Mirandy or MAGANDY?
Andy Sachs couldn’t believe how far she’d come. Six months ago, she was an underdressed assistant stumbling through the offices of Runway, and now she was standing beside Miranda Priestly at the most exclusive restaurant in Manhattan. Not as her assistant. Not even as her protege.
But as her girlfriend.
Andy smoothed the red dress she’d chosen for the night, biting her lip as she watched Miranda sip her martini. The editor-in-chief of Runway was effortlessly elegant as always, her silver hair catching the dim light, her sharp gaze slicing through the room.
“I took the liberty of ordering for us,” Miranda said, not looking up. “You’ll thank me later.”
Andy smiled nervously, her heart fluttering at the small gestures Miranda made to take care of her—gestures wrapped in Miranda’s signature veneer of control. “Of course you did,” Andy said with a laugh. “You always know best.”
Miranda arched a brow, finally looking at her. “I trust you’re not suggesting otherwise?”
“Never,” Andy said, holding her gaze.
For a moment, the sharpness in Miranda’s expression softened, replaced by something Andy had only seen a handful of times—a flicker of affection. Andy’s cheeks burned, and she quickly reached for her wine glass, trying to calm the swarm of butterflies in her chest.
They lingered in the restaurant long after their plates had been cleared, lost in a conversation that flowed from the latest Runway issue to Miranda’s disdain for social media influencers to Andy recounting her favorite childhood stories.
“I suppose,” Miranda said, swirling the remnants of her martini, “it’s moments like this that remind me why I keep you around.”
Andy grinned. “Moments like this, huh? Not my dazzling wit or my encyclopedic knowledge of obscure cinema?”
Miranda’s lips curved into a sly smile. “You overestimate your charm, Andrea.”
It was one of those rare, perfect evenings—until they stepped out onto the rainy street and ran into Emily.
“Emily!” Andy called, spotting her former coworker darting down the sidewalk, her arms full of folders and her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.
Emily turned, her face lighting up in recognition—just as a taxi zoomed past, drenching her in a wave of grimy street water.
Her shriek echoed through the block.
“Oh my God!” Andy gasped, covering her mouth to hide her laughter.
Miranda, however, didn’t bother hiding hers. She burst out laughing—a loud, braying sound that Andy had never heard before. Heads turned. People stared. Miranda Priestly, the ice queen of fashion, was laughing like a horse.
Andy’s jaw dropped. “Miranda!”
“It’s—” Miranda tried to speak between gasps, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “It’s just—so…tragic!”
Emily glared, water dripping from her hair. “This is not funny!”
“Oh, Emily,” Miranda said, finally composing herself. “On the contrary. It’s hilarious.”
Andy bit her lip, trying not to laugh again. But then, as Miranda’s face scrunched with mirth, Andy noticed something. With her cheeks flushed and her mouth stretched into an uncharacteristically wide grin, Miranda looked oddly like an off-brand Hillary Clinton.
“Oh no,” Andy muttered.
“What is it?” Miranda asked, her sharp gaze narrowing.
“Nothing!” Andy said quickly. “I was just—uh—thinking about how great your laugh is.”
Miranda tilted her head, clearly unconvinced, but she let it go. “Come along, Andrea. We have places to be.”
The gallery they arrived at was packed with Manhattan’s elite, the walls lined with sculptures that looked like something Andy could’ve put together in her dorm room with a glue gun. But Miranda glided through the space with the confidence of someone who owned it, drawing whispers and glances wherever she went.
Andy followed close behind, unable to take her eyes off Miranda. She was mesmerizing. Every movement, every subtle smile, every quip—it all made Andy fall harder.
“I hope you’re not daydreaming, Andrea,” Miranda said suddenly, her voice cutting through Andy’s thoughts.
“Of course not,” Andy lied, her cheeks heating. “I’m just…admiring the art.”
Miranda smirked. “Liar.”
Just as Andy was about to stammer out a response, the doors of the gallery swung open, and he walked in.
Donald J. Trump strode into the room like a storm in a navy suit and a red tie, his golden hair practically glowing under the gallery’s lights. He was followed by a crowd of sycophants, each scrambling to get a moment of his attention.
“Miranda!” Trump boomed, spreading his arms wide.
Miranda’s head snapped up, and for the first time that evening, Andy saw her genuinely startled.
“Donald,” Miranda said, her voice uncharacteristically warm.
Andy blinked. What was happening?
Trump swaggered over to them, his grin wide and self-assured. “You’re looking as stunning as ever,” he said, his voice dripping with charm.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Miranda said, though her smirk suggested otherwise.
Trump turned to Andy, giving her a once-over. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”
Andy’s heart pounded in her chest. “I’m—uh—Andy. Andrea. Miranda’s…” She glanced at Miranda, unsure of what to say.
“My partner,” Miranda said smoothly.
Trump’s grin widened. “Well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes.”
Before Andy could process what was happening, someone else walked in—Elon Musk.
“Elon!” Trump called out, waving him over.
Andy’s jaw dropped. Was this really happening?
“Miranda, darling,” Elon said, his voice low and smooth. “It’s been too long.”
Andy looked between Miranda, Trump, and Elon, her head spinning. This was supposed to be their night. But as the three of them began talking, Andy couldn’t deny the strange pull she felt toward Donald—and the way Miranda’s eyes seemed to sparkle when she looked at Elon.
This wasn’t just a night out.
It was the start of something big.
Andy tried her best to stay composed as the surreal scene unfolded before her. Donald Trump and Elon Musk—two of the most polarizing figures in the world—stood beside Miranda Priestly, engaging in animated conversation. And, somehow, Miranda wasn’t just holding her own; she was thriving.
The confidence in her voice, the sharpness of her quips, the way she tilted her head just so when making a particularly cutting remark—it all left Andy breathless. Miranda was in her element, commanding the room with ease.
“So, Miranda,” Trump said, his tone as smooth as melted butter, “I hear Runway has been making waves again. What was it—record sales this quarter?”
“Of course,” Miranda replied, her voice dripping with cool amusement. “When has Runway ever been anything less than exceptional?”
Elon chuckled, stepping closer. “Exceptional might be an understatement. I’ve been thinking about Runway’s role in defining culture. Imagine if we combined your vision, Miranda, with the reach of something… interplanetary.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “Interplanetary?”
“Elon’s got Mars on the brain,” Trump said with a grin, clapping Elon on the shoulder. “Big thinker, that one. But Miranda, you? You’ve got class. Elegance. You know how to make the impossible look easy.”
Miranda’s lips curved into a subtle smirk. “Flattery is hardly a substitute for action, gentlemen. Though I must admit, the idea of expanding Runway beyond Earth does have a certain appeal.”
Andy couldn’t help herself. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Miranda’s ear as she whispered, “Interplanetary fashion? Sounds like something only you could pull off.”
Miranda turned to her, the faintest blush creeping up her cheeks. For a moment, the chaos of the room seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them. Andy caught the spark in Miranda’s eyes, a silent acknowledgment that their connection—intimate and electric—was still very much alive, even amidst this madness.
Elon cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “You two seem close.”
“We are,” Miranda said simply, her tone firm and unyielding. She placed a hand on Andy’s arm, her touch light but possessive.
“Andrea is indispensable,” Miranda continued, her gaze flickering to Trump, then Elon. “In more ways than one.”
Andy’s pulse quickened at the weight of those words. Miranda wasn’t one for grand declarations or displays of affection, but every word she chose now felt deliberate—like a public staking of her claim.
“Well,” Trump said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “indispensable women tend to draw attention. And I have to admit, I like what I see.”
Andy felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but Miranda’s grip on her arm tightened ever so slightly, grounding her.
“Elon,” Miranda said, her voice cool and cutting, “don’t you have a spacecraft to launch?”
Elon chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll leave you to your evening. But if you ever want to discuss expanding Runway into orbit, give me a call.”
He handed Miranda a sleek black card, and Andy swore she saw Miranda smirk as she slipped it into her clutch without a second glance.
“Shall we?” Miranda said, turning to Andy and brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Where to?” Andy asked, still buzzing from the bizarre encounter.
“Home,” Miranda replied, her voice low and intimate. “I believe we have some unfinished business.”
The heat in her tone sent a shiver down Andy’s spine. Miranda’s hand slid down to the small of Andy’s back as she guided her out of the gallery, the cool evening air wrapping around them as they stepped outside.
Behind them, Trump and Elon were still deep in conversation, but Andy couldn’t bring herself to care. All that mattered was the woman at her side—the woman who made her feel like the center of the universe, no matter how crowded the room or how loud the noise.
As they stepped into the waiting town car, Miranda leaned in close, her lips brushing against Andy’s ear.
“You were spectacular tonight,” she murmured.
Andy turned to face her, their lips inches apart. “Not as spectacular as you.”
Miranda’s smile was slow, deliberate, and utterly devastating. “I should hope not.”
The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the gallery—and the chaos of the evening—behind.
For Andy, the night wasn’t over. It was just beginning.
The sleek black car pulled up to Trump Tower, its glossy exterior reflecting the glimmering lights of New York City. Andy stepped out, clutching Miranda’s hand as they approached the gilded entrance. Every step closer made her stomach churn.
She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to this.
“Darling, relax,” Miranda murmured, her voice low and soothing. “You’re overthinking again.”
“I’m not overthinking,” Andy muttered. “I’m just…rethinking.”
Miranda arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “And here I thought you were capable of bravery.”
Andy sighed, her resolve faltering under Miranda’s cool, expectant gaze. “Fine. For you.”
Inside, Donald Trump was waiting in the penthouse, lounging on a gold-trimmed sofa that practically screamed “tacky opulence.” He rose to greet them, his smile wide and self-assured.
“Miranda! And Andrea,” he said, his tone warm and oddly smug. “You both look stunning tonight.”
Miranda offered a small, polite smile. “Donald.”
Andy managed a strained nod. She felt Miranda’s hand on the small of her back, a subtle reminder of why she was here—why she was doing this.
They sat down, and champagne was poured. Small talk ensued, mostly between Donald and Miranda, who traded quips about power, influence, and the state of the media. Andy sat quietly, trying not to cringe at Donald’s incessant compliments and the way his gaze lingered on Miranda.
But then, things took a turn.
Donald leaned back, smirking. “You know, Miranda, I’ve been called many things, but one thing no one can deny is that I’m a man of…impressive proportions.”
Andy choked on her champagne.
Miranda, ever composed, tilted her head. “Oh?”
Donald’s smirk widened. “Let’s just say I’ve never had any complaints in certain departments.”
Andy froze, her eyes darting to Miranda, who remained perfectly calm.
“That’s quite the claim,” Miranda said, her voice as smooth as silk. “But you’ve always been one for hyperbole, haven’t you?”
Donald laughed, clearly unbothered. “Hyperbole? Maybe. But I assure you, in this case, it’s the truth.”
Andy couldn’t take it anymore. “Excuse me,” she said, rising from her seat. “I need a moment.”
She slipped into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink and taking deep breaths. “You can do this,” she muttered to herself. “For Miranda. For Miranda.”
When she returned, Miranda was standing, her hand resting on Donald’s arm as she said something that made him laugh. Andy’s stomach turned again, but she plastered on a smile and walked over.
“Everything alright, Andrea?” Miranda asked, her tone light but with an edge that only Andy could detect.
“Just needed some air,” Andy replied.
Donald clapped his hands together. “Good! Now that we’re all here, why don’t we move somewhere more…comfortable?”
Andy followed them to the bedroom, her steps heavy with dread. She was doing this for Miranda—for the woman who had somehow become the center of her world, despite everything.
What followed was a blur of awkward moments, forced laughter, and Donald’s incessant need to talk about himself. And when the inevitable happened, Andy couldn’t help but notice—despite her best efforts—that Donald’s earlier boasts were…less than accurate.
Short. Orange. Ugly.
She bit her lip, forcing herself to focus on Miranda—on the way Miranda’s hand brushed hers, on the subtle glances Miranda gave her, as if to say, Just get through this. For us.
Andy sucked it up, because she would do anything for Miranda Priestly.
Anything.
And as the night wore on, Andy reminded herself of one thing: love sometimes meant making sacrifices. Even if those sacrifices came with a spray tan and a desperate need for validation.
(Author’s note: Omg, this chapter was SO intense!! Say what you want about Donald, but like…you HAVE to admit he has that big power energy?? I mean, Andy totally stepped up for Miranda, which is just SO romantic, like true love vibes 🥺✨. Anyway, I’m LIVING for this crazy dynamic, and I hope you guys are too!! Let me know if you want more drama and iconic moments in the next part!! MAGA love 💖 xoxo)