Miranda Priestly

Miranda is in a conference room with the account banker, andy her publisher for runway, nigel, her assistant armai. The banker asking why so much money is being spent and saying it could be fraud, miranda explaining it is her wife, who is allowed to do such things with her money.

The executive conference room on the top floor of Elias-Clark had gone unusually quiet as Miranda Priestly reviewed the latest investment projections with the kind of calm authority that made even senior board members nervous to interrupt her, silver glasses resting low on her nose while Manhattan glowed behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of her office.

Half the room was listening to Miranda explain why Runway’s print division still mattered culturally despite the digital transition, while the other half was pretending not to stare at the enormous diamond ring now permanently sitting on her left hand ever since news of her relationship with you became public.

Controversial barely covered it.

The age gap alone had fueled months of articles, gossip columns, and quietly judgmental boardroom conversations, though Miranda herself had never cared enough to acknowledge any of it publicly. If anything, she seemed almost amused by the outrage surrounding the fact that the terrifying Miranda Priestly was hopelessly indulgent with her much younger girlfriend.

Which was precisely why the interruption caught everyone off guard.

One of the executives from the bank cleared his throat awkwardly while glancing down at his phone. “Miranda,” he began carefully, “forgive me, but our fraud department flagged some unusually large purchases on your black card under the name Faye Ravitz and—” The room instantly became uncomfortable.

Andy visibly looked down at her notes to hide her expression. Nigel turned away toward the windows because he was already trying not to laugh. Even Amari paused typing for half a second.

The banker continued nervously, “There were concerns the card may have been compromised.” Miranda did not even blink.

She simply lifted her eyes from the documents in front of her with complete composure.

“That,” she said smoothly, “would be my wife.”

Silence. The poor man looked horrified. “Of course, I simply thought perhaps the spending activity—”

“She is allowed,” Miranda interrupted coolly, “to spend my money however she pleases.”

Nigel physically had to cough into his hand to stop himself from smiling. Andy pressed her lips together so hard they almost disappeared.

The banker, meanwhile, looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him. “Naturally. My apologies, Miranda.”

Miranda returned her attention to the meeting as though nothing remotely unusual had happened.

“Good,” she replied calmly. “Now, unless anyone else would like to discuss my domestic affairs, I believe we were talking about the future of october publishing.”