Every move is a message.

But a message to who?

Not Emily. She didn’t react to the date. She was just excited to get started.

Who else would care that Emily’s being sent to the Art Department?

I glance at Nigel. And just like that, it clicks. My stomach drops. I try not to let it show.

March fifteenth. The Ides of March.

Et tu, Brute?

Little details come rushing back—loose threads suddenly tying together.

Nigel avoiding Miranda since Paris.

That comment about letting someone control your career.

His subtle digs, the way he keeps trying to get under her skin.

Oh, Nigel. What are you doing?

Thank god Miranda sent her message. Now he knows that she knows.

Whatever he’s planning, maybe he’ll think twice.

God, I hope so.

The door bursts open. Lark stumbles in under the weight of a dozen shopping bags, sweat dripping down her face.

“Jesus,” she wheezes. “Why are the accessories all so heavy?”

“Real jewels and metals do tend to weigh more,” Nigel comments, eyeing her. “So this is the new Andrea?”

“Nope,” I say. “Lark, this is Nigel Kipling, head of the Art Department. Nigel, Lark Jensen—the new Emily.”

Nigel turns to me, raising an eyebrow.

“Really?” he drawls.

I nod, not bothering to hide my smirk.

“I want to hear everything,” he declares, snatching my bag from the desk. “Tell me over lunch.”

“Hey—wait a minute!”

He’s already walking away.

“Lark, I’ll be back in twenty minutes, tops,” I call over my shoulder. “Then you’re free to go. Miranda doesn’t have anything until two, so just hold down the desk and answer the phones, okay?”

“Uh, sure, but what if—”

“Just call me,” I say, already chasing after Nigel.

Maybe some food will settle the uneasy churn in my stomach.