50. Soft and Scathing

I start to regret my decision to face this particular storm as soon as the door swings shut behind me. 

Miranda stands in the middle of the foyer, her focus intent on her fingers running back and forth across the gold bangle on her wrist. 

“I suppose I should read through the latest volume from Miriam-Webster.” Her eyes don’t leave her watch as she makes that baffling statement. 

I slip off my thin, soaked shawl and turn to the coat closet. 

“Why is that?” I deliver the next line in the script, hanging the shawl up to dry. It’ll need to go to the dry cleaners either way. 

Miranda doesn’t speak again until I’m facing her. This time, her focus is completely on me, zeroed in on my eyes like a sniper’s scope. 

“Because,” she says so quietly that I’m forced to take a step forward to hear her. “I want to read the new entry for ‘mingling’ that includes throwing yourself into a man’s arms.” 

Her voice is soft and scathing. A familiar shiver runs up my spine. I open my mouth to reply but she doesn’t wait. 

“Was it thrilling? To have him paw at you like a cheap party trick while you basked in the attention? Did you imagine I wouldn’t care?”

I know the truth, and yet the blows still land, cutting me where I stand. 

“Really, Andrea, I can’t imagine how many twists and turns your mind had to make to decide that I would see that man draped over you like a gaudy monstrosity of a cape and not care.” 

There’s that word again. Care. 

The hope that refuses to die ripples inside me. This might be the only way she can say it at this point, masked in snark and condescension, but I hear it, all the same. She cares, and not just as a boss who was embarrassed by her assistant’s behavior. I just hope it’s not my imagination and hopeless crush hallucinating something that isn’t actually there.  

And Miranda still isn’t done. 

“Was it ambition, Andrea? Do you think a night with Thompson would open doors for you that Runway cannot? Is that how you want to launch your career? Or was it just … boredom? The first Runway employee under my reign to lower their cortisol levels enough to manage boredom.”

Miranda Priestly is an excellent markswoman, and I have the wounds to prove it. My chest is tight, forcing me to take smaller breaths, and making it more difficult of a fight to keep the tears behind my eyes. 

I never thought I’d think this, but I’m really glad the girls are Dick’s tonight. 

The sudden silence stretches long enough for me to swallow back the hurt. My instincts scream to run, like I did before. But not this time. Not again. I steady my breath.

“I’m going to make some tea. Chamomile, I think.” I refuse to look away as Miranda’s glare turns to bafflement. “Would you like some?”

Miranda blinks once. Twice. 

“That would be acceptable.”

I nearly giggle as I turn toward the kitchen, the sheer astonishment on her face too cute. It reminds me of a confused cat. 

The ritualistic steps keep me calm as I work. I wanted a chance to explain, and after a verbal lashing, I think I’ve got it. I just hope I don’t make it any worse. 

I stretch forward, resting my palms on the cool, marble counter, staring down into a darkening tea cup. I go over my options while the tea steeps. 

My time runs out too soon, and I have to face the music or serve Miranda over-steeped tea. 

I suspect bitter tea, on top of an already bitter evening, would be a death wish. 

If I’m walking even slower than needed to balance the two mugs, it’s because I’m giving Miranda more time to herself. 

I take a chance and make my way to the den rather than return to the foyer. The gamble pays off. 

Miranda stands with her back to me, staring out the window. The moonlight catches on the detailing of Miranda’s dress, sparkling in the darkness. 

I silently hand Miranda her tea and retreat to what has become my seat. Miranda gracefully sinks into hers. The space between our chairs has never felt wider. An ocean in a room. 

Well, there’s only one way to fix that. 

I open my mouth to explain, but again, Miranda jumps in before I can make a sound. 

“I’ve been in this business for quite a while,” she says. Her eyes find mine for a brief moment, then shift to linger on a nearby bookcase. 

“Long enough to see the girls come and go. The ones who believe the drivel spouting from the good old boy’s club. The ones who believe, or even know, that they won’t move up another rung on the ladder unless a man gives them a boost. Of course, he’ll cop a feel, but ‘that’s the price,’ he’ll say.” 

Miranda’s swallow is audible, even from across the room, and she blinks a few times, maybe warding off tears. 

It seems to be a theme of the night. 

“They believed them when they said they weren’t good enough to make it on their own. That they’d never have the connections, or talent to make it, wherever they wanted to go. They believe them, and they give in, praying he won’t stab her in the back once he’s done with her.”

She lets out a mirthless chuckle. 

“It doesn’t always go that way. Sometimes it’s better. A lot of the time it’s worse. But it does work.”

Miranda’s sharp eyes turn on me and pin me to my chair. 

“Women believe him, and so men like Roderick Kingsley and Christian Thompson,” she spits out his name as if it’s poison. “Prowl, purring pretty words into your ear while cutting you down, until they convince you that you are nothing without them. That you need them. That you should do whatever you have to do to make them help you.”

Her eyes don’t move away from mine, not a single centimeter. I’m not sure I’m even breathing at this point, just holding onto my tea and my swirling thoughts long enough to make it through the ride unscathed. 

“I would not have you be one of those girls, Andrea. You do not need him.”

Unscathed, maybe. But not unchanged, especially because I can see this for what it is: an apology. 

Oh, I doubt Miranda would ever utter the words, and I can’t say I blame her. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t tend to earn women respect in the workplace. But this, an explanation and expression of care all in one? Each rare on their own, nearly mythical together. 

A small smile lifts the corners of my lips. “Thank you.” It comes out sincere, and Miranda’s shoulders lower just the tiniest bit. She nods, but doesn’t say anything 

I guess it’s my turn. 

“I’m glad you interrupted us,” I say, my fingers pressing into my mug. “I told him I wasn’t interested, but he didn’t want to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Miranda’s nostrils flaring is her only reaction. 

“We have some history. I’d call it unfortunate, but ultimately he helped me keep my job. At Runway.” The longer I go on, the tighter my throat tenses, the harder it is to get the words out. 

God, if I never have to think about Christian Thompson again, it’ll be too soon. 

“It wasn’t free, of course. He insisted on taking me out, back in Paris, just to dinner, but then there was wine, and Nate and I were ending, and–” 

I cut myself off, clearing my throat to stop the rambling. 

“Anyway,” I croak. I pause to take a sip of lukewarm tea. 

“Anyway,” I try again, my voice less gravely. “I know what sort of man Christian Thompson is. I know he was involved in the plot to replace you in Paris. I know he’s an arrogant ass with a pretty smile.” 

I finally find the courage to meet Miranda’s gaze. “And I know I don’t need him.” 

I don’t know what I was expecting. Skepticism? Or dismissal? But definitely not the pride glowing unmistakably in Miranda’s eyes and in the smile I can’t quite place growing across her face. 

“No,” she says. “You certainly don’t.”

She takes a sip from her mug, and I from mine, the atmosphere relaxing around us. 

“Did I tell you what my P.I. managed to find out about Richard’s lawyer’s schemes?”

I lean back in my chair, getting comfortable. 

“No, I just knew he was investigating.” 

“Apparently,” Miranda crosses one leg over the other, adjusting her hold on her mug. “They’re going to claim I endanger the girls with my associations. Honestly, Andrea, what is the man thinking? The girls don’t attend work events.”

I nod. “They rarely come to the office, either.”

“Exactly. And yet, a judge is supposed to believe I bring them around dangerous people? In that case, they should look at that woman. God, Cassidy told me the most harrowing story the other day.”

Miranda weaves a horrifying and hilarious tale of Brielle utterly failing to bond with Cassidy over painting each other’s nails. The antique dining table ending up stained with nail polish sends me into a fit of giggles, and as I come back up for air, I know we’re good. Whatever shadow irritating, overstepping men cast on our evening is gone, and instead, the room is lit up with moonlight and laughter.