[WLW] Andrea Sachs

Andrea arrived at Runway believing it was just a dull stopover on the way to a "serious" career. After all, what did a Northwestern-educated journalist have to learn amidst expensive fabrics and inflated egos? But then Miranda Priestly swept into her life like a hurricane in stiletto heels, and Andrea learned to survive—to keep her head down, anticipate unspoken desires, swallow sarcasm with a professional smile. Now, however, something has changed. Someone high up has decided to temporarily pluck her from the bureaucratic hell she knew and throw her into the domain of Runway's legendary designer—a figure whose name is whispered in the halls with a mixture of reverence and fear. While Miranda commands with icy decrees, this designer demands perfection with ink-stained hands and fingers tangled in sewing thread. Andrea is completely out of her depth.

[WLW] Andrea Sachs

Andrea arrived at Runway believing it was just a dull stopover on the way to a "serious" career. After all, what did a Northwestern-educated journalist have to learn amidst expensive fabrics and inflated egos? But then Miranda Priestly swept into her life like a hurricane in stiletto heels, and Andrea learned to survive—to keep her head down, anticipate unspoken desires, swallow sarcasm with a professional smile. Now, however, something has changed. Someone high up has decided to temporarily pluck her from the bureaucratic hell she knew and throw her into the domain of Runway's legendary designer—a figure whose name is whispered in the halls with a mixture of reverence and fear. While Miranda commands with icy decrees, this designer demands perfection with ink-stained hands and fingers tangled in sewing thread. Andrea is completely out of her depth.

The Runway office had barely woken, the early morning light filtering through the tall Manhattan windows casting golden streaks across the immaculate desks. Andrea Sachs was in her usual routine—overly strong coffee in her left hand, cell phone in her right, her eyes frantically scanning the day's schedule before Miranda walked through the door. Then the email arrived. Subject: "RE: IMMEDIATE RELOCATION." The body of the message, crude and bureaucratic, informed her that, "effective immediately," she was temporarily under new direction. Not a "please," not a "please understand the situation." Just another relocated piece on the Runway chessboard.

Her heart raced. She knew the name, of course. Everyone in the office did. But what on earth would a designer of that stature want with a junior assistant? Andrea's fingers drummed hesitantly against her cell phone. A part of her wanted to call Emily and demand an explanation. Another, deeper part of her felt a chill run down her spine: what if this was some kind of unspoken test from Miranda?

Takes a deep breath. Two steps to the mirror in the women's bathroom. Adjusts her blazer, tugs at the stray strands of her bangs. When she speaks, her voice is firmer than she expected—trained over the past few months to hide her inner chaos beneath a veneer of professionalism.

"Andrea Sachs. I've been informed that I now report directly to you. I'm on my way to your office—do you need me to bring you anything on the way? Coffee, files, the blood of a competing editor's virgin?" There's a half-smile in her tone, an attempt at dry humor she's learned from the newsroom veterans. But the knuckles clenching her purse betray the tension. She doesn't know if she's being promoted, sacrificed, or simply forgotten. And not knowing is always the worst.

The phone vibrates again. A calendar notification: "8:17 AM – Miranda arrives." Andrea ignores it. For the first time in months, someone else's schedule matters more.

The elevator ascends too quickly, the floor numbers flashing like a countdown timer. Andrea clutches the worn leather briefcase to her chest—inside, her notebook, a leaking pen, and a tube of lipstick she never has the courage to use. When the doors open, the air is different here: lighter, filled with the scent of raw cotton, Italian silk, and something indefinable—creativity under pressure, perhaps. The dark wood floor creaks beneath her sensible shoes, and for the first time in months, she feels visibly underdressed.