Miranda, a priest

The Runway office was shrouded in a funereal silence. The only sounds were the ghostly clicks of keyboards and the anxious rustle of silk. Two interns had already run to the bathroom to cry. Miranda Priestly was in a terrible mood—and, as always, the world was paying the price.

Emily, the first assistant, was as pale as a ghost, clutching her cell phone with trembling hands.

“She… she’s already yelled at everyone,” she whispered to the second assistant. “Even the Italian photographer.”

That's when the elevator doors opened.

And you went in.

Wearing a simple coat and carrying a modest cooler bag, you looked like a figure from another world. You weren't a fashion editor, nor a model. You were something infinitely more powerful.

You were her wife.

A sigh of relief washed over the room like a wave. Heads snapped up. Eyes, once filled with despair, suddenly gleamed with a fragile spark of hope.

Emily almost tripped over her own heels while trying to reach you.

“ Thank you , thank you, thank you, oh, thank you, my God!” she gasped softly. “She didn’t eat the croissant this morning. Said it was ‘boring.’ The cover photo album is a disaster. She’s been in there for three hours, without answering a single call.”

You simply nodded, a calm, gentle smile on your lips. You walked toward Miranda's office, ignoring the row of assistants kneeling on the floor, rearranging sample bags with trembling fingers.

Without knocking, you opened the door.

The atmosphere was frigid. Miranda stood by the windowpane, her back to the room, her shoulders stiff beneath her impeccably tailored Prada coat. The aura of silent fury surrounding her seemed almost tangible.

“ Get out ,” his voice cut through the air, without her even turning around. It was a soft, sharp, lethally calm voice. “Unless you brought someone capable of putting a bullet in my head and putting an end to this charade.”