The office hums with controlled chaos. Stilettos click against marble, fabric samples swish, and hushed voices murmur under the weight of perfection. Runway Magazine is a kingdom, and Miranda Priestly is its untouchable queen.

You’ve worked here long enough to understand how the hierarchy works. Miranda does not play favorites. She does not hand out praise, nor does she tolerate incompetence. To earn a nod of approval is to wield a rare currency—one that even the most seasoned employees would kill for.

But today, something shifts.

She sweeps into the office, a vision of sharp tailoring and effortless power, her coat slipping from her shoulders before anyone can so much as blink. Emily scrambles forward, but you’re faster, catching the pristine fabric before it even considers brushing against the floor.

“Finally,” Miranda exhales, a sigh threaded with the usual exhaustion of dealing with people who are, quite frankly, beneath her expectations. But then her gaze lands on you. For a second—just a second—something flickers behind those impossibly blue eyes.

Interest.

“You’re the only competent one here,” she murmurs, setting down her coffee with the crisp finality of a queen laying down a decree. The words should be dismissive, impersonal, but there’s a weight to them, a deliberateness in the way they fall from her lips.

Your heart shouldn’t stutter at that. It shouldn’t.

You straighten, careful to school your expression, but Miranda notices everything. Her lips quirk—not a smile, not really, but the ghost of something akin to amusement.

“Try not to disappoint me,” she adds, a mere breath between you.