The light at the intersection of Park Avenue and 72nd Street turned green, thirty cabbies laid on the horn in unison, and Emma Nolan swore, stamped on the clutch, downshifted, hit the gas, and lurched forward, trying to keep her sunglasses on her face with one hand and prevent the dog kennel in the back from sliding off the leather seat with the other, thus leaving a notable lack of them for driving. She gripped the wheel in her miniskirt-clad knees, trying to avoid snapping off the stencil heel on the Manolo Blahniks (it would be the third pair this month, and as generous as Sidney had been with the contents of the Closet, promising to transform her from an ugly duckling into a gorgeous swan, she didn't want to test his forbearance unduly). In theory, she did know how to drive a stick shift, having learned in her dad's decades-old brown pickup on the forgiving rural roads of Storybrooke, Maine, but as she had biked or bussed or walked everywhere in Providence (better known as Yuppietown, USA) she had gotten out of the habit. Braving the mean streets of Manhattan at four o'clock in the afternoon on a Friday, in an Aston Martin DB9 Volante convertible that she had been driven all the way up to 135th in the Bronx to pick up, with a freshly spayed bulldog puppy in the back, while trying to get the further forty blocks back to the Elias-Clark building in fifteen minutes, was entirely something else.

The iPhone in the front seat, or which had at least formerly been in the front seat, was still buzzing insistently from where it had fallen onto the floor at Emma's abrupt acceleration. She leaned down, groping for it among the detritus of papers, glancing around for any cops, NYC's draconian policy on such things being well known. But it was still chirping away, and between the NYPD or what awaited her if she didn't pick up, she would brave the precinct headquarters and the possible force-feeding of bologna. With a shaky hand, she swiped it open, wedging it between shoulder and ear. "I've got the car and the dog," she panted. "Traffic's hell."

"Em-ma!" Elsa shrieked. "I have Regina on the phone right now, she and B-DAD are supposed to be leaving for JFK in twenty minutes! They need it now!"

"I'm not going to make it!" Emma switched the phone to the other ear, grabbed a cigarette out of her purse, and fumbled to light it. "Have them call the car service. Fuck – sorry, not you, fucking look when you change lanes, asshat – because – shit, not another one – "

"They won't call the car service," Elsa informed her, with something approaching hysteria. "Just drive faster, all right?"

"I can't turn this thing into the Batmobile. It's four on Friday in fucking Manhattan and they went late with the repairs." Emma gritted her teeth around her cigarette, still fumbling with the lighter, thinking that at this point she would just shoot up nicotine like heroin if need be. "Just – tell Mr. L, okay?"

"This fundraiser has been scheduled for months. Their charter takes off in two hours and they need to be in L.A. by eleven PM tonight. Tonight!"

Emma groaned, repressing the urge to point out that they could always call and reschedule the charter. She had already learned that that was simply not the way Regina Mills, Evil Queen of the fashion world and editor-in-chief of Runway magazine, was accustomed to operate. Even appealing to Mr. L – Robin Locksley, her, what, second husband – no, third, after Daniel Stableman the hometown boy and Leopold White, the aging multiplatinum rock star – was not going to help. Nicknamed B-DAD (short for Blind, Deaf, and Dumb) by his wife's long-suffering staff, who had no idea how someone as genuinely nice, thoughtful and caring as him could stand being married to her, he was not going to get in her way. There was simply no way on planet Earth to get back to their penthouse, drop off the dog, and make it to Elias-Clark in the miserly amount of time she had. "Call the car service," Emma repeated, as if this would somehow have an effect.

"I can't tell her to do that!" Elsa sounded frantic. "I – hold on, the other line – "

With that, the phone went dead, and Emma grabbed the wheel just in time to swerve as an open-top tour bus barreled into the lane ahead of her. She was close to tears, had just indeed broken her third pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos, had stained her skirt with cigarette ash, and was going to be reamed from head to heel for possibly causing Regina to miss her Los Angeles fundraiser gala, just because she refused the perfectly simple expedient of, you know, actually taking advantage of the Lincoln Town Car fleet that waited to carry her anywhere, at her beck and call. The tray of Starbucks balanced precariously in the cup holder had gone lukewarm, and everyone in the world knew there was no sin greater than serving Regina Mills her tall skinny vanilla latte at a degree less than one-sixty-five Fahrenheit, precisely.

When they told her that this was the job a million girls would die for, Emma had had no idea that they meant it literally.

When she had arrived in the Big Apple, freshly armed with a degree in English from Brown University and the universal naïve belief shared by liberal arts graduates that they were going to move to New York, live in some trendy hipster loft, take expertly filtered photos of cappuccinos on Instagram, and work in publishing until their Great American Novel hit the bestseller list, this was certainly not what, or where, Emma had expected she would end up. She embarked on a one-woman marathon across the city, leaving her résumé with an endless succession of politely disinterested or openly disdainful hiring managers, at magazine headquarters and publishing firms and literary agencies until she had them memorized in alphabetical order. She wasn't quite as optimistic as to think that she was going to land a gig at The New Yorker or The Atlantic right out of school, but nor had she expected all her pavement-pounding to result in an interview at the Elias-Clark Building for the vaguely titled job of "Assistant" at Runway magazine. Of course she had heard about Runway. Everyone had. But working there…?

She also knew it was a great opportunity, that doors (or so she was promised) would magically swing open to speed her to the hallowed halls of her dream job. But she really should have listened to the strained note in the HR lady's voice, her artificial perkiness suggesting (now that Emma thought of it) that she was desperate to hire someone, anyone immediately and get her boss off her back. Having now had a long and miserable acquaintance with said boss, Emma knew that had been the understatement of the century.

Regina Mills was indisputably a terrific editor, who knew how to put together a magazine and create a culture around it that had made her who she was. She was also, to put it simply, hell on heels. Reality made no difference to her. If she wanted a fresh box of custom Hermes white silk scarves, she would have it, even if Hermes had stopped making that scarf six months ago. If her specially ordered lunch contained hollandaise sauce instead of béarnaise sauce, heads would roll. If she admired an antique dresser at one of the countless such establishments in New York City, Emma was expected to know which store that was and to have the address written down. If it was picking up the convertible and the dog, Manhattan rush-hour traffic was immaterial. A few weeks ago, even Regina had topped herself – she had called Emma, brusquely ordered that her sons wanted to see the new Avengers movie, and hung up. When Emma had made the mistake of thinking this sounded like an easy request, just ordered it off Netflix and had two copies of the DVD FedExed to the Mills-Locksley residence, she had received an incoherent screaming call from Regina two hours later. They had already seen that one. They wanted to see the new one.

It was only then that the full reality struck. Regina wanted her to somehow acquire a copy of the unfinished, unreleased movie from Marvel Studios. And get them to send it to her. In her house. For Henry and Roland to watch. Furthermore, Regina had ended the call by threatening that if Emma failed her in this, she could just not bother to come into work on Monday, could turn in her Runway badge and forget about any kind of a reference.

Thus, instead of spending her Friday night chowing down on takeout and laughing at old Friends episodes with Ruby, Emma had spent it in a panic, cold-calling anyone she could find on the Internet with any conceivable connection to the movie. She had bluffed her way past countless gatekeepers, been hung up on even more, and finally ended up on the phone with some junior producer whose ears pricked up when she said that she worked for Regina Mills, yes that Regina Mills, and who agreed to transfer her up the food chain. Two hours later, hoarse, shaking, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and having pulled all kinds of sympathy cards, Emma had finally gotten them to agree to send out a rough print of the film, like Pixar had done with Up! for that little girl whose last wish was to see it. She didn't know how to explain to whatever kindly soul had saved her job that this was far from it. Just a pair of spoiled rich kids who had to have everything they wanted. And then, of course, she heard no word of thanks from Regina for it.

Just six more months, Emma reminded herself. Just six more months. She could do this. Even if her parents were starting to sound more and more concerned in their Sunday phone calls, clearly worrying that she was falling into the trap of small-town girl goes to the big city and loses herself in the blinding lights. Since New York was by no means a one-income (and sometimes not even a two-income) housing market, she had tried to persuade Neal to move with her, but he was still perfectly happy living rent-free at his daddy's big mansion in Storybrooke. He didn't need to come with her and hence hadn't, as that would also require him to get a job. He'd had one at the jewelry store, once upon a time, but that hadn't gone so well.

Since her boyfriend was being no help, therefore, Emma had had to embark on the absolutely horrible process of finding roommates on Craigslist. She'd finally wound up with Mulan and Aurora, who sublet a tiny fifth-story flat on 70th and Lexington, right by CUNY Hunter. She paid $1000 a month for a room that was barely large enough to fit her bed, a shower that took ten minutes to run warm, and neighbors who had noisy sex in the apartment above regularly enough to set her clock to. Mulan was a slender, quiet Chinese girl who had graduated from MIT with something like three degrees and was now being used as slave labor by a tech startup, and Aurora was earnestly white-girl saving the world by whatever hippie-dippie save-the-children-and-the-whales nonprofit she commuted to in Brooklyn. Emma thought they might be lesbians, but wasn't sure. Besides, Aurora had a boyfriend, Philip, who was always over on the weekends. To judge from the sounds coming from the bedroom, all three of them might be in some kind of ménage a trois. She had already submitted several of their conversations to Overheard in New York.

And so, amid all of this, here she was. Emma Nolan, button-down shirt and jeans kind of girl, Emma Nolan the wanted to write serious public-interest pieces or literary fiction girl, Emma Nolan the I'll-go-into-a-mall-when I'm dead girl, working at Runway. She'd nearly lost her job the first day as well, committing the unforgivable sin of turning up in plain black flats and a no-name skirt, as well as twenty pounds heavier than the size-zero waifs that floated through the white-glass halls. They had side-eyed her and whispered behind their hands the entire day, nearly suffered heart failure when Emma ordered the soup and a baguette in the dining hall rather than a salad of lightly tossed iceberg lettuce and a few sips of water, and otherwise acted as if they were watching someone commit slow and torturous suicide before their eyes. Welcome to the club.

It was Elsa, Regina's other assistant, who finally took her aside. Elsa was run-of-the-mill Runway: a gorgeous, svelte Nordic knockout with a long white-blonde braid and legs that went on for miles, made even longer by her four-inch heels. She had not troubled to conceal her complete and total disdain at the idea that Emma could ever do this job, and her training had mostly consisted of ordering Emma flat out that no matter what, no matter the hour, no matter if the fucking building was burning down around their ears, the phone must be answered. No bathroom breaks, if need be. No walking too far to the other side of the office. Just there, chained to a phone, in case it should happen to ring, and Regina Mills be on the other end.

So, out of the pure need to survive, Emma had learned. How to get Regina's coffee. How and where exactly to place the look book on the occasion she had to drop it off at the penthouse (no looking, no speaking, making no noise and pretending she was not there, like Harry in his cupboard under the stairs). How to wrap countless bottles of champagne in the same white paper and tie the silver ribbon with the same flourish every time. And even how to dress, though that was more thanks to Sidney Glass, Runway's creative director and host of his own who-wants-to-be-America's-next-top-model show, who had taken her under his wing and given her a few more "suitable" pieces. A five-hundred-dollar silk tee. A thousand-dollar cashmere skirt, shoes and handbags more than several months' rent. Just little trifles he kept on hand, for those he dubbed fashion disasters, or fashion nuclear waste dumps. She had fallen into the latter category.

Sometimes, Emma supposed grudgingly, sometimes, it was marginally less than terrible. She had forged an odd sort of half-friendship with Regina's older son, Henry, who she was often ordered to pick up from his exclusive private Upper East Side prep school and ferry over to his equally high-priced therapist, Dr. Hopper. Regina was convinced he had issues. So far as Emma could tell, he didn't have any that growing up with her for a mother hadn't been responsible for, and she was the one Henry tended to confide in. He was a sweet kid. She worried about him.

Then there were the other perks. A few months ago she'd walked into an elevator and realized that the other occupant was Tom Hiddleston, on his way to an interview with GQ. He gallantly complimented her, told her she had lovely eyes, and when he found out she was an English major, happily chatted with her about Shakespeare for fifteen minutes in the hall and was almost late to his appointment. She'd quietly hyperventilated for about two hours afterward, only for Elsa to give her a cold look (Elsa definitely had an Ice Queen vibe to her as well, whether she was trying to emulate Regina or it just came naturally) and inform her that it was déclassé to act that way about celebrities. She was a professional, not a swooning schoolgirl.

Emma had been more than slightly miffed by this, as "swooning schoolgirl" was about the least appropriate descriptor of her behavior; she was the level-headed, practical, cynical, guarded one here, not the primped and polished socialite who had never done a day of real work in her life and was living on her parents' trust fund. She did not swoon, over handsome, famous men or otherwise. Despite Neal's disappointments, and her growing feeling that she would officially have to break up with him by Christmas, she had not come here on the prowl. In the least.

Thank you very much.

By the time she had handed off the whimpering puppy, left the car with the valet, and staggered back into the office, it was almost five-thirty and Elsa was waiting for her with a withering expression. "Do you have any idea what you almost did?"

"Yeah." Emma sank on the white leather couch, pulling off her other pump and rubbing at her aching foot. "Did they…"

"They called the car service," Elsa said, in a tone of voice suggesting that Emma had personally just forced Regina and Mr. L to eat dinner at Denny's. "They called the car service!"

"At least they got there, right?"

"She is not pleased with you. By the way." Elsa wheeled around and dug in her purse. "Gold called. Regina wants you to match the swath he's looking for."

"Wh – what?" The most iconic, bad-tempered and notoriously reclusive fashion designer in New York or possibly the world, who went by only one name like every branded celebrity, Karl Lagerfeld without the Botox or the German accent, Gold only created for the best of the best, and was currently designing Regina a new couture gown for the flagship opening of Runway Paris in three months. "That's his job! He's the one making it! I don't know anything about that!"

Elsa made an impatient harrumphing noise, reached into the purse again, and produced a flat manila envelope, which she opened as reverently as if it contained the Holy Grail. Pulling out a scrap of fine organdy silk, she handed it to Emma. "Deal with it. You've already made me stay forty minutes past when I was supposed to leave, and I have plans with Will tonight." As she was talking, she was thumbing her phone open, dialing. "Hey, baby, it's me. Yeah, I'm just leaving the office now. Someone couldn't do her job again. All right, see you soon."

Emma remained where she was, feeling two inches tall, until Elsa had swept out the door in a whirl of silk scarves, impeccable makeup, and heels. Then she quietly crept into the ladies', shut the door, sat on the toilet, and screamed.

A Saturday spent with almost no success trying to trace the origins of an anonymous piece of cloth that could have come from the most exclusive high-fashion house in the world, or from a street vendor in Queens, was interrupted at about six o'clock, as Emma was lying on her bed and wondering how much effort it would take to drown herself in the bathtub. Once more, it was Elsa. "There's that little party I was supposed to attend tonight for Regina, but our plans changed and we're going up to the Hamptons instead. You need to go."

"I – what? What little party? Where?" Emma scrubbed at her gritty eyes.

"For Runway," Elsa said, in her usual tone of voice – that used to deal with small children or mental patients. "At the Met."

"What – you don't mean the Met Gala?" Emma sat bolt upright. "I don't – Elsa, I don't – "

"You. Are. Not. Missing. This. It is the Costume Institute, it is the event for fashion in New York City, and if someone from Runway isn't there, can you even imagine? We'd be laughingstocks. Call Sidney right now if you need a dress. I've called people to get you on the list. The car's coming around in an hour. All right, don't embarrass us. Bye."

Emma sat staring at her phone as if it was on the verge of turning into a live snake, then jumped up and flew into a panic. After three terrified calls to Sidney, he finally picked up, promised to be by with the fashion ambulance in ten, and was knocking on the door of their dismal apartment in nine and a half. After looking around and making catty comments about Mulan and Aurora's taste in décor, he opened the portable wardrobe and began matching out potential gowns. Once Emma had discouraged him from a slit-up-to-there black slinky number and something that she was fairly sure had once belonged to Lady GaGa, they settled on a floor-length, strapless, shimmering-cerise gown (otherwise known as deep red). Emma had to admit, it looked terrific, as well as doing amazing things to her boobs, and by that point Sidney's minions were marching in to tend to her hair and makeup, styling, upsweeping, pinching, polishing, and otherwise turning her this way and that in a whirlwind. Fifty-nine minutes after receiving the call, she was walking downstairs gingerly, getting gawking looks from her neighbors, and being helped into the waiting Town Car.

She spent the entire ride pinching herself, and when the car pulled up in the rotunda, couldn't help a little smile. She'd never done this before, gone to a ball like a princess – it was almost like a fairytale. The chauffeur got the door for her, she walked up the broad steps among a swirl of glitterati, athletes, celebrities, musicians, actors, directors. Someone checked her at the top and let her in, and she stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to do or where to go. All she knew was never to talk to anyone who might even appear to be a Page Six gossip reporter, but what else was she supposed to do? Go around to anyone who might be interested in working for Runway in the future? Just pose for pictures so she could prove to Elsa and Regina that she had in fact been here?

A waiter swooped up with a champagne flute, and Emma took it. Some actor she recognized vaguely from that one TV show glanced over at her appreciatively, and she lowered her eyelashes, feeling an odd little thrill of delight. She milled around the room as best she could, wondering how long she had to stay for appearances' sake, and if it was still possible to get home before the wee hours, take all this off and crawl into bed and wear sweatpants and –

"Quite some party, isn't it?"

Emma jumped, almost spilling her champagne, then looked left, looked right, and felt her eyes go very, very wide. She managed to say nothing else, or otherwise act in the way that Elsa had found so objectionable over Hiddles, but her heart had suddenly started going about a thousand miles an hour. Of all the people she had thought to run into in the course of this job, somehow he was the only one who never crossed her mind.

Killian Jones was very young, very happening, and very, very handsome. She remembered from all those "Five Things To Know About Our Favorite New Literary Heartthrob!" articles that he had been born in Ireland but mostly raised in Britain, hence the cut-glass London accent. A few years older than her, he'd burst onto the scene with a debut novel, The Lost Boys, that had all the major publishing houses practically fighting each other mano-a-mano for the rights. A movie adaptation with Robert Downey Jr. was already in the works. He had just finished a master's degree in English at Yale University, and he looked… like… that. Black silk button-down shirt left casually open at the throat, a waistcoat, dark blue boot-cut jeans, leather loafers, rings and earrings that made him look like a dashing pirate of the high seas. Black hair, blue eyes, perpetual scruff, and that face. Emma and Ruby, bored one night, had hunted across the internet for a bad picture of him. They hadn't found one yet. And here he was… talking to… her.

"Good evening," Emma squeaked. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too, love." He grinned. "You looked a bit lost."

"I… ah… yeah." Was she supposed to compliment him on his book, ask him how the new one was going? The buzz around it was that he was a new James Joyce, but one that people could actually read. (There had been a time when Emma considered doing her senior thesis at Brown on Finnegan's Wake, which she had luckily been talked out of.) "I'm Emma Nolan."

"Killian Jones," he replied promptly, as if she somehow didn't know that, and they shook. "How'd you end up here on a perfectly good Saturday night?"

"I… work at Runway." She didn't need to add anything else. "My boss is out of town and the other assistant was supposed to come, but she ended up going to the Hamptons with her boyfriend instead. So I got recruited."

"What, you're telling me you'd rather spend your night doing something else than hanging out with all these twits?" He waved a hand at their serried surroundings. "Not sure how I got ambushed into it either, but here we are, eh? Can I get you another drink?"

"I'm fine." Emma was on her guard. What he probably wasn't saying was that he'd come here in search of a gorgeous young starlet or two – everyone knew that he was very single – and, she reminded herself, she was still technically with Neal. She definitely wasn't planning to be another checkmark on his conquest wall. But on the other hand, Neal had been so lazy about answering her calls and texts recently that she almost didn't care if he saw a nice big picture of her on a drop-dead gorgeous author's arm. She smiled, a bit coquettishly. "What about you?"

"I've taken care of myself, love, don't worry. So tell me, do you like working there?"

"It's…" Emma hesitated, about to give him her stock answer that it was a job a million girls would die for, but something stopped her. "It's only six more months."

"That bad?" He evaluated her intently with those unsettling blue eyes of his. "Aye, I reckon so. That Mills woman… heard all sorts of stories about her."

"They're probably all true," Emma said before she could stop herself, just so relieved that she could be honest with someone, anyone, about this. "And more."

Killian made a disapproving sound. "Is it what you want to be doing?"

"No." God, it was silly to say this to an author, he'd think she was just trying to catch onto his coattails or flatter him or something. "I want… to write. Real things. Stories. Books. Novels. Non-fiction."

"So why don't you?"

"I do, I just… I need to pay the bills somehow, and this was the only job I could get, and…"

"Here." Killian reached into his back pocket, fished out his leather wallet, and handed her a plain white card, embossed with copperplate type. "That's my personal email. Send me some of your best bits, and I'll pass them along to my agent to look at."

Emma stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack, love." He nodded to her encouragingly. "Go on, take it."

Still with fumbling fingers, she stashed it in her beaded clutch, and looked out at the broad marble floor, lit with thousands of glittering chandeliers. A string quartet had started up – this was called the Met Ball as well – and a few couples were taking stately turns across the floor, while others perused the silent-auction table and the hors d'ouevre tray. Just as Emma was wondering how on earth to say something back to that, Killian offered her his arm. "Would my lady care for a dance?"

He had to be joking. "What? I don't even –"

"Come on." He took her by the hand and led her out. "First rule is, pick a partner who knows what he's doing."

With no other recourse, Emma put her hand on his shoulder, and he took her around the waist with one arm, then grasped her free hand in the other. The string quartet was playing a lively waltz, and he guided her smoothly into the music, one-two-three one-two-three, sweeping her and turning her, going down on one knee as she circled him, caught up with the rest of the dancers. She had to admit, she gave into the sensation of being lifted and swung in his strong arms, the way the steps brought them close together, the warmth of him, the solid masculine presence, the way she could smell his aftershave when her head tucked against her neck, the way it felt right to be there with him, and that scared her. She flubbed a step or two here and there, which he evidently found amusing to judge from his idiotic grin, and she glared at him. "Watch the mockery. I think I'm actually getting the hang of this."

"Oh no. I'm not laughing at you. What I'm saying, my lady – " they came to a halt in the music, took hands, and bowed – "is that you appear to be a natural."

She opened her mouth in surprise, found nothing to say, and shut it. They were flushed from the exertion, retreating to get something to drink, and while she still wanted to get home eventually, it suddenly seemed less important. They remained side by side while they sipped, and when another young lady (in Emma's opinion, far prettier than her) swanned up to Killian and asked if perhaps he'd like to dance with her too, he dismissed her more or less cursorily and turned his attention back to Emma. They danced together again, wandered around people-watching as he told her amusing and dirty gossip he'd heard about them, and by the end of the night, Emma had not even noticed the time passing. Nor had he, apparently. "So, Miss Nolan. The belle of the ball, and you weren't even planning to be here? But I can quite say I am most glad you are."

"I… thanks." For the first time since she'd started this job at Runway, the nights and days and weeks and months of it, Emma began to wonder if it might have actually been worth it. She glanced down awkwardly, smoothing the fall of her skirt, which didn't need it. "Mr. Jones."

"Call me Killian, please." He paused, almost hesitantly, but she couldn't imagine a man like that being anything other than smooth as fuck with the ladies. "So… may I see you again? My… my mobile number's on the card. Phone or text, as you like."

"I don't know." Walls, red flags, went up again. "I'm so busy with Regina, with everything… I wouldn't have time. I really wouldn't."

"Ah." He nodded. "Well, darling, I am a patient man. So if you ever change your mind…?"

With that, he picked up her hand and administered a quick, courtly kiss like some old-fashioned gentleman, and with one more glance over his shoulder, departed. She watched him go, longer than she felt she should, and only then could she make herself head down the stairs, Cinderella fleeing the ball before her finery evaporated and her coach turned into a pumpkin, and crawl into the air-conditioned relief of the Town Car.

She leaned against the leather as they pulled away, into the city that never slept; the lights were still on, the subways still rattling. Tomorrow was Sunday, she was supposed to have it off. Supposed to try to prepare herself for the hell-week sure to come.

She was definitely not doing anything stupid like calling Killian Jones.

Definitely not.