Chapter Text
The Interview
New York was gray and bracing, the kind of late winter cold that seeped under coats and made the city glint like steel. Andrea Sachs stood across the street from the Elias-Clarke building, hugging her coat tighter and staring up at the tower of glass and ambition. Somewhere in that glistening fortress was Miranda Priestly—the enigmatic, terrifying editor-in-chief of Runway magazine. Known in the fashion world as the Ice Queen, destroyer of careers, and arguably the most powerful woman in fashion, Miranda’s precision was legendary. So was her silence. Most journalists never made it past her PR team.
Andy had only been inside the Elias-Clarke building once before, delivering a center of the sun hot, no-foam skim latte with an extra coffee to someone on the 17th floor during her barista shift at Starbucks. She’d barely made it past the elevator. Today, she had an appointment.
An interview.
As part of her graduate internship with The Mirror, a long-standing New York publication partnered with NYU’s journalism department, she’d been assigned a feature piece on “modern media matriarchs.” The list had included several prominent names, but her editor smirked when the young intern fixated on Miranda’s name and decided to reach out.
“You’ll never get her. Vogue can’t even get her. But... ask anyway.”
Andy had. And somehow, against all logic and probability, the answer had come back:
“We’ve reviewed your request. Ms. Priestly will grant the interview. One hour. No photos. No personal questions. That’s all.”
It was part of a rare public relations outreach—a push to rebrand Miranda as not just fashion’s fiercest mind, but a supporter of future female voices in media. No one had believed it. Andy still barely did.
Inside, the Elias-Clarke lobby smelled like leather, money, and lilies. Everything was polished. Everyone was beautiful. She adjusted her satchel strap and walked toward the sleek white reception desk where a young woman greeted her with a practiced smile.
“Good morning. Name?”
“Andy—Andrea Sachs. I have a ten a.m. with Ms. Priestly.”
The receptionist scanned the appointment log and then reached for her desk phone. “One moment.”
Five minutes later, a redhead in a tailored black blazer swept into the lobby, phone in one hand, judgment in her eyes.
Emily.
Andy recognized her immediately from the background research. First assistant to Miranda Priestly. Terrifying in heels.
“You’re Andrea Sachs, The intern.” Emily’s clipped British accent sharper than her eyeliner.
Andy blinked. “Actually, I’m a graduate student at NYU. This interview is part of—”
“I know what it’s part of,” she interrupted, standing briskly. “The Mirror. Charming little publication. My Nan reads it, I think.”
Andy offered a tight smile.
Emily gave her a look that could freeze champagne. “You're wearing Gap, aren’t you?”
Andy flushed but lifted her chin. “What gave it away—the affordability or the practicality?”
“Charming.” Emily turned and strode toward the elevators without waiting. “Come on. She won’t wait.” Her British accent laced with annoyance.
They rode in silence. Andy’s heart was pounding.
The 17th floor opened like a runway itself—marble floors surrounded by pristine white walls lined with framed covers of Runway spanning decades. The air felt colder, quieter. As they stepped off the elevator, Andy knew immediately: she didn’t belong there. Regardless, she took a deep breath and followed Emily past bustling assistants who moved with silent urgency, wearing impossibly high heels that moved like gazelles across the marble floors, wearing clothes that cost more than Andy’s entire student loan package. Her sensible blouse and navy skirt felt like a school uniform in a palace of wolves.
The walk to Miranda’s office felt like entering a temple, or perhaps a battlefield. Through towering glass doors, Andy caught a glimpse of Miranda, seated at her desk like a queen carved from alabaster. She wore a fitted white blouse and a silver-gray pencil skirt, her hair in that signature silver, sculpted sweep.
Emily stopped just outside the outer office. “She’s in there. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't fidget. And try not to say anything... Midwestern.”
Andy blinked. “I’m from Ohio.”
Emily sighed. “Of course you are.”
She pushed the doors open. “Andrea Sachs for your ten o’clock.”
Andy stepped into Miranda’s office and everything slowed.
It was vast and serene, with sweeping views of Manhattan and impossibly clean lines. At the center of it all, like an art installation in motion, sat Miranda Priestly.
She didn’t look up. She turned a page in the portfolio in front of her and said, “You’re late.”
Andy glanced at the wall clock. “Actually, I’m—”
“On time,” Miranda interrupted. “Which is ten minutes late.”
Andy opened her mouth. Closed it.
The editor finally looked up.
Her gaze was glacial, surgical. It swept over Andy’s figure, pausing at her shoes, her coat, her nervous grip on the notepad. One brow arched slightly. Her lips pursed.
“You must be Andrea.”
Andy shifted. “Yes, hi. Actually, I usually go by Andy.”
Miranda’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. Her expression, unreadable. “That cannot possibly be your name.”
Andy faltered. “It’s short for—”
“Yes. But we’ll use Andrea. It’s more... appropriate. Nicknames are for pets. Or toddlers. Not professionals.”
The brunette flushed and nodded. “Understood.”
Miranda’s expression didn’t shift, but her left brow twitched, her lips pursing slightly—more expressive than any dialogue. It said: You’re not what I expected.
Andy felt it, deeply. The inadequacy. The intrigue.
Andy sat, uninvited. Realized it. Straightened.
Miranda looked at her like she was made of lint.
“I take it, you’re not into fashion?”
Andy perked up, already formulating a diplomatic response. “Well-“
“No, no,” Miranda said, slicing the air with one perfectly manicured hand. “That wasn’t a question.”
Andy flushed. “I,” she stuttered, “Well—I’ve always respected fashion. But I focus more on storytelling.”
“How quaint.” Her blue eye sharpened like a knife, “I assume you’ve prepared something other than flattery and breathless curiosity?”
Andy blinked. “Yes. I came to tell your story. The real one.”
The editor-in-chief pursed her lips. That stare again.
“And what makes you think I have a story to tell?”
Andy bit her lip before answering. The smallest gesture—but Miranda’s eyes caught it. Paused on it. Registered it.
“I just think,” Andy began quietly, “there’s more to you than people see.”
For the first time, Miranda regarded her for a long moment. Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes flickered—curiosity, or perhaps recognition. A breath held and carefully released.
Her gaze lingered—not on Andy’s clothes or her notepad—but her chocolate eyes, doe like. The way she held herself. That strange mix of nervous energy and quiet determination.
“I suppose we’ll see,” Miranda murmured, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Go on then, Andrea. Impress me.”
Andy took a breath. “I’d love to begin by asking about your early years with Runway, the turning point of when you took Runway from a respected fashion publication to a global powerhouse. What was the strategy behind that transformation? How did you managed to reposition the brand as not just an aesthetic authority, but a cultural one.”
Miranda tilted her head slightly. A micro-expression of surprise.
“Most people ask about the shoes first.”
The young journalist smiled faintly. “I did my research,” Andy replied. “I’d rather not waste your time, just get to the substance.”
Miranda studied her. “How noble!” Her lips twitched, almost another smile. “But that remains to be seen. Continue.”
The interview began—hesitantly, Andy asked about Miranda’s rebranding strategy, her editorial voice, and the magazine’s role in cultural influence. Miranda answered precisely, never rambling, rarely smiling.
As the interview progressed, Andy found her rhythm, surprising even herself as the words and questions came easier. She asked about Miranda’s years in Paris, her reputation as a gatekeeper of taste, and how she reconciled the personal cost of such public power.
But the tension between them wasn’t hostile.
It was tight. Curious.
Every time Andy bit her lower lip, Miranda’s sharp, blue eyes paused—just a fraction too long. And every time Andy pressed with a harder question—like how Miranda balanced legacy and evolution—Miranda answered more thoughtfully than she had to.
At one point, Andy dared to ask: “Do you ever think about what your daughters will read about you twenty years from now? How they’ll perceive your legacy”
Miranda stiffened—but didn’t retreat. “I think,” she said slowly, “that my daughters will understand that strength rarely comes dressed in softness. That the world doesn’t hand power to women. You take it. Or you don’t get it.” Then, after a beat, “I think about the world they’ll inherit. And whether I’ve made it stronger... or only more complicated.”
The young journalist didn’t speak. She waited.
“I want to be someone they can respect. Not just love.”
Andy nodded, softer now. “That’s... incredibly honest.”
Miranda looked at her, eyes unreadable. “And terribly inconvenient.”
The room fell into a stillness that somehow didn’t feel empty.
A knock broke the moment. Emily peeked in, iPad in hand. “Miranda, your eleven o’clock is here.”
Miranda didn’t look away from Andy. “Cancel it.”
Emily blinked. “But it’s—”
Miranda’s tone didn’t rise, but it sharpened. “I said—cancel it, Emily.”
A pause. “I’m not to be interrupted again. That’s all.”
Emily retreated without another word.
Andy stared; her breath caught in her chest. “I—I don’t want to overstay. You said an hour—”
“You’ll take what I give,” Miranda said, voice soft but firm. She leaned forward slightly. “I’ll decide when you’ve overstayed, Andrea.”
Andy swallowed, trying not to bite her lip again—but failing.
Miranda’s eyes darkened slightly. “Now. Tell me what you want to become.”
Andy felt the air shift between them. The quiet hum of tension. She blinked. “What?”
“You came here to write about me. But I want to know about you, Andrea.” A pause. “That wasn’t a question, either.”
Andy’s heart was pounding now—not from nerves, not from fear.
From the impossible thrill of being seen.