The Devil Wears Prada : Blood on the Runway
The heavy mahogany doors of the Priestly estate didn’t creak; they glided with the same silent intimidation as their late owner. Miranda Priestly had died as she lived: flawlessly, leaving the fashion world in a state of catatonic grief. But the real shock came during the reading of the will. "To Andrea Sachs," the lawyer had intoned, "I leave my Manhattan townhouse, the estate in France, and the controlling interest in the Elias-Clarke empire." Emily Charlton had waited for her name. She had waited for the "And to my loyal assistant..." that never came. Instead, Miranda had left Emily a vintage Chanel suit and a firm "good luck." For three weeks, Emily simmered in a cocktail of Gin and pure, unadulterated vitriol. She had spent years fetching lattes and dodging stilettos, while "Six," the girl who didn't know how to spell Gabbana, was now the most powerful woman in New York. Emily tried the legal route first. She filed injunctions ...