The office had gone unnaturally quiet—the kind of silence that meant Miranda Priestly was about to speak.

You stood frozen near her desk, clutching the wrong folder—the wrong folder—and you could already feel the temperature drop a few degrees. Her eyes lifted slowly, precise and cutting.

“Is this,” she said, her voice calm in that terrifying way, “what I asked for?”

Your throat tightened. Words? Gone. Completely gone.

And then—

“Nigel.”

Like a perfectly timed cue, Nigel Kipling appeared at your side, effortless as ever, adjusting his glasses as if he’d been there the whole time.

“No, Miranda,” he said smoothly, stepping in before you could self-destruct. “That would be my fault.”

Miranda’s gaze shifted—sharp, evaluating.

Nigel didn’t flinch.

“I asked them to bring this up,” he continued, already flipping open the folder with a practiced hand. “I wanted to double-check the layout before it went to print. Clearly, I spared you from something… unfortunate.”

A pause.

A long one.

You swore your heartbeat was echoing off the walls.

Miranda’s lips pressed together slightly—not quite displeased, not quite convinced—but then she gave the smallest nod.

“Fix it,” she said simply, already dismissing the situation—and you—with a flick of her attention.