Andy Sachs stood on the sprawling balcony of her $250 million mansion, gazing blankly at the Los Angeles skyline. The city glimmered beneath her like a diamond-studded choker, suffocating and ostentatious. The wind tousled her perfectly coiffed hair, a style chosen by her team of stylists—none of whom she had ever met. Below, the party raged on: a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of self-congratulation.
Elon had thrown yet another party to celebrate the latest milestone she couldn’t care less about—perhaps another rocket launch, or maybe he’d bought another company. It was impossible to keep track. She sipped her glass of Dom Pérignon and let the bitter bubbles bite her tongue.
This was her life now: gilded, sterile, and utterly miserable.
It all began with Runway. When Miranda Priestly had finally retired—forced out in the wake of a series of scandals Andy had quietly engineered—Andy took over the magazine. She’d envisioned a more progressive, ethical Runway, one that celebrated diverse beauty and empowered women. But the reality was far grimmer. The demands of the fashion industry and the board’s unrelenting greed had turned her into everything she’d sworn she would never become.
“Congratulations, Andrea,” Miranda had said on her last day, her tone icy but faintly amused. “You’re ready to sell your soul. Try not to spend it all in one place.”
Andy had laughed it off then, but Miranda’s words haunted her. As did the image of her once-immaculate former boss now sleeping in the shadows of a Manhattan alley, a MAGA hat crumpled next to her like a symbol of a thousand poor decisions.
Andy’s marriage to Elon had been a calculated move. After Runway began hemorrhaging money under her leadership, she needed a savior—or rather, an ATM. Elon was all too eager to add another trophy wife to his collection. He had proposed with a diamond the size of a golf ball, and Andy had said yes, her heart a dull ache as she whispered the word.
The wedding was a grotesque spectacle—a collision of wealth and ego that made her stomach churn. Grimes had sung at the reception, and Elon had cracked jokes about colonizing Mars as they cut their seven-tiered cake. Andy had smiled through it all, a Stepford wife in couture.
She hated her life. The glitz, the endless scrutiny, the soulless conversations about crypto and AI—it was all unbearable. Her days blurred into a monotonous parade of charity galas and board meetings, her nights spent in a bed that felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. She’d traded one set of shackles for another, and the weight of them was crushing.
Miranda’s downfall haunted her. After leaving Runway, the once-unshakable dragon lady had spiraled. First, there was the Trump endorsement, a desperate grasp for relevance that alienated her from her peers. Then came the scandal: Miranda had killed a dog—accidentally, she claimed, but the media had been merciless. Her reputation shattered, she’d been sentenced to six months in jail. Now she was just another cautionary tale, a ghost of her former self.
Andy had visited her once, bringing coffee and croissants from their favorite Parisian café.
“Why are you here, Andrea?” Miranda had asked, her voice devoid of its usual venom.
“Because you deserve better than this,” Andy had replied.
Miranda had laughed, a brittle sound that made Andy’s chest tighten. “Better? Darling, this is exactly what I deserve.”
Now, as Andy stared out at the city, she wondered if she deserved her own misery. She’d clawed her way to the top, only to find the view hollow and cold. She thought of Miranda, alone on the streets, and felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps they were both victims of the same machine, chewed up and spit out by a world that demanded perfection and punished vulnerability.
“Mrs. Musk?” A voice interrupted her thoughts. It was one of Elon’s assistants, a young man with a nervous smile. “Your husband is looking for you.”
Andy sighed. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
As the assistant scurried away, Andy set her glass down and took one last look at the glittering city. Somewhere out there, Miranda was fighting to survive, and Andy—with all her wealth and power—was suffocating in a golden cage. She turned away from the balcony and headed back inside, her footsteps heavy with the weight of regret.