Revenge Wears Prada: The Devil Returns. Lauren Weisberger

would recognize that voice anywhere. But what was Max doing there? He was away that weekend, upstate somewhere, for a reason she couldn’t quite remember. Wasn’t he? She stopped and turned, searching for him.

       Over here, Andy!

      And then she spotted him. Her fiancé, with his thick dark hair and piercing green eyes and rugged good looks, was sitting astride an enormous white horse. Andy didn’t particularly like horses ever since she’d fallen from one in second grade and shattered her right wrist, but this horse looked friendly enough. Never mind that Max was riding a white horse in midtown Manhattan in the middle of a blizzard – Andy was so ecstatic to see him, she didn’t even think to question it.

      He dismounted with the ease of a practiced rider, and Andy tried to remember if he’d ever mentioned playing polo. In three long strides he was at her side, enveloping her in the warmest, most delicious embrace imaginable, and she felt her whole body relax as she collapsed into him.

      ‘My poor baby,’ he murmured, paying neither the horse nor the staring pedestrians any mind. ‘You must be freezing out here.’

      The sound of a phone – that phone – rang out between them, and Andy scrambled to answer it.

      ‘Ahn-dre-ah! I don’t know what part of “immediately” you don’t understand, but—’

      Andy’s whole body was shaking as Miranda’s shrill voice drilled into her ear, but before she could move a single muscle, Max plucked the phone from her fingertips, tapped ‘end’ on the screen, and tossed it with perfect aim directly into the puddle that had previously claimed Andy’s feet. ‘You’re done with her, Andy,’ he said, wrapping a large down comforter around her shoulders.

      ‘Ohmigod, Max, how could you do that? I’m so late! I haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet, and she’s going to kill me if I’m not back there with her lunch in—’

      ‘Shhh,’ he said, touching two fingers to Andy’s lips. ‘You’re safe now. You’re with me.’

      ‘But it’s already ten after one, and if she doesn’t—’

      Max reached both hands under Andy’s arms and lifted her effortlessly into the air before gently depositing her sidesaddle on top of the white horse, whose name, according to Max, was Bandit.

      She sat in shocked silence as Max removed both her soaking wet shoes and tossed them to the curb. From his duffel bag – the one he carried everywhere – Max pulled out Andy’s favorite fleece-lined bootie-style slippers and slid them onto her raw, red feet. He settled the down comforter over her lap, tied his own cashmere scarf over her head and around her neck, and handed her a steel thermos of what he announced was specially sourced dark hot chocolate. Her favorite. Then in one impressively fluid motion, he mounted the horse and picked up the reins. Before she could say another word, they began to trot down Seventh Avenue at a good clip, the police escort in front of them clearing the way of traffic and pedestrians.

      It was such a relief to be warm and loved, but Andy couldn’t get rid of the panic she felt at not completing a Miranda-assigned task. She’d be fired, that much was sure, but what if it was worse than that? What if Miranda was so livid that she used her limitless influence to make sure Andy never got another job? What if she decided to teach her assistant a lesson and show her exactly what happened when one simply walked out – not once but twice – on Miranda Priestly?

      ‘I have to go back!’ Andy shouted into the wind as their trot became a run. ‘Max, turn around and take me back! I can’t …’

      ‘Andy! Can you hear me, sweetheart? Andy!’

      Her eyes flew open. The only thing she felt was the pounding of her own heart as it raced in her chest.

      ‘You’re okay, baby. You’re safe now. It was just a dream. And from the looks of it, a really horrible one,’ Max crooned, cupping her cheek with his cool palm.

      She pushed herself up and saw the early morning sun streaming in from the room’s window. There was no snow, no sleet, no horse. Her feet were bare but warm under the buttery soft sheets, and Max’s body felt strong and safe pressed against her own. She inhaled deeply, and the scent of Max – his breath, his skin, his hair – filled her nostrils.

      It was only a dream.

      She glanced around the bedroom. She still felt half asleep, fuzzy from being awakened at the wrong time. Where were they? What was happening? It took a glance at the door, from which hung a freshly steamed and utterly gorgeous Monique Lhuillier gown, before she remembered that the unfamiliar room was actually a bridal suite – her bridal suite – and she was the bride. Bride! A rush of adrenaline caused her to sit straight up in bed so quickly that Max exclaimed in surprise. ‘What were you dreaming about, baby? I hope it didn’t have anything to do with today.’

      ‘Not at all. Just old ghosts.’ She leaned over to kiss him as Stanley, their Maltese, wedged himself between them. ‘What time is it? Wait – what are you doing here?’

      Max gave her that devilish grin she loved and climbed out of bed. As always, Andy couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders and tight stomach. He had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, only better – not too hard and muscled, but perfectly tight and fit.

      ‘It’s six. I came in a couple hours ago,’ he said as he pulled on a pair of flannel pajama pants. ‘I got lonely.’

      ‘Well, you better get out of here before someone sees you. Your mother had some whole big thing about us not seeing each other before the wedding.’

      Max pulled Andy out of bed and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Then don’t tell her. But I wasn’t going to go all day before seeing you.’

      Andy feigned irritation, but she was secretly glad he’d sneaked in for a quick cuddle, especially in light of her nightmare. ‘Fine,’ she sighed dramatically. ‘But get back to your room without being seen! I’m taking Stanley out for a walk before the masses descend.’

      Max pushed his pelvis against hers. ‘It’s still early. I bet if we’re fast we can—’

      Andy laughed. ‘Go!’

      He kissed her again, tenderly this time, and let himself out of the suite.

      Andy gathered Stanley in her arms, kissed him squarely on his wet nose, and said, ‘This is it, Stan!’ He excitedly woofed and tried to escape, and she had to let him go so he wouldn’t scratch her arms to shreds. For a few lovely seconds she managed to forget the dream, but it quickly reappeared again in all its detailed realness. Andy took a deep breath and her pragmatism kicked in: wedding-day jitters. A classic anxiety dream. Nothing more. Nothing less.

      She ordered breakfast from room service and fed Stanley bits of scrambled eggs and toast while fielding excited phone calls from her mother, sister, Lily, and Emily – all of whom were champing at the bit for her to begin preparations – and leashed Stanley up for a quick walk in the brisk October air before the day got too frantic. It was slightly embarrassing to wear the terry-cloth sweatpants with a hot-pink BRIDE emblazoned across the butt that she’d received at her bridal shower, but she was secretly proud, too. She jammed her hair into a baseball cap, laced up her sneakers, zipped up a Patagonia fleece, and miraculously made it out to the sprawling grounds of the Astor Courts Estate without seeing another living soul. Stanley bounded as happily as his little legs would allow, pulling her toward the tree line at the edge of the property, where the leaves had already changed into their fiery fall colors. They walked for almost thirty minutes, certainly long enough for everyone to wonder where she’d gone, and although the air was fresh and the rolling fields of the farm were beautiful and Andy felt the excited giddiness of her wedding day, she couldn’t get the image of Miranda out of her mind.

      How could this woman still haunt her? It had been nearly ten years since she bolted from Paris and her soul-destroying stint as Miranda’s assistant at Runway. She had grown so much since that dreaded year, hadn’t she? Everything had changed, and for the better: the early post-Runway years