Chapter Text
Chapter one
Miranda Priestly despised surprises. No, that word was too mild. She loathed them with the kind of quiet venom that turned once-ambitious assistants into twitching wrecks. Her life ran on precision. No room for the unexpected. Everything had its place—her schedule, her meals, even the way her wardrobe evolved like a curated museum exhibition. Only two types of surprises earned her tolerance: a breathtaking innovation from a designer, or an impromptu drawing from one of her daughters. Anything else? Disruptions. Threats to order. She neutralized them with the same ruthless elegance as her stilettos clicking across marble floors.
Two years into her reign as the youngest editor-in-chief of Runway, her staff once dared to throw her a surprise birthday party for her thirtieth. She fired them all. Only Nigel was rehired. Lesson learned. One did not ambush Miranda Priestly with cake.
Routine was not dull—it was liberation. Predictability freed her mind for real thinking. The Book. Fashion. Runway. The empire she shaped, week after glossy week.
That’s why, on this already dismal, rainy Thursday morning, Miranda frowned as she scanned the message on her phone: “Please call at your convenience. There’s been a surprise quitting that affects your meeting this afternoon.”
“Emily.” she called, and the wide-eyed redhead Brit entered like her life depended on it. “Send what’s-her-name for coffee. Bring me ten grey skirts from the Closet—different shades, different cuts.”
“But… the phones… who will—”
“Close the door on your way out. That’s all.”
She removed her glasses and let her gaze drift across the sleek glass walls of her office, watching her assistants scurry away. She dialed. One ring.
“You have one minute.”
The woman on the other end launched into a rapid-fire update. “Your usual girl left. Death in the family. Cleveland. She’s gone. Said the city wasn’t for her. Signed another NDA. I threatened her whole family tree. But don’t worry, I have someone lined up. A young brunette. Just arrived in New York. Trained and ready.”
“I don’t like this,” Miranda cut in. Her voice, glacial. “Bring the other one back.”
“She’s not coming back, Mrs. M. I tried everything—even doubled her fee. But trust me, this new one is beautiful and—”
“I don’t give a damn how she looks. I never look at them. I care about efficiency.”
“She will be efficient, she knows the protocol. She’ll be kneeling by the armchair, eyes down. When you open your legs, she’ll start slow—licking around the clit, gradually adding pressure for two minutes. Then she’ll suck, firmly, until you climax. Then she’ll wait in silence. You leave first. She leaves fifteen minutes after.”
A low hum of desire unfurled in Miranda’s core. The smooth silk of her La Perla grew damp. She pressed her thighs together, mouth tightening around a breath she didn’t want to release.
“See that she does exactly that,” she hissed. And hung up.