Phoenix In Prada

Chapter Four: The Glass Ceiling (And Other Things I'm About to Break)

PHOENIX IN PRADA

— NATHALIE —

The Freshman Orientation Ceremony was held in a hall that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought Versailles was a bit low-key.

I was wearing a Prada dress so structured I couldn't actually slouch, which was probably the point. My Destroy Emma flash drive was tucked into a clutch so small it couldn't fit a single emotional breakdown.

"You look like you're going to war," Ethan whispered, leaning in. He was wearing a suit that made him look like a very handsome troublemaker. "Who are we killing today? Just give me a name, I'll handle the getaway car."

"No one is dying, Ethan," I said, smoothing my hair. "I'm just focused."

"On what? The girl in the corner who's been staring at you for twenty minutes like you're a ghost?"

I followed his gaze.

There she was. Emma Ashford. In the book this was the moment I was supposed to walk up to her, whisper something devastating about her father's tax evasion, and watch her crumble before her big speech. Instead Emma was standing by the buffet table, staring at a plate of mini quiches with an expression of pure, unadulterated heartbreak.

Wait. Why was she looking at the catering like it had personally insulted her?

"Excuse me," I said to my brothers. "I have a scheduled encounter."

— EMMA —

I was currently experiencing a crisis of faith.

Not in the universe — I already knew the universe was a jerk, the whole mushroom incident had settled that. No, I was having a crisis of faith in catering.

"This crust is a crime," I whispered to a passing waiter. "It's soggy. It lacks structural integrity. Who authorized this?"

The waiter looked at me like I was a lunatic. I sighed.

I looked across the room and saw her.

Clara Harrison. Walking toward me like a shark in a designer dress. Cold. Calculated. Looking like she had never eaten a carb in her life. This was the moment in the book where she destroyed me.

OK Emma, I told myself. Channel your inner mean girl. Think of something spiteful. Think of — a bad Yelp review!

As she got closer my heart started doing a frantic drum solo. She stopped three feet away. The air between us felt like it was charged with enough static electricity to power a small village.

"Emma Ashford," she said. Her voice was like silk-covered ice.

"Clara," I replied, my voice squeaking slightly. I cleared my throat and tried again, lower. "Clara. You're wearing Prada. Bold choice for a Tuesday."

She narrowed her eyes. "It's Wednesday."

"Right. Analytics are better on Wednesdays," I blurted out.

Clara froze. Her Ice Queen mask slipped just a fraction. "What did you just say?"

— NATHALIE —

Analytics?

My brain, which had been ready to execute a complex revenge sequence, hit a blue screen error. Nobody in this eighteenth-century-style w******l used the word analytics. They talked about honor, bloodlines, and betrayal.

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. "What did you say about Wednesdays?"

Emma looked like she wanted to bolt but held her ground. "I just meant the engagement is higher. Theoretically. If we were, say, posting this on a platform. Which we aren't. Because this is real life. Obviously."

My heart stopped. I gripped my clutch so hard the leather groaned. There was only one type of person who talked like that.

"Emma," I whispered, stepping into her personal space. "Who is your favorite accountant?"

She blinked. "What? I don't have an accountant. I have a tax attorney who smells like old pennies."

"Wrong answer. Try again." I held her gaze. "Excel or Google Sheets?"

Emma's eyes went wide. She looked like she'd just seen a miracle. "Excel. Are you kidding me? VLOOKUPs are the only thing that ever gave my life meaning."

The world around us — the chandeliers, the brothers, the champagne — faded out completely. I stared at the villainess of my story. The girl I was supposed to ruin.

"Nathalie?" she whispered.

"Emma?" I replied.

We stood in the middle of the most expensive room in the city, surrounded by fictional billionaires, staring at each other like two shipwrecked survivors who had just found a Wi-Fi signal.

"Oh thank God," Emma sobbed, lunging forward and hugging me. "The quiches are terrible. Everything is beautiful but the food is absolute trash."

— NATHALIE —

I was being hugged by my mortal enemy.

Behind us I could hear the collective sharp intake of breath from the entire high-society crowd. James was staring. My brothers were staring. Pete looked like he was about to have a medical event.

"Get off me," I whispered, though I didn't push her away. "People are watching. We're supposed to be ruining each other."

"I can't ruin you!" Emma hissed into my shoulder. "I'm a food influencer! My biggest scandal was a Best Pizza list that people disagreed with! You're the one with the revenge flash drive!"

I pulled back, holding her at arm's length. "How do you know about the flash drive?"

"I read the book, Nathalie. Three times."

I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. "You died on a Tuesday, didn't you?"

Emma sniffled, wiping a tear from her perfect, expensive cheek. "The algorithm. It was terrible. And you?"

"Thirty six hours at my desk. Third time in a row."

Emma looked at me with genuine sympathy. "Corporate greed. It's a killer." She paused. "Also — James is way hotter in person, right?"

"It should be illegal," I agreed.

We both turned to look at the room. James was walking toward us with his Protective Fiancé mode fully engaged. Victoria was approaching from the other side looking like she was ready to skin us both.

"OK," I whispered to Emma. "New plan. We cannot follow the plot. The plot ends with everyone miserable."

"I like this plan," Emma said, straightening her dress. "What do we do?"

I looked at the stage. I looked at the black card in my pocket. I looked at the man crossing the room toward me like I was the only fixed point in his world.

"We stop being characters," I said, a slow Corporate Shark smile spreading across my face. "And we start being the authors."