Chapter 1
Miranda's voice, even softer than usual, filled the cold room:
“He knew who I was. Everyone did. And at first, they always feel proud to be with a powerful, successful woman. That’s what they say. But then...”
Andrea didn't dare move a muscle, afraid she might scare Miranda and break the sort of spell the older woman seemed to have put herself under to admit something so intimate aloud.
“Another divorce in the newspapers... and we all know what they’ll say about me – dragon lady, obsessed with her career, pushed away another ‘Mr. Priestly.’”
Andrea didn’t know how to respond, so she stayed silent, waiting for Miranda to tell her what to do. A foolish, absurd urge to comfort the editor briefly crossed the young woman’s mind, but it was immediately suppressed when Miranda regained her composure and stated that they needed to figure out how to handle the situation, as Donatella Versace needed to be seated at a different table, given that she currently barely exchanged words with anyone outside her own team.
Agonizing minutes passed. A terrible mix of emotions swept through Andrea, one of them being the desire to get out of Miranda’s suite as quickly as possible. Finally, the young woman gathered the courage to ask:
“Miranda, is there... anything else I can do?”
Andrea’s body language, combined with her voice and worried eyes, screamed pity, and Miranda instinctively put her mask back on, cursing for allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of her second assistant. With her shoulders straight and her chin raised, the editor replied in her usual cold, cutting tone:
“Your job.”
Miranda handed over the folder containing the seating chart for lunch the following day.
Andrea blinked a few times and shook her head slightly, startled by how quickly her boss had recovered. Then, she took the folder Miranda was handing her. Understanding that this was her cue to stand up and leave, Andrea didn’t wait for a “That’s all.” After grabbing her bag, she walked toward the exit and didn’t dare look back; she feared that if she stayed another moment in her boss’ presence, she would break down alongside the older woman, likely at her feet—and the last thing Miranda would want was to see her assistant in such a… disconcerting position.
Back in her own room, Andrea went to the minibar, grabbed a bottle of sparkling water, and then sat in one of the armchairs that had become her favorite since arriving in Paris almost a week ago.
Letting the cold liquid slide down her throat, hoping it would somehow ground her in the moment, the young woman was surprised by how much the image of Miranda had affected her. That had been the first time Andrea realized her boss was... human, and the feeling was terrifying, to say the least.
The barefoot woman in a gray robe, with red eyes, no makeup, and holding back tears, was definitely not Miranda Priestly—the queen of the fashion empire, known for making executives lose their minds and for bringing models, designers, and assistants to tears with just a glance. If Andrea had known she would find Miranda in such a vulnerable state, she definitely wouldn’t have entered that room, even if ordered by the editor herself.
The moment her eyes landed on Miranda’s figure, the first feeling that washed over Andrea was fear. For a second, she thought the woman in the gray robe had killed Miranda and hidden her body under the king-sized bed in the hotel. Something that, honestly, would have been far better than witnessing Miranda so fragile.
Before that night, Andrea had been certain that Miranda was invincible, untouchable, hard as a rock inside and out, incapable of feeling anything beyond anger and boredom. But no. Terrifyingly, Miranda was... sad? No, sad wasn’t the right word. Maybe hurt? No, worse. She was afraid. Not the same fear Andrea felt, but something far more palpable and gut-wrenching. Fear for her daughters.
Oh, God. Miranda was literally a mother. How had Andrea forgotten that?
With a sudden urge to vomit at the thought of the older woman’s maternal feelings, Andrea took another generous sip of her drink and tried to ignore the tingling that started at the tips of her toes and spread all the way to the roots of her hair.
One thing was to feel anger toward Miranda—everyone felt anger toward her, after all. Another thing, entirely different, was to feel compassion. Miranda Priestly didn’t need compassion. Miranda Priestly didn’t deserve compassion.
Or at least that’s what Andrea had believed until that moment.
Since childhood, Andrea had been seen as empathetic and very kind. Her desire to see the people around her happy was almost as strong as her desire for her own well-being. The young woman’s mother often said how proud she was to have a daughter who could so easily put herself in others’ shoes, but she also warned Andrea to be careful—it was important to know who deserved her generosity.
Miranda Priestly, for example, was not one of the people to whom Andrea should dedicate her empathy, and she knew that. So, it hadn’t been hard to dehumanize the Ice Queen.
Until that night.
Unable to contain her own thoughts and her body’s reactions, Andrea put herself in Miranda’s shoes for the first time—and felt something akin to physical pain in her chest.
No one deserved to receive news of a divorce over a phone call, especially when there was an ocean separating them. Not even Miranda deserved that.
How could Stephen do it?
How did he have the courage to reduce Miranda to a fragile woman? He had no right.
And then, as if by magic, the compassion she felt for the editor turned into anger directed at Stephen. Andrea knew all these feelings were pointless, and that she probably shouldn’t let herself be affected by her boss’s personal life. But what could she do? Andrea had been born with a useless "superpower," which was being a sponge and absorbing pain that wasn’t hers.
Miranda didn’t deserve her compassion, and the rational part of Andrea knew that very well. But her less intelligent side, the emotional one, which held the largest share of her personality, said exactly the opposite.
Andrea wished she had hugged Miranda, told her that Stephen didn’t deserve her, that this hell would soon pass, and that her daughters would be okay.
“Hug Miranda,” Andrea said out loud.
The words sounded so absurd that the young woman found herself letting out a forced laugh, devoid of any amusement.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sachs,” Andrea said before standing up and starting to take off her clothes, intending to step under the shower to clear her head.
Under the scalding water of the shower, Andrea realized something terrible had happened: her view of Miranda had completely changed. She no longer felt fear of the Ice Queen.
What Andrea didn’t yet know was that, in fact, it was wiser to fear Miranda Priestly.