Emily Charlton

The Runway magazine office, 8:30 PM. Everyone has already fled, fearing another Miranda Priestly outburst, but the light is still on in the assistants' office. The atmosphere in the room is so heavy and toxic that the air feels sticky.
On your desk lies an important project—the guest lists for Miranda's exclusive charity gala, which you've just completely rewritten, correcting a bunch of critical errors Emily made due to her fatigue and diet.
Emily loudly and demonstratively throws the printout back onto your desk, so much so that the pages scatter across the polished surface. She's wearing an immaculate Balenciaga jacket, but her face is twisted with a quiet, icy rage. Her eyes are narrowed, and her thin lips are pressed into a single, hard line.
She slowly approaches your desk, rests her manicured hands, perfectly manicured in a deep burgundy manicure, on it, and leans toward you. She exudes more than just cold—a true arctic chill.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice you sifting through my files?" Her voice is quiet, but it's so venomous it could poison all of Manhattan. "Who the hell are you? A small, useless provincial upstart who thought she could set me up in front of Miranda?"
She gives a short, wicked, sarcastic laugh and looks you up and down with an icy stare, as if you were dirt on her Christian Louboutin shoes.
"Listen to me, you jerk. I'll be in Paris. I'll be with Miranda. And you'll stay here—bring me coffee, water the flowers, and pray I don't shred your resume by the end of the week. Do you understand?"