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35 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

It has been about a month since Emily didn't go to Paris and Miranda has been in a rotten mood ever since, which means that Emily's life has been a living hell.

That translates into impossible demands (which Emily has to fulfill on crutches, no less), new second assistants getting fired before their first day is up, and Emily absorbing the brunt of Miranda's displeasure with employees' incompetence, lukewarm coffee, and life in general, it seems.

And she doesn't even have bloody Andrea Sachs--perfect, little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes--to help her.

She feels only slightly guilty for that thought because Andy did give her all the couture she'd gotten in Paris, but then again, who the hell just up and quits in the middle of Fashion Week like a petulant child?

No matter. Now she can shine in Miranda's eyes again--first assistant and number one assistant.

If Miranda actually stopped to notice, because she's always been a moody, impossible-to-please boss, but lately it's been worse. Much worse. So much that Emily, in a crazy moment of despair and hunger, has considered following in her fellow assistant's footsteps.

But no, she's not like Andy. Never was and never will be. Two sizes thinner and ten times better, she'll manage to survive Miranda's wrath and come out on top, stronger and deservedly appreciated.

It must be the divorce, she thinks. Miranda hasn't actually said a word, but she didn't have to, not with her status and fame. News of Stephen asking for divorce had broken before her plane even landed back in New York, and the tabloids didn't miss Miranda coming back to an empty house.

Emily actually feels kind of bad for her, but only a little. For the most part, she can understand Stephen. And empathize, as someone who spends even more time with his wife. Soon to be ex-wife.

Her theory isn't so far-fectched since even Miranda can't be so heartless as to be unaffected by a partner leaving. She wasn't here for the first divorce, but she knows that was a disastrous time in Runway's history, never to be talked about again, as she's learned from Nigel. Who also returned from Paris unusually sullen and reserved for some reason beyond her.

But she can't worry about Nigel right now--and doesn't actually care--since she has Miranda, in full dragon mode, breathing fire down her neck.

And she has to place yet another request to HR because the newest second assistant was out the door in tears before lunchtime.

51 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

Ever since Miranda strode into the office this morning, firing off a list of instructions and commands that Emily just barely kept up with while trying to take notes and balance herself on her crutches, she's seemed tense and rigid, as if physically bracing for something. A fall or an attack.

And, if possible, her mood is worse.

As the day drags on, Miranda becomes terser, more impatient, and much, much meaner. Mia (or "Emily"), the newest second assistant as of nine days ago, takes two bathroom breaks to cry and one to throw up, which Emily can tell by the pallor on her face. At least she loses the undoubtedly huge lunch she probably inhaled in the cafeteria.

Which makes Emily miss Andy just a teeny-tiny bit because at least when she ate, she got fat. This bitch has the kind of metabolism Emily can only dream of.

No one is safe at the office and it seems the more time passes, the stiffer Miranda's body grows and the more lines she gets between her eyebrows and around her lips.

She doesn't ask for lunch and when Emily timidly offers, she waves her hand as though shooing a fly, looking irritated like Emily should know better.

At the run-through, she's deadly, shooting down every offered idea and verbally eviscerating poor Jocelyn until even Emily feels sorry for her.

By the time she finally leaves for a meeting with Irv, a professional Miranda Agitator, Emily is actually scared for the little bastard's safety. She hopes he won't try to poke the bear.

She's so relieved when she leaves Miranda's house after dropping off the Book and dry cleaning. She was afraid that Miranda would be waiting for her, eyes flashing red and smoke coming out of her nostrils, ready to torture her a little bit more. But the house was dark and as far as she could tell, no one was inside.

Not only does she get to escape unscathed, but early tomorrow morning, before work, her cast finally comes off.

Miranda can't possibly stay mad--not at her, at least--when she can finally move around more freely and, more importantly, wear stilettos on both feet again.

Tomorrow will be a new day, a new beginning. Emily will prove herself competent and impress Miranda so much that she'll finally go back to being... slightly less terrifying.

52 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

The day Emily's cast comes off, Miranda's mood finally improves.

Emily would like to take credit, she really would, but the fact is that the moment Miranda walks through the door, before even laying eyes on Emily, a shift can be sensed in the air.

That's not to say that she suddenly turns from the dragon lady into the fairy godmother, but at least she finally seems like her usual self. With a small tweak.

Her tone is lighter, her walk more languid. The permanent lines on her face from the last two months seem to have smoothed out overnight and her entire posture looks far more relaxed.

Of course the changes wouldn't be visible to just anyone, but Emily isn't "just anyone." She's the Number One Assistant and such assistant's job is to notice the small details, to know her boss from A to Z. And she does. She's that good. Miranda should be proud.

Except... the reason for Miranda's change of attitude remains a mystery.

Yesterday she was on a killing spree. Today she almost said "thank you" to Emily once. Emily is pretty sure.

Perhaps she spent some time with her daughters--she loves those bratty monsters more than anything. Or maybe she's screwed Stephen over in the divorce proceedings. That would be sure to put her in a good mood.

At the end of the day, Emily doesn't really mind the cause for the change. She's just glad that the nuclear winter is over and work at Runway can proceed smoothly.

And maybe now, with Miranda no longer looking prepared to smash to death anyone that so much as says a wrong word, she'll notice that Emily has her leg back (and it's thinner! Maybe she should break the other one for good measure.) and she can, once again, do her job to perfection.

66 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

Over the next couple of weeks, Miranda actually seems happier than Emily's ever seen her be. Up until now, Emily didn't even know joy was an emotion Miranda was capable of feeling.

But what previously only Emily could determine, now the whole office can see. Emily is slightly disappointed to not feel special anymore, but now she can share her findings with Nigel and Serena, who agree that Miranda does seem to be walking on clouds.

Even Mia is still employed, the longest-lasting second assistant since Miss Ungrateful. Emily feels no guilt anymore for mocking her in her head, now that she's gone through the entirety of her Parisian collection and her excitement has worn off.

Most of the time, though, she doesn't even think about Andrea Sachs. She's in the past, and currently life has been a lot easier around the new and improved Miranda.

Emily, of course, doesn't want to jinx it since no one is as unpredictable as Miranda Priestly, but for now she savors and cherishes every moment that Miranda doesn't resort to cruelty as a default.

Two days ago, Jennifer Aniston canceled an interview at the last minute, and though Miranda was angry (and rightfully so), no heads flew and she simply said, "I trust you'll have a solution for me in the next hour. That's all."

That was a very special moment that will, no doubt, go down in Runway history.

69 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

Nigel stops by Emily's desk after checking the day's schedule on Mia's. Emily knows he doesn't really care; he's lurking.

"She's nicer," he murmurs, almost under his breath, fiddling with a folder on her desk in order to look busy because there's always the risk of Miranda watching from her office. "She's even nice to me."

Emily glares and snatches the folder from his hand. "She's always nice to you."

Doesn't he have a job to do? And besides, he should know better than to think Emily would gossip about her boss behind her back. Well, okay, she used to. But that was before. Now she's Number One.

"Hmm," is his reply, his eyes fixed on a random spot on her desk. A few seconds later, he adds, "Not always."

And Emily is reminded that he has been awkward around Miranda, keeping his distance and behaving uncharacteristically professionally. And, really, how long has it been?

She's curious enough to lean forward and hiss, "Just what happened between you two?"

That seems to snap him out of his blank staring and he lifts his head and gets the same clouded look he did the last time she asked. Then he sighs and shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Great." She gives him a sarcastic smile. "Then do you mind going back to do your job and letting me do mine, before we both get in trouble?"

He leaves and Emily is grateful. Nigel is none of her concern. Only Miranda.

80 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

Miranda finally snaps out of her reverie and fires Mia for getting her the wrong skirts when she asked for "those blue ones that I liked."

Emily doesn't even feel sorry for her because, thanks to her stupidity, she's now tasked with the job of finding yet another second assistant and, worse, inheriting all the lackey errands.

At least her leg is no longer broken, she thinks grimly.

The whole office can feel the change in Miranda's mood again. Of course it was too good to be true, and lasted for way longer than ever before.

Maybe Miranda has been stoned that entire time and has finally run out of stash. Emily would be willing to sacrifice a year's worth of salary to get her a refill, just to go back to the way things were. To be Number One again.

As it is, now she's barely Number Two. Being Miranda's (only) assistant, she once again suffers the direct ramifications of Miranda's foul mood and stuffs herself full of cheese cubes to fill the emotional void. If she gets fat, fuck it. Miranda doesn't appreciate her anyway.

82 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

Two days of starvation later, Miranda is pleasant again (by Miranda's standards) and Emily almost gets whiplash.

She also spends a lot of time on her phone. Texting, Emily thinks. Maybe with the twins, who have left for their father's for the weekend.

Are they the reason for Miranda's temporary, murderous mood? Did something happen to them that Emily didn't know about?

No. No, no, no. Emily's a spectacular assistant and she wouldn't miss a thing. Besides, if anything had happened, Miranda would have probably commanded her to fix it.

She decides that it's futile to try to analyze Miranda's way of thinking. For all she knows, a bird pooped on the town car's window two days ago and Miranda, being Miranda, refused to let go of the grudge. Maybe the culprit was finally caught and served as dinner last night.

Maybe Emily is losing her mind.

Feeling a headache coming on, she pinches the bridge of her nose. She should probably get a life.

104 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

In the following weeks, things settle down. No highs and no lows (well, no more than usual); Miranda doesn't ruin people's lives for sports, but she's also not exactly Mary Poppins. She's just Miranda--same old Miranda.

She does fire Mia's successor almost immediately, but the next one turns out to be competent enough.

And then a chain of events starts, which brings with it a chain of discoveries for Emily. It all feels very sudden and unexpected, but later, when she thinks back on it, she'll realize that it's been gradually building up for months and she completely missed it.

It starts with Miranda softly calling from her office one day, "Coat, bag," and Abbey, the new "Emily" scrambling to fetch the items.

Emily just sits and stares for a moment because, as first and Number One assistant, she's in charge of Miranda's schedule. She knows it by heart, knows it well enough to be able to recite it if woken up at 3 A.M.

Which is how she knows that Miranda has nothing scheduled outside of the office at the moment. She had lunch with Annie Leibovitz at noon and will be leaving for Calvin Klein's showroom at 4, but in the next couple of hours, she's not expected anywhere outside of the office. As far as Emily knows. And Emily always knows.

But yet, she strides out into the outer office just in time to snap Emily out of her staring and for Abbey to hand her her belongings, and throws over her shoulder, "I'll be gone for the next hour or so. I don't want to receive any phone calls."

And now Emily is beginning to freak out because just where is she going?! In the middle of the day, with zero explanations, refusing to be contacted. And why doesn't Emily know anything about it?

Oh... oh, no. Oh-- does that mean-- does Miranda not trust her? She's her first assistant. She plans Miranda's entire day. She should know where Miranda is at any given moment, yet she doesn't. Not now. Something has changed and now Miranda is keeping her outside of it all and she has no idea why. Has she done something wrong? Is Miranda going to fire her?

She feels like crying. And she's been trying so, so hard.

Exactly 84 minutes later (Emily checks her watch), Miranda returns, flinging her coat and bag onto Abbey's desk and proceeding into her office. Without a word.

And along with Emily's anxiety, the day resumes as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary happens and Miranda doesn't show any signs of wanting to fire her.

In fact, she looks relaxed again. Almost content.

Emily doesn't sleep that night.

111 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

A week passes with no disasters and no mysterious trips outside of the office and Emily begins to think that perhaps she really is losing her mind.

Paranoia--that's what it is. She's been worried for nothing. A result of not enough sleep and food and way too many work hours. She figures anyone that works for Miranda Priestly is bound to go a little insane at some point.

Until Miranda's phone rings. This is something that's been happening lately: her cell phone ringing, which Emily hears; Miranda answering, which she doesn't.

She thinks that for a voice to go any lower than Miranda's default tone would mean actual whispering, but somehow Miranda manages it and Emily refuses to diagnose herself with a case of Runway-craze because something shady is definitely going on.

Just what is Miranda up to? Is she planning something? Is she about to retire--or get a promotion without taking Emily up the ladder with her? Does she have a protégé who isn't Emily?!

There is only so much that Emily is willing to take. She is not a doormat after all, and she's tired of working so hard for Miranda's acknowledgement and getting no recognition.

She will be Number One. She won't be stepped over and ignored and overlooked. She could even do Miranda's job if she wanted. Absolutely. She could--

"How about tomorrow night?" she hears from Miranda's office, just barely. Miranda's voice is just above a whisper, but Emily's experienced. She's been doing this job long enough and she's good. Leaning a little closer without being too obvious, she tries to ignore Abbey's typing and listens.

"The girls will be at a sleepover." The girls? she thinks. The twins? What do they have to do to with--

"Yes, we'll have the house all to ourselves." The house? Why--

Oh. Oh. The girls will be at a sleepover. They'll have the house all to themselves. Miranda and her-- her--

Emily doesn't realize she's gasped out loud until Abbey looks up from her desk and gives her a strange look. She clears her throat, squares her shoulders, and pretends to look at her computer screen.

Of course. Of course! It all makes sense now: the quiet phone calls, the secretive meeting a week ago, even Miranda's mood swings. Emily wants to laugh because she's been so blind--the opposite of what Miranda Priestly's assistant is supposed to be.

Miranda has a new man!

A new... a new boyfriend. Emily just barely suppresses a snort. This is so ridiculous.

She wants to tell Serena, her gossip buddy. Share her findings with her. But Serena can't keep a secret for shit so maybe not.

A boyfriend... Completely ridiculous.

And also... strange. Very strange, because Miranda has just separated from Stephen. They won't be divorced for another nine months. When did she have time to meet someone new? And how did Emily, who's in charge of her schedule, not know about it?

It doesn't make sense. Miranda is not a cheater--she has too much class and integrity for that. She's above cheating. And even though she and Stephen are no longer actually together, they're still technically married.

Miranda has an image to uphold. She won't risk her reputation and job because of some primal need (Emily shudders at the thought of Miranda having needs like the rest of them mere mortals), especially now, with the press on her tail.

No, she's too smart for that. Isn't she?

Emily must be mistaken. There has to be some other logical explanation.

Like meeting with her lawyer. That would make sense. She's been in constant touch with him about the divorce since Paris. They could just be cooking up some scheme against Stephen and his lawyer.

But that doesn't explain why Miranda would want to meet with him in her house, at night, while her kids are away.

Maybe Emily should get Nigel's opinion. After all, second to her, he's the closest person to Miranda. He even knows her better than Emily does, she reluctantly admits to herself. He might have some insight into the whole mystery.

Or, no. No, no, no. Miranda's privacy is incredibly important to her, and as her renewed, best assistant, it's incredibly important to Emily as well.

Besides, Nigel is still being strange and distant around Miranda--and even if Emily doesn't know what his issue is, she can tell that there is an issue--so even he can't be trusted right now.

Except... except. Nigel has been strange and distant. And refused to tell her why. Ever since Paris, where Emily wasn't, his and Miranda's relationship has shifted. They've become stiff and tense around each other for reasons Emily couldn't fathom.

What if something happened in Paris? Something that shouldn't have? Is Nigel the mystery man behind the phone calls and the secret meeting and the mood swings? Have they been carrying on a secret affair right under everyone's noses while pretending to be all proper and professional at work? Is that why Stephen left Miranda?

Inhaling deeply, Emily slams her hands against her desk and gets up. How could she have been so stupid?

She walks as fast as her high heels will carry her to his office, then swings the glass door open and points. "You!"

Nigel looks up from photo proofs and arches an eyebrow. "Yes?" he drawls.

"Don't play dumb with me," she warns, coming closer. "I know everything."

Sighing, he removes his glasses, pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and wipes the lenses. "And what might that be?" he asks nonchalantly.

"I know about you and Miranda." She lowers her voice lest passers-by hear and for a moment Nigel actually looks slightly alarmed. Ha! She knew it!

"What about me and Miranda?" He feigns a frown as the glasses return to his face.

Coming even closer, she whispers, "I know about the affair."

Silence. Zero movement. Nigel stares at her. She's got him in her pocket.

Then he inhales through his nostrils and skewers her with a look she can't interpret. "Excuse me?" he asks calmly. Too calmly for a guilty man.

And Emily unleashes on him, letting out all the anger and frustration that have been building up for months. Months. It all comes out.

"I know something happened between the two of you in Paris," she says hotly. "I don't know how, but it did and then you both came back and acted completely weird and she was on a rampage for weeks because of you!" She points again, this time stabbing his chest with her finger.

"And then, one day, she's all happy and relaxed like she..." Oh, god, like she was having sex. Emily shivers. "Well, you know like what.

"And now with all the phone calls and secrecy and her leaving in the middle of the day to go to god-knows-where and your scheduled 'meeting'"--she empasizes the word with air quotes--"tomorrow night-- have you no shame? She's still married, Nigel. You work for her, for Christ's sake!"

She gives him another shove with her finger, then steps back. Nigel looks at her like she has four eyes and a tail.

"Are you finished?" he asks, unfazed.

"No, I'm not finished!" she snaps, but actually, she is. Deflating, she concedes, "Yes, I'm finished."

"Good." He nods. "Then I think now will be a good time to tell you that I'm gay."

Her eyes widen instantly. Oh, god. Oh, god, oh, god, of course. Oh, she's completely forgot about that. She had the whole case solved and sealed with a bow on top, but let just that one, small detail slip.

Of bloody course Nigel is gay. He's one of the gayest gays she's ever met, and she works in the fucking fashion industry. He's wearing a purple and green suit, for god's sake! What the hell was she thinking?

Maybe she really is losing it after all.

When no response is forthcoming, Nigel adds, "Honestly, I thought you knew."

"Oh," she moans, positioning herself on a high stool. "I did know, Nigel, I did. I-I don't know where the hell that came from."

"I think I have a pretty good idea." His smirk calms her down a bit because, of all people, she really doesn't want to be on Nigel's bad side. Then he goes to his desk, unlocks the bottom drawer, and is that--

She only snaps out of her haze when he extends a glass of whiskey to her. Shaking her head, she glances out of the glass door. "Are you crazy? We're at work!"

"Trust me," he says wryly, "you need this. You look on the verge of a nervous breakdown."

She concedes that she is. God, she wants to cry. Resigned, she takes the glass from his hand and downs the bitter liquid in one gulp, wincing.

"So," he begins lighly, taking a seat next to her, "Miranda has someone new?"

Glaring, Emily deposits the glass on the layout table. "I'm not going to discuss this with you."

"You did just accuse me of sleeping with her," he counters.

Emily stares at him. He stares back. And, honestly, she's tired and her nerves are raw and Miranda, with her valued privacy, can go fuck herself. Or that new man, who's apparently not Nigel.

So, she tells him. Everything. From the strange moods to the phone calls and the 84 minutes outside of the office and, finally, her latest conversation with the mystery man and their plans to meet at the townhouse tomorrow night.

When she's done, Nigel exhales and wipes his glasses again. They're not even dirty. "That would explain the good mood. She's finally getting some."

"Nigel!" Emily hisses, appalled.

He has the nerve to chuckle. "Grow up, Emily. Your boss has needs just like the rest of us."

Ugh, her needs again.

"What I don't get is why you thought it was me?"

And now Emily is embarrassed because why did she think it was him? It's all very vague now. Perhaps she shouldn't have had that whiskey.

"I don't know." She shakes her head, her eyes cast downward. "You've just been acting so weird around her lately." Then she fixes her gaze back on him, narrowing her eyes. "Why have you been acting so weird around her?"

Nigel sighs heavily and looks away. "I don't know. It's all very childish." He takes another moment and then confesses, "She put me up for that James Holt job--you know, James Holt International?" Emily nods, surprised. Was Nigel going to leave Runway?

He continues, "Then she gave it to Jacqueline Follet instead. I'm trying to be mature about it, but I guess there's still some hard feelings."

Wait, Miranda was responsible for Jacqueline getting that job? But that makes no sense--she hates Jacqueline.

Which Emily shouldn't focus on right now because she's just yelled at Nigel for shagging their boss. Who screwed him over. What a bitch.

Emily buries her face in her hands before putting one hand on Nigel's arm. "Oh, Nigel, I'm so sorry. I feel like such an idiot."

He pats her hand. "Don't worry about it." Then he gives her a pretty pitiful look that makes her hate him a little because she does not need to be pitied.

"Maybe you should take some time off," he suggests and she huffs.

"Please. No such thing as 'time off' at Runway."

"Yeah," he agrees sadly.

124 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

In the weeks following her conversation with Nigel, Emily manages to calm down some, even if she doesn't take any time off.

But at least now she has a confidant so her freak-outs are kept at bay.

So, Miranda has found herself a new man. Who isn't Nigel. See if Emily cares. For all she knows, it could be Irv bloody Ravitz. She doesn't give a flying fuck anymore.

Miranda can do whatever she wants. It's her life and her stupidity and Emily will continue to do her job to perfection because even if Miranda doesn't notice, one day she'll have her throne. She will.

Then, one day, she returns from her lunch break--which involved very little food and a lot of gossiping with Serena about anything that didn't include Miranda fucking Priestly--and sends Abbey off to hers.

And hears Miranda murmuring from inside her office.

Against her better judgement, she listens.

"I can come after work. The twins are with their father this weekend," she says to the man on the other end of the phone, Emily guesses. Her tone is gentle--nothing like the way she speaks to Emily or Nigel or anybody else at Runway.

"Do you want to have dinner together?" she asks and a few moments later says, "I'll have whatever you're having." Another pause. "Not that."

Emily's eyebrows lift. Miranda asking if he wants to have dinner with her? Miranda allowing him to choose their meal? Miranda being nice?

"If you order that tiramisu we had last time, I'll be very grateful," Miranda says and Emily almost chokes on her own breath--whether at the suggestive tone or at the prospect of Miranda eating dessert, she's not sure. Miranda's voice drops to a lower husk when she replies to a question Emily's glad she couldn't hear, "Hmm, I just might."

Then Emily stops eavesdropping and leans back in her chair.

This isn't just sex, she realizes. Miranda isn't putting everything at risk for an itch that needs to be scratched (and, duh, of course Emily knew she wouldn't be that stupid).

No, Miranda Priestly is in love.

Well. Emily purses her lips and reaches for her computer's mouse. Good for her.

135 days post-Paris Fashion Week:

"Any clues on Mystery Man's identity?" Nigel murmurs when he stops by her desk.

"No, and I don't care," Emily answers shortly. Miranda has been agitated all day and Emily has been trying to keep the phrase "trouble in paradise" out of her head.

"Liar," he chuckles.

"Emily," they hear from Miranda's office and Emily sighs and pushes her chair back.

"Yes, Miranda?" she says upon entering the office.

Eyes fixed on her laptop screen, Miranda quietly asks, "Why do I still not have the proofs from yesterday's photoshoot?"

Oh, she definitely knows that Nigel is standing by Emily's desk, out of sight. This is her way of telling them to get back to work if they want to keep it.

"I'll get them right away," Emily says and walks out, glowering at Nigel.

"Come with me," he says, placing a hand on her back. "I've got 'em."

When she returns minutes later with the folder in her hand, Miranda's chair is facing the window--a characteristic sign of her not wanting to be bothered. Emily slows her walk, keeping quiet.

"No, they didn't tell their father." She halts her steps and straightens up, but then she realizes Miranda isn't talking to her. She's holding her cell phone to her ear. Shit.

"Well, if they had, I would have heard about it by now, trust me."

What should she do? Clear her throat, make her presence known? No, absolutely not. Her life is too precious to her. She debates walking away, but then there's the risk of being unintentionally heard, which is even worse.

She stays rooted to the spot.

"They have questions, though," Miranda continues and sighs. "Ones that I... that I'm not sure how to answer." Pause. "Yes." Another, longer pause. "I think you should come to dinner. I think we should talk to them together."

Miranda waits for a response. Emily waits with bated breath. Her heart is beating so fast she worries Miranda might hear it.

And then Miranda sighs again, but this time it's deeper and, Emily can tell, relieved. Maybe if Mystery Man puts her in a good mood, she won't mind so much when she finds out Emily heard their conversation. Maybe Emily should make her escape now. Maybe--

"Thank you, Andrea."

Emily freezes.

Andrea. That's what Miranda said, isn't it? She can't be mistaken. But that doesn't make any sense because Emily has never met any man named Andrea. In fact, she only knows one person who Miranda ever referred to with that pronounciation.

Head spinning, hands shaking, and feeling like she might pass out, she places the folder as carefully as she can on Miranda's desk and then turns around and makes her silent way out of the office, praying that her heels won't betray her.

They don't and, grateful for the carpet, she flops behind her desk, taking her first, deep breath. She ignores Abbey's curious look even though she's pretty sure she's white as chalk at the moment, but she has every right to be.

She was Number One. She did everything right. She was the best first assistant the world had ever seen.

And, yet again, Andrea bloody Sachs has won.