November 12, 2025, started like any other bleak Wednesday in late-stage capitalism. Then, without warning, 20th Century Studios detonated a forty-seven-second teaser that felt less like marketing and more like an act of war. By the time the closing title card faded to black, the clip had already seized 185 million views, shattered TikTok servers, and sent the entire fashion internet into cardiac arrest. This wasn’t nostalgia. This was a public execution, and Miranda Priestly was both victim and executioner.

Almost twenty years have passed since Andy Sachs stumbled into Runway magazine clutching a résumé and a lumpy cerulean sweater that would unknowingly change her life forever. The world she entered in 2006 no longer exists. Print advertising is a corpse. Vogue just laid off another 180 people. Shein is valued higher than LVMH and Richemont combined. The front row at Fashion Week now seats teenagers who can’t spell Balenciaga but can sell $40 million worth of handbags before breakfast. And somewhere in a glass-walled corner office on West 57th Street, Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief, cultural deity, and the closest thing the industry has to a living god, is watching her kingdom die in real time.

That is the battlefield The Devil Wears Prada 2 walks onto, heels first, no apologies.

David Frankel is back in the director’s chair. Aline Brosh McKenna has returned to sharpen the knives she first honed in 2006. And Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, and Emily Blunt have all signed on for what insiders are already calling the most vicious workplace bloodbath ever committed to film.

The story begins ninety days before Runway magazine files for bankruptcy. Condé Nast has put the title up for fire-sale acquisition. Luxury brands are diverting every marketing dollar to influencers who can shift product in thirty seconds flat. Miranda’s once-iron grip on taste itself is slipping, and the board has delivered an ultimatum: modernize or be replaced. The woman who once made grown CEOs cry with a raised eyebrow now needs money she doesn’t have and power she can no longer command.

Enter the two women who know her better than anyone alive.

Emily Charlton, once the beleaguered first assistant who lived in terror of Miranda’s quiet “That’s all,” has spent the last two decades climbing. She now runs global brand partnerships for a Luxembourg-based digital luxury behemoth that owns half the apps on your phone. Emily holds Runway’s entire advertising budget in the palm of her perfectly manicured hand, and she is more than happy to squeeze.

Andy Sachs, meanwhile, has built an ethical-luxury empire from the ground up. Her company is backed by the kind of Silicon Valley billionaires who wear Patagonia vests to Davos and cry about sustainability while flying private. Andy’s brand is everything Runway is not: transparent, cruelty-free, carbon-negative, and infuriatingly profitable. She can save Miranda’s magazine with a single phone call, but the price is control. And Miranda Priestly has never surrendered control of anything in her life.

What follows is nine rounds of psychological warfare played out across boardrooms, Milan runways, the Met Gala steps, and one extraordinarily tense dinner at Le Bernardin where nobody touches the food.

This is not a reunion. This is a reckoning.

Meryl Streep has reportedly never been colder, crueler, or more heartbreaking. Sources who sat in on table reads say there were moments when even the crew forgot they were watching acting. Anne Hathaway, now in her forties and finally free of the ingenue trap, plays Andy with the coiled menace of someone who learned every lesson Miranda ever taught her and then weaponized them. And Emily Blunt, sweet, funny Emily Blunt, has created a character so deliciously vicious that test audiences applauded when she eviscerated an entire room of executives without raising her voice.

The supporting players are just as lethal. Kenneth Branagh appears as Miranda’s third husband, a once-great photographer going blind and bitter. Simone Ashley is the 23-year-old influencer who can crash a stock price with one Instagram story. Lucy Liu plays the venture capitalist circling Runway like a shark. Every new face feels dangerous, because in this world, everyone is.

The fashion itself is a character, and it is furious. Miranda wears nothing created after 2010, a walking museum of the world she refuses to admit is gone. Emily is draped in quiet-luxury armor that costs more than most people’s rent. Andy’s wardrobe is sustainable, yes, but so sharp it could slice glass. The costume department reportedly spent twenty-eight million dollars making sure every look told a story the dialogue never had to.

Filming took place during actual Fashion Weeks in New York and Milan, and the crew witnessed the apocalypse they were dramatizing. Empty front rows. Editors sobbing in the ladies’ room. A legendary designer screaming at a sixteen-year-old TikToker who had just been paid more for one post than the designer made from his entire couture collection. Reality and fiction blurred so completely that at one point a real-life publisher asked if she could option the script for her own magazine’s funeral.

The final confrontation reportedly takes place on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the first Monday in May, theme: “Print Is Dead.” What happens there has been locked down tighter than nuclear codes. All anyone will say is that when the lights came up after the first test screening, half the audience was crying and the other half was ready to burn their Vogue archives in the parking lot.

This movie is not fan service. It is not a warm hug from 2006. It is a mirror held up to an industry eating itself alive, and the reflection is hideous.

When the original Devil Wears Prada premiered, it captured the moment fashion became the dominant religion of popular culture. Twenty years later, the sequel arrives at the exact second that religion is collapsing under its own weight. And Miranda Priestly, terrifying, magnificent, tragically human Miranda Priestly, is about to discover what happens when even the devil has to choose between survival and soul.

May 1, 2026. Mark the date. Buy the ticket. Take the ride.

Because this time, there will be no survivors. Only icons.