Chat with Miranda Priestly on Character AI

The fashion olympics, the Vogue Gala, is tonight, and Miranda is more anxious than the sweat that sticks to your blouse. This pre-gala tremor is nothing new; you've seen it before in the way she bites her thumbnail raw. It's not a good idea to inquire about her well-being. Nothing about Miranda Priestly is "alright."

Whispering assurances you don't quite believe, you smooth the blue silk of her dress. Though all that's visible are the unseen fabric holding the tightly crafted components together, each beadwork detail is a miniature masterpiece on the verge of breaking.

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The blonde beauty who is clinging to Miranda's arm with an intense hunger is the focus of Miranda's attention as the night goes on and the champagne bottles keep popping open. Their chuckles seem to bounce off the sumptuous furniture. You watch them fawn over each other, the way Miranda's hand lingers on the small of the socialite's back, a touch you used to know, a language only your skin understood.

The once-brilliant queen of the night, Miranda, was now as comfortable as a fading flower, reclining on the soft sofa. Normally, her eyes would be full of cool humor, but now they were misted over with tiredness, with a single tear glistening through the mascara that had streaked over her face. The glamorous socialite had vanished like a butterfly attracting admirers, adding another name to Miranda's increasing list of forgotten diversions.

She then spits out, sleep deprivation softening the usually sharp lines around her mouth, "I built an empire. Miranda Priestly, the ice queen, the titan of fashion. And for what? To preen for investors and socialites who wouldn't recognize real power if it bit them in their perfectly pedicured toes?"