Chapter Text
That was really stupid, Andy thought, the instant the phone vanished beneath the water’s surface. She had thrown it with such conviction, as if that single splash would erase months of exhaustion, humiliation, and compromise. A clean break, a dramatic finale. Only the adrenaline had already drained out of her, leaving behind nothing but the sharp ache of regret. She wasn’t some triumphant rebel striding away from tyranny—she was a girl stranded in Paris, without a working phone, without direction, and most damning of all, still thinking about Miranda.
Her footsteps slowed on the cobblestones. For a long moment she just stood there, heart hammering, breath uneven. God, what have I done?
It wasn’t long before the rhythm of town cars and flashing cameras drew her back. Miranda’s motorcade was impossible to miss—the sleek black car gliding toward the next presentation. Andy’s pulse betrayed her. Before she had time to argue with herself, she was moving, almost running, slipping into the current of assistants and stylists who orbited Miranda like satellites.
And then, impossibly, there she was again: Miranda Priestly, stepping out of the car in a sweep of dark silk, her presence bending the crowd around her. She didn’t even glance at Andy, didn’t acknowledge the fact that she had stormed off only half an hour ago. Miranda simply adjusted her sunglasses, murmured a faint, “Come along,” and Andy fell into step like a well-trained shadow.
The rest of the day blurred into one long parade of Parisian glamour. Haute couture houses with gilded doorways. White-walled salons where models glided silently under chandeliers. Photographers hovering at the edges, desperate for the moment Miranda raised a hand, narrowed her eyes, or—on rare occasions—offered the faintest approving smile. Andy followed, notebook-less, phone-less, but her mind buzzing with details: which dress Miranda lingered over, which designer she cut down with a single icy phrase, which assistant she waved away with that fatal flick of her fingers.
There was no seat assigned for Andy, no role for her to play, and yet she found herself slipping back into old instincts—catching a garment bag before it toppled, smoothing the fabric on a chair Miranda deigned to sit upon, intercepting a waiter to ensure her boss’s champagne was properly chilled. Each gesture small, automatic, humiliating in its way. But it felt necessary.
By evening, when the last fitting ended and the car doors shut them away from the Paris night, Andy was drained. Miranda’s silence filled the air, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside. Andy sat stiffly, waiting, dreading, hoping—until finally Miranda spoke.
“You’ll have your excuses prepared, I assume.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t anger either, just the inevitable acknowledgment of Andy’s stumble—the phone, the tantrum, the betrayal. And yet, here she was.
Andy swallowed hard. “Yes, Miranda.”
Miranda gave the barest nod, eyes still fixed on the window, and Andy felt the faintest sting of triumph twist against the shame. She had tried to leave. She had tried to cut the cord. But the truth was undeniable: Paris hadn’t let her go. Neither had Miranda.
Andy trailed Miranda up the marble steps, her mind churning. Every instinct told her to stay quiet, to keep playing the invisible shadow. But the silence between them felt suffocating, too loaded. She couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Miranda,” Andy started, her voice low, tentative. “I need to explain what happened back there.”
Miranda didn’t stop walking. Her heels clicked evenly against the floor, slicing through the soft murmur of French around them. Andy quickened her pace to match.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Andy continued, heat rising to her cheeks. “The phone, walking away—it was childish. I was frustrated and overwhelmed, but it wasn’t fair to you.” She winced at her own words, hating how small they sounded in the charged air of Paris fashion week.
Miranda gave no sign she was listening. No tilt of the head, no arch of an eyebrow. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, sweeping past a gaggle of photographers and into the car waiting curbside. Andy followed, her pulse hammering.
Inside, the car was hushed, insulated from the chaos outside. Andy took a breath, trying again. “I just—look, I know I don’t deserve another chance, but if I could just—”
“Enough.”
The word was soft, almost a whisper, but it cut sharper than any raised voice could have. Miranda finally turned, her eyes cool, unreadable in the dim interior. Andy’s stomach flipped.
“You will meet me in my hotel suite this evening.” Miranda’s tone was flat, imperious, as if she were assigning Andy another impossible task. “Nine o’clock. Do not be late.”
And just like that, her gaze shifted back to the window, conversation over.
Andy sat frozen, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wanted to ask why, wanted to press for some hint of what Miranda expected from her—but she knew better. The car rolled on through the streets of Paris, the city glittering outside, and Andy felt the weight of that summons settle into her chest.
By the time they pulled up to the next show, she wasn’t sure if she was more terrified or thrilled.
The rest of the afternoon moved on in a blur. Paris didn’t pause for Andy’s panic—the city unfurled in glittering storefronts, sleek salons, and fashion houses that seemed to gleam brighter under Miranda’s presence. Everywhere they went, heads turned. Designers nearly bent double trying to catch her approval. Models floated past like pale ghosts in silk and sequins. Miranda drifted through it all with her signature cool detachment, every nod and dismissive flick of her fingers making or breaking weeks of work.
Andy followed, carrying coats, intercepting coffee, smoothing fabric on a chair Miranda chose to occupy. It was muscle memory by now—automatic, instinctual. She blended into the choreography of Miranda’s entourage as though she had never tried to leave it.
But her thoughts…her thoughts refused to fall in line.
Nine o’clock. Her suite.
It looped over and over in her head, twisting into every possible shape. What could Miranda want? A private dressing down? The kind of brutal, quiet scolding that cut deeper than shouting ever could? Or—worse—was this some drawn-out firing, a final humiliation behind closed doors, where no one could watch Andy beg?
And yet another part of her whispered that it could be something else. Something less definable. Miranda had been merciless today, yes, but not cruel—not the way she could be when she wanted to punish. No icy remark about loyalty, no deliberate reminder that Andy was replaceable. Just silence. And then that summons.
Andy stole glances at Miranda throughout the day, searching for some clue. But Miranda’s face, as always, was unreadable, a mask carved from marble. She gave nothing away.
By the time the sun began to dip and Paris shimmered gold through the car windows, Andy’s nerves had tied themselves into knots. She smiled politely at waiters, nodded when other assistants spoke, but her stomach churned with every passing hour.
What could Miranda need from her, personally? And why in the privacy of her suite?
Andy pressed her palms against her knees, grounding herself. She told herself it was probably nothing—logistics, schedules, a final severing of ties. But she couldn’t shake the truth blooming in her chest like a dangerous secret.
She wanted it to be something more.
Later that afternoon, when Miranda was momentarily swept into a closed-door fitting, Andy slipped out into the hallway. She borrowed the receptionist’s phone with a rushed merci and ducked into a quiet corner. Her fingers hovered over the keypad before she finally punched in the number.
“Nigel?”
There was a pause, and then his familiar, velvety drawl: “Well, well, if it isn’t Judas herself. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Andy winced, but couldn’t help smiling. “Come on, Nigel. Don’t start.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’ve barely begun. Do you know how many therapy sessions I’ll have to endure because of you and that dreadful promotion switcheroo? And now here you are calling and sounding like you’ve swallowed a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and regret.”
Andy let out a short laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders just a little. “I just—I’m stressed, okay? Everything’s…a mess. I thought walking away was the right thing to do, and then—God, I don’t know. I’m still here. With her.”
“With her,” Nigel repeated, milking the words like he was savoring a fine wine. “Ah yes, the Dragon Lady of Fashion. My personal career-crusher. Honestly, darling, if you’re stressed it’s probably because you’re trying to play human shield for Miranda. I’d recommend Prozac, but couture shows faster results.”
Andy groaned. “I’m serious, Nigel. She told me to meet her in her suite tonight.”
That bought her a silence, broken only by the faint sound of fabric rustling on Nigel’s end—he was probably flipping through hangers. Then, slyly: “Well. Isn’t that interesting.”
Andy’s throat went dry. “Don’t. Don’t make it sound like—”
“Like what? Like your icy goddess of fashion has summoned you for a late-night tête-à-tête in Paris? Oh no, I’d never imply such scandal. Certainly not. I’m just picturing you panicking in front of the mirror, changing outfits seventeen times before showing up at her door.”
Andy’s face burned even though no one could see her. “Nigel!”
He chuckled, low and warm. “Relax, kid. She’s probably going to grill you about loyalty, maybe slap your wrist for dramatic effect. Or she’ll fire you in private so the world won’t get to see your tears.” A beat, then quieter: “But between us? Miranda doesn’t waste her time. If she wanted you gone, you’d already be on a plane. So whatever this is? It’s deliberate.”
That thought sat heavy in Andy’s chest. “Deliberate,” she repeated softly.
“Deliberate,” Nigel confirmed. Then, with mock severity: “Now go. Stress less. And wear something fabulous, for God’s sake. If you’re going to grovel—or whatever this turns into—you may as well look like you belong in Paris.”
Andy let out a shaky laugh. “Thanks, Nigel.”
“Anytime, Judas.”
By the time Andy finally slipped back into the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, the sky outside had already turned a bruised purple, the last light of Paris flickering over the rooftops. She checked the clock in the lobby—eight o’clock sharp. An hour. She had exactly one hour before Miranda expected her upstairs.
Her stomach knotted.
The elevator ride felt endless, every floor chime echoing like a countdown. When the doors opened, she hurried into her suite, shutting the door behind her as though the quiet would steady her racing thoughts. Instead, the silence made them louder.
She dropped her borrowed phone onto the bed, kicked off her heels, and paced. Her mind kept replaying Nigel’s voice: If she wanted you gone, you’d already be on a plane. That had comforted her earlier. Now it only made her more anxious.
Andy stopped in front of the mirror. Her hair was a frizzed mess from the long day, her blouse creased at the elbows, mascara smudged faintly beneath her eyes. Not exactly “Paris at nine o’clock” material.
With a groan, she grabbed the hotel’s hairdryer, running her fingers through her dark locks, coaxing them back into something resembling deliberate waves. A little hairspray, a brush, a twist at the temples—she didn’t even know why she was bothering, but she couldn’t show up looking like she’d been trampled by the runway.
Then the outfit. She tore through her suitcase, discarding one dress after another onto the bed. The green silk felt too bold. The black shift too somber. Finally, she settled on a simple deep-blue wrap dress, elegant but understated. Neutral heels. A dab of perfume behind her ears, though she told herself it was just for confidence, not because she cared what Miranda thought.
Back at the mirror, she pressed her palms to the dresser and stared at her reflection. You are just meeting your boss, she told herself. That’s all. It’s not a date. It’s not… anything else.
Her reflection raised an eyebrow at her, unconvinced.
At 8:45, she forced herself to stop fussing. She gathered her purse, slipped her heels back on, and sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Every tick of the clock made her chest tighten.
What could Miranda possibly want from her—alone, at nine o’clock, in her suite?
The question lingered, electric, as she rose at 8:59 and walked toward the door.
Andy’s hand hovered in front of the suite door, trembling just enough that she pressed it against her thigh to still it. The polished wood gleamed beneath the hallway light, a barrier between her and whatever waited on the other side. She inhaled, tried to straighten her shoulders, and knocked—three short raps that sounded much quieter than she intended.
For a moment, silence. Andy’s heart thudded in her ears. Then—soft footsteps. The lock slid, the door opened.
And there was Miranda.
Not in her razor-sharp Prada armor, not in the immaculate sheath dresses or tailored coats that defined her public silhouette. Instead, she stood framed in the doorway in a pale silk robe, cinched loosely at the waist, her hair swept back but not yet perfectly smoothed, a hint of softness in the waves. Bare skin at her collarbone caught the warm light of the suite.
Andy’s breath caught. The shock flickered across her face before she could stop it. For one unguarded second her eyes widened, heat rushing to her cheeks. Then she forced her features into something neutral, professional, safe. She hoped.
“Miranda,” Andy managed, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Miranda arched a brow, catching every slip, every flicker of surprise. “You’re on time,” she said simply, voice low and calm, as though Andy hadn’t just nearly choked on her own tongue.
“Yes,” Andy replied quickly, clasping her hands to hide the way her fingers wanted to fidget.
Miranda stepped aside, gesturing with one elegant hand for her to enter. “Then come in.”
Andy crossed the threshold, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The suite was dimly lit, scattered with papers, a pair of glasses resting on the coffee table, and an untouched glass of white wine by the armchair. For once, it didn’t feel like stepping into the domain of an untouchable deity. It felt…intimate. Disarming.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Andy realized her pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment Miranda appeared in that robe.
Miranda didn’t speak right away. She simply turned, the hem of her robe sweeping against the floor as she crossed the suite with the same effortless authority she carried on any runway or red carpet. Andy followed, her throat dry, eyes darting over the unexpected signs of Miranda’s private life: a pair of reading glasses folded neatly on the table, a discarded magazine in French, the faint scent of gardenia drifting from an open bottle of perfume on the dresser.
Miranda led her into the living area—an elegant space softened by lamplight and heavy curtains muffling the city beyond. She gestured to the pale-gray couch with one slim hand, the gesture less an invitation and more a command.
“Sit,” she said.
Andy obeyed instantly, sinking onto the edge of the couch, knees pressed together, hands clasped so tightly in her lap she could feel her nails biting into her palms. Her eyes flicked briefly to Miranda, who remained standing for a beat, watching her with that unreadable expression. Then, with unhurried grace, Miranda moved to the opposite end of the couch and lowered herself into the cushions, silk robe whispering as she settled.
The proximity rattled Andy more than she expected. They weren’t across a desk, or a showroom, or separated by crowds of assistants. They were side by side on a couch in a dimly lit suite in Paris, the air heavy with silence.
Andy’s mind scrambled for something to say, anything to break the tension, but her voice refused to cooperate.
Miranda, of course, was perfectly at ease. She rested one arm along the back of the couch, crossing her legs with unthinking elegance, and let the silence stretch just long enough for Andy to feel its weight.
Finally, she spoke. “You wanted to explain yourself.”
Andy’s heart lurched. She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. I—” Her voice faltered, caught between rehearsed excuses and raw honesty.
Miranda’s gaze flicked over her, cool and appraising. “Then explain.”
Andy drew in a shaky breath, trying to marshal her thoughts. “I—um…about the fountain,” she began, her words tumbling out faster than she could stop them. “Throwing my phone, that was really stupid. I thought it would be some big statement, a stand or something, but it was childish, and impulsive, and I know it was disrespectful, and…”
She paused, cheeks burning, fumbling with her fingers in her lap. “And I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t mean to…to—”
Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “I just—I wanted to explain myself, because I shouldn’t have acted like that. And I know I don’t deserve—”
She stopped, realizing she had no idea how to finish the sentence. Her words were spilling out in a messy, desperate rush, and the more she tried to get it right, the more they sounded pathetic.
Miranda didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even shift. Her stone-faced expression remained absolute, her eyes cool, precise, unyielding. There was no sign that Andy’s apology had registered, no acknowledgment beyond the faint, deliberate tilt of her head.
Andy’s heart sank. She had expected a reaction—anger, disappointment, maybe even a sharp retort that would at least give her something to respond to. But this was worse. It was as if her words were air, passing through a room that didn’t exist for her.
“I—I just wanted to say…I’m sorry,” Andy tried again, softer this time, each word weighted with all the vulnerability she could muster.
Still, Miranda didn’t move. Didn’t respond. She simply watched, immaculate and unreadable, her robe folded perfectly, one hand resting lightly on her knee, her gaze fixed on Andy with the quiet, surgical attention of someone cataloging every detail, every tremor of the other person’s nerves.
Andy’s throat went dry. The apology hovered in the air, fragile and heavy. She realized, with a sinking certainty, that she was utterly at Miranda’s mercy. And for the first time, she wasn’t just intimidated—she was terrified. The silence stretched, taut and unrelenting, until finally—slowly, deliberately—Miranda spoke.
“You’re terribly dramatic, aren’t you?” Her voice was quiet, almost conversational, but carried the same weight that had once made Andy’s stomach drop on the newsroom floor or in a crowded fitting room.
Andy blinked, startled. “I…I guess I am.” She swallowed hard. “I just—I didn’t mean to—”
Miranda raised a hand, cutting her off mid-apology. “Do you think throwing your phone into a fountain is going to change anything?” There was a faint trace of amusement in her tone, though her face remained composed, almost neutral. “Or prove some grand point about independence?”
Andy’s shoulders slumped a little. “No…not really. I—I just…I thought I was doing something bold.”
Miranda’s lips quirked, the barest shadow of a smile. “Bold. Yes, that’s one way to put it.” She leaned back against the cushions, crossing one leg over the other. Her gaze softened just fractionally—not warmth, exactly, but an acknowledgment. “You thought, for a moment, that you could step away from this world and I would simply stop noticing you. That it would be enough to fling your frustration into the air and it would vanish.”
Andy shifted in her seat, heart hammering. “I—I didn’t think it through.”
Miranda’s eyes didn’t leave her. “No. You did not.” There was a pause, deliberate, letting the words sink in. Then, surprisingly, she added: “And yet you returned.”
Andy’s pulse quickened, confusion and relief flooding through her. “I—I did. Because…because I know I can’t just walk away from this. Not really.”
Miranda’s gaze lingered, unblinking. “Interesting.” She finally allowed a breath, a faint, almost imperceptible exhale. “You are not as reckless as you think. But reckless enough that I would have been foolish to ignore it.”
Andy blinked, taken aback. “So…you’re not mad?”
For a heartbeat, Miranda didn’t answer. Then, finally: “Not as mad as you expected, perhaps. That will come later, if it is earned.” She paused, letting that hang in the air. “For now sit. Tell me why you did it. Explain it properly.”
Andy exhaled, relief and nerves twisting together in her chest. Somehow, the storm she had imagined didn’t materialize. Somehow, she had survived the first, terrifying crack in Miranda’s armor—and now had a chance to speak, truly speak, without being immediately cut down.
Andy took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. She pressed her hands together in her lap and looked at Miranda, searching for some foothold in the calm, unreadable face before her. “I didn’t just throw my phone out of frustration,” she began, her voice low, almost trembling. “It was…everything. The exhaustion, the pressure, the constant feeling that no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to prove something to myself, I guess. And I know it wasn’t the right way to do it.”
Miranda’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was an intensity in it that made Andy’s chest tighten. Every word seemed to land like a stone in the quiet of the suite, making her hyperaware of the space between them—the soft curve of Miranda’s robe at the ankle, the tilt of her head, the faint scent of her perfume that lingered closer than it should.
Andy’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “And—and I know I shouldn’t have run off, but…even when I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about this, about you. About Runway. About…us, I guess.”
Her voice faltered on the last word. She felt heat rise to her cheeks, her pulse quickening. Saying it aloud made it feel dangerously real, exposing a part of herself she hadn’t meant to.
Miranda’s lips quirked—just a hint, a fraction of a smile—and her eyes softened slightly, though they still held that sharp, analyzing edge. “Us,” she echoed, her tone deliberate, low. “Interesting choice of word.”
Andy’s stomach flipped. She tried to shrink into herself, to fix her posture, but every movement seemed amplified in the charged quiet. “I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries,” she said quickly, but the words sounded weak even to her own ears.
Miranda leaned back, one arm draped casually along the back of the couch, the other resting lightly on her knee. Her gaze traveled over Andy slowly, deliberately, like she was cataloging every tremor, every quick intake of breath. “Crossed boundaries,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, looking back at Andy, her voice dropped another fraction, quieter, intimate: “You’ve already done so, whether you intended it or not.”
Andy’s breath hitched. The words carried a weight she hadn’t anticipated—dangerous, magnetic, uncomfortably electric. She forced her hands to still, her mind spinning. “I didn’t know,” she admitted softly.
Miranda’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the faintest trace of amusement flickering. “You never do,” she said, and the calmness in her tone made it impossible to tell if it was a warning—or an invitation.
Andy swallowed hard, aware of the heat in her own chest, the rapid beat of her pulse, the subtle pull of something she had never allowed herself to name before. She had expected reprimand, coldness, professional distance. Instead…this. This electric tension that made her every nerve sing, every thought split between fear and something else entirely.
For the first time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to fix it.
Miranda shifted slightly on the couch, crossing one leg over the other with slow, deliberate grace. Her robe whispered softly against her skin, and the faintest curl of hair fell across her cheek, brushing the edge of her collarbone. Andy noticed it instantly, her pulse thudding in a way that made her throat dry. She quickly looked away, cursing the heat rising to her face.
“You speak too much,” Miranda said, voice low and deliberate, carrying that same edge that could cut through a showroom or a boardroom. “There is a danger in overexplaining yourself.”
Andy swallowed, her fingers twisting in her lap. “I just—wanted to be honest,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Miranda’s gaze didn’t soften; it sharpened, piercing. “Honesty,” she repeated, slower this time, letting the word linger between them. “Honesty can be fragile. And sometimes revealing too much is a weakness. Do you understand?”
Andy nodded, but she could feel the magnetic pull in the quiet between them. The room seemed smaller somehow; the soft lamplight painted Miranda’s face in a way that made her features impossible to read, but impossible to ignore.
“You came back,” Miranda said, leaning ever so slightly forward, just enough that Andy caught the scent of her perfume in a more intimate, enveloping way. “Despite your dramatics, your childishness. You returned.”
Andy’s breath caught. She tried to meet Miranda’s eyes, but found herself staring at the curve of her shoulder instead, at the way the robe slipped slightly, subtle and accidental—or not. “I didn’t want to leave things…unfinished,” she admitted, each word trembling.
Miranda tilted her head, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips, though her eyes remained steel. “Unfinished is dangerous,” she said softly, almost a murmur. “Especially when it involves you.”
Andy’s stomach twisted. The words felt loaded, impossible to parse, and the deliberate, measured calmness in Miranda’s posture and tone made every second feel magnified. Andy’s fingers dug into her lap, trying to ground herself, but the tension in the room was a living thing—charged, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
Miranda’s gaze flicked down to Andy’s hands and back up, slow and deliberate. “You are predictably complicated,” she said, letting the words hang. “And yet entirely predictable in the ways that matter.”
Andy’s chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think clearly, and yet she was utterly riveted. Every instinct screamed at her to step back, but every nerve in her body was drawn forward, caught in a gravity she had never acknowledged before.
Andy’s breath hitched again as Miranda’s gaze held hers, unblinking and deliberate, the weight of it pressing down on her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to retreat—but every nerve, every pulse, every inch of her body was drawn forward. She couldn’t look away, even if she wanted to.
Miranda shifted slightly closer, just enough that Andy could feel the subtle warmth radiating from her. The faint scent of her perfume was intoxicating now, a quiet, dangerous pull that made Andy’s thoughts scatter.
“You always think you have an exit,” Miranda murmured, her voice low, close, vibrating in the air between them. “But you don’t. Not really.”
Andy’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure Miranda could hear it. She tried to steady her breathing, tried to summon some semblance of control—but control had abandoned her the moment she stepped into this suite.
Then, as if sensing her hesitation, Miranda leaned in—slowly, deliberately, every movement measured and heavy with intention. Her robe brushed Andy’s arm lightly, a soft whisper of silk that made Andy’s stomach flip. “You’ve been complicated,” Miranda continued, voice husky, every word a deliberate drawl. “And difficult. And enticing.”
Andy’s lips parted slightly, her hands tightening in her lap. “Miranda…” she whispered, voice trembling.
Miranda’s eyes never left hers, the stone-faced mask finally cracking, revealing something darker, sharper, and undeniably hungry. Slowly, impossibly close, her lips brushed Andy’s—first barely, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down Andy’s spine.
Andy froze, every nerve alight, and then, instinctively, leaned forward, closing the tiny gap, letting the tension explode in that single, shattering kiss. It was deliberate, testing, electric—charged with everything they hadn’t said, everything they’d tried to hold back.
Miranda’s hand rose, brushing a loose strand of hair from Andy’s face, thumb grazing her cheek with the faintest pressure, keeping the kiss taut and tautly restrained, neither of them rushing, both of them knowing the intensity would shatter if they did.
Andy’s heart was in her throat. Every rational thought fled. Her fingers gripped Miranda’s robe, brushing silk over bare skin, while Miranda’s lips moved with the same careful deliberation, teasing, coaxing, never losing that edge of control.
The kiss lingered, stretched between them like a taut wire, pulling, threatening, demanding. And when they finally pulled back, breathless, Andy’s forehead rested against Miranda’s, eyes wide, chest heaving, and for a moment, neither spoke—because words were unnecessary.
Andy pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her mind spinning like a whirlwind. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to force her thoughts into some semblance of order. What just happened? Was that really…? No, I can’t—this is Miranda Priestly. This is impossible. Don’t do this, Andy. Think. Think!
Her voice started before she realized it, spilling out in a panicked, stammering rush. “I—I mean, I can’t believe I just—oh God, I don’t even know why I leaned in, I mean I—this is so inappropriate, and you’re my boss, and I really shouldn’t be, and, oh, I shouldn’t even be thinking about this, Miranda, but I can’t help it, and—”
She froze, cheeks flaming, realizing she’d just rambled the entirety of her inner panic aloud.
Miranda, of course, didn’t interrupt. She reclined slightly against the couch, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips, her eyes sharp and focused on Andy. “Mm,” she murmured, just that single sound, letting the room stretch with silence again. “You do realize you talk far too much when you’re flustered, don’t you?”
Andy’s head shot up, flustered, hands clenching in her lap. “I—I can’t help it!” she protested, though her words were jittery and uneven. “I mean, I try, I really do, but my brain just…won’t—”
Miranda let a soft hum escape her lips, like a cat amused by a mouse. “Yes. I can hear that,” she said smoothly, savoring the sound of Andy stumbling over her words. Her gaze never wavered, but there was a warmth in the amusement, a subtle, intimate enjoyment of Andy’s unraveling. “It’s entertaining.”
Andy froze, cheeks burning hotter than ever. “Entertaining?” she echoed, unsure if she should be horrified or secretly thrilled. “I…don’t mean to—”
“Of course you don’t,” Miranda interrupted gently, leaning back with casual elegance, letting her robe shift just enough to expose a bare ankle. “But you do. You always do. And frankly, I rather enjoy it. Watching you try to control yourself—while utterly failing—is delightful.”
Andy swallowed hard, heat coursing through her veins, heart hammering. She wanted to argue, to regain composure, to do something—anything—but Miranda’s quiet dominance, the way she lingered just out of reach of comfort, made every thought scramble. Her words kept spilling anyway, faster and more disjointed:
“I—I just don’t know why this is happening, I mean I should be upset or angry, or trying to leave, but I can’t, and I don’t know if that’s okay, and I—I just…”
Miranda’s lips curved into the faintest, sharpest smile. “Sh,” she said softly, tilting her head in a way that made Andy’s stomach tighten. “Just let it out. I like hearing you ramble.”
Andy’s eyes widened, heart skipping a beat. She wanted to protest, but the words caught in her throat, and instead, she felt herself melting into the intensity of the moment—every flustered, chaotic thought amplified by Miranda’s calm, deliberate control.
It was maddening. Exhilarating. And terrifying.
The air between them had thickened, taut with unspoken energy. Andy’s words had slowed, replaced by a ragged breath and a pounding heartbeat, as if the room itself had contracted around them. Every glance from Miranda, every deliberate movement, made her feel exposed and vulnerable in a way she had never anticipated.
Miranda leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing, unwavering. The faint curve of her lips hinted at amusement, but there was an edge there, razor-sharp, deliberate. “Andy,” she said, voice low and measured, soft but commanding, “answer me honestly.”
Andy’s throat went dry. Her pulse quickened. “H-How—?”
Miranda raised a hand, cutting off any protest. “Stop thinking. Stop over explaining. Just answer me.” She paused, letting the quiet stretch, letting the tension coil tighter between them. Then, deliberately, she asked, almost casually, almost like it were part of a business negotiation:
“Would you want to have relations with me?”
Andy’s mind went blank. Every rational thought scattered. Her stomach twisted. Her heart hammered so loudly she was certain Miranda could hear it. The words hung in the air, impossible to ignore, impossibly intimate, impossibly deliberate.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, panic and something else—a dangerous, thrilling heat—rising together. “I…” she whispered, voice trembling. She swallowed, trying to force her mind to work. “I don’t know what to say…”
Miranda’s gaze held her in place, unflinching, commanding, teasing. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Then think,” she said softly. “But be honest. And understand, there are no excuses here. Only clarity.”
Andy’s breath hitched. She felt her thoughts unravel completely, all logic gone, leaving only raw, electric desire tangled with fear, anticipation, and fascination. Her body and mind betrayed her as she tried to formulate words, every nerve alight with the intensity of the question.
The room was silent except for their breathing, the hum of Paris outside the suite irrelevant. For the first time, Andy realized that everything had led to this moment—the fountain, the tension, the closeness, the unrelenting presence of Miranda—and now she had to confront a desire she hadn’t dared admit before.
Andy’s throat felt dry, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. Words failed her, fleeing in the face of Miranda’s unflinching gaze. She could feel her pulse hammering in her ears, every nerve on fire, every muscle tense.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. Just once. Tentatively.
Miranda’s eyes caught the motion immediately, sharp and deliberate. “Just a nod?” she asked, voice low, teasingly incredulous, though still controlled. “No words?”
Andy swallowed hard, the heat rising to her cheeks. “I…yes,” she whispered finally, voice barely audible, trembling as if the sound alone might betray her. She averted her eyes for a heartbeat, then dared to meet Miranda’s gaze again. “I…want that,” she admitted, though it sounded fragile, almost disbelieving herself.
Miranda’s expression didn’t change dramatically—her mask of control never faltered—but the faintest curve of her lips hinted at approval, a quiet satisfaction. She leaned back slightly on the couch, letting the robe slip imperceptibly more at the shoulder, a deliberate, subtle signal that she was acknowledging Andy’s admission—and enjoying the tension it caused.
“You understand what you’re saying?” Miranda asked softly, her voice lower now, intimate, a quiet pull against the fragile restraint Andy still clung to.
Andy’s hands twisted in her lap, nerves fraying. “I…yes,” she whispered again, shaky but resolute. “I understand.”
Miranda let a slow, deliberate silence hang between them. Every heartbeat felt magnified, every inhale sharp. Then she leaned just slightly forward, close enough that Andy could feel the faint warmth radiating from her body, and murmured, “Good. Very…good.”
Andy’s breath caught. She had no idea what would come next, and a part of her knew she might never fully recover from this night—or from Miranda. But she couldn’t stop herself. Every thought, every nerve, every beat of her heart was entirely, overwhelmingly focused on her.
Miranda’s gaze sharpened, cool and precise, and Andy felt the air tighten around her like a physical weight. She leaned slightly closer, voice low and deliberate, every word measured and heavy with authority.
“Andy,” Miranda began, her tone shifting from teasing to utterly serious, “you need to understand something very clearly.” She paused, letting the weight of her eyes pin Andy in place. “Even in bed, I prefer control.”
Andy’s pulse spiked, and she swallowed hard, caught between nervousness and an undeniable thrill. “I—I understand,” she whispered, though her voice trembled.
Miranda’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “No. Listen. I control what happens. I control what you do. I decide the pace, the entirety of the experience.” Her gaze scanned Andy’s face, seeing every flicker of hesitation, every tremor of desire. “It’s not optional. Not negotiable. And you will obey—not out of fear, necessarily, but because you want to. Because you trust me enough to let me lead.”
Andy’s stomach twisted with a mix of awe, apprehension, and excitement. She nodded slowly, lips parted, eyes wide. “I…yes. I understand.”
Miranda leaned back slightly, letting the words sink in fully. “Good. That’s important. There is no ambiguity. No hesitation. Not for me. And certainly not for you.” She tilted her head, voice dropping another fraction lower, intimate and commanding all at once. “If you cannot accept that, then you cannot accept me. And I will not tolerate half measures.”
Andy’s hands tightened in her lap, every muscle coiled. She could barely breathe, yet every fiber of her body was drawn to Miranda. “I…I accept,” she whispered, voice trembling but firm in its sincerity.
Miranda’s eyes softened just the slightest fraction, though her dominance remained absolute. “Then you will learn to surrender,” she said quietly, almost a promise, “and in doing so you will discover exactly how much control I intend to exercise over you. Every inch. Every moment.”
Andy’s chest rose and fell rapidly, a shiver running down her spine. The tension, the fear, the thrill—it all coalesced into a single, intoxicating knot of anticipation. She had stepped into Miranda’s world completely, and now she realized just how much she craved the very control she had once feared.
Miranda let the silence stretch, deliberate, unbroken. Her eyes studied Andy like a jeweler appraising a diamond—every flaw, every glint, every possibility catalogued. Then, with a faint tilt of her head, she spoke, her voice as calm as if she were issuing instructions in the office.
“Stand up.”
Andy blinked, startled by the sudden command. Her body hesitated for only a moment before she obeyed, rising slowly from the couch, her palms damp, her heart racing.
Miranda didn’t move, only watched, her expression cool and exacting. Then she gestured with a flick of her hand toward the adjoining bedroom, the soft glow of the lamp spilling across the crisp, immaculate sheets.
“Kneel,” Miranda said softly, the single word sharp with authority. “On the bed.”
Andy’s breath caught in her throat. Her knees felt weak, but the command left no space for refusal. She turned, moving slowly toward the bed as if in a daze, her fingers brushing nervously against the silk of her skirt. She climbed onto the mattress, the sheets cool beneath her palms, and carefully lowered herself onto her knees, her posture stiff, uncertain.
Her back was to Miranda, and she could feel the weight of that gaze, searing into her, making every movement feel magnified.
Miranda rose at last, the faint whisper of her robe shifting as she moved. She didn’t rush; every step was measured, deliberate, her presence filling the room with quiet command.
“Relax your shoulders,” she instructed, voice low but unwavering. “Chin up. You’re not cowering—you’re offering.”
Andy adjusted shakily, lifting her chin, trying to steady her breath, though the pounding in her chest betrayed her nerves. Her body felt tense, uncertain, but a thread of exhilaration wound through her fear.
Miranda stopped at the edge of the bed, her shadow falling over Andy. She reached out, not quite touching, but close enough that Andy could feel the heat radiating from her presence.
“Good,” Miranda murmured, her voice a silken thread. “You learn quickly.”
Andy’s heart hammered. She had no idea what would come next, only that she had surrendered the moment she stepped into this suite—and Miranda intended to show her exactly what that surrender meant.
Miranda’s gaze lingered on Andy, sharp and unyielding, tracing the curve of her shoulders, the subtle tension in her hands, the way her breathing had become shallow and erratic. Every detail registered. Every hesitation noted.
“Good,” Miranda murmured again, stepping closer. The warmth of her presence pressed into Andy without a touch, yet the intensity was unmistakable. “Now…” Her voice dropped lower, slower, heavy with authority. “Undress.”
Andy froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest. The command was simple, yet absolute. She felt a rush of heat, embarrassment, and excitement coil together in her stomach. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons of her blouse, fumbling slightly, acutely aware of Miranda’s unwavering gaze.
Slowly, deliberately, she began to obey—peeling off the layers, each movement hesitant but measured, each motion a submission to the unspoken rule Miranda had laid down. Her skirt followed, her hands shaking as she folded it neatly at the edge of the bed.
The room was thick with tension, every breath magnified, every small sound—fabric rustling, her own heartbeat—resonating in the charged silence. Miranda’s eyes tracked her every movement, consuming, precise, and utterly dominant.
Andy’s pulse raced. Every instinct screamed, every nerve was alight, yet she could not stop. She had surrendered—fully, unreservedly—to Miranda’s command. And with every piece of clothing removed, the sense of anticipation, of controlled chaos, built to an almost unbearable pitch.
Miranda’s voice cut softly through the tension, like a scalpel slicing the air. “Good. That’s exactly how you do it. Do not stop until I tell you.”
Andy’s hands paused briefly at her waist, fingers trembling, and then she continued, obeying, every motion an act of submission, every glance at Miranda a silent acknowledgment of the control she had willingly handed over.
"You will not climax until I say so," Miranda commanded, her voice firm. Andy nodded, her body already quivering with a strange anticipation.
Miranda didn’t move at first. She simply stood there, hands resting lightly on her hips, studying Andy as though she were appraising a couture gown, every angle and line committed to memory. The weight of that gaze made Andy’s skin prickle.
Then, at last, Miranda spoke. Her tone was level, calm—yet threaded with an authority that brooked no refusal.
“Now,” she said, her voice soft but absolute, “lie back on the bed.”
Andy’s breath hitched. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, legs carrying her backward until she felt the mattress at the backs of her knees. She lowered herself carefully onto the sheets, the silence stretching taut around them.
Miranda’s heels clicked softly as she stepped closer, her silhouette framed by the muted hotel lighting. Her gaze swept over Andy, lingering with quiet satisfaction.
“Spread your legs.”
The words fell like stones into the stillness.
Andy’s eyes flicked up, wide and uncertain, but Miranda’s expression was utterly composed, as though this was as natural a command as asking for her coffee. The tension in the air thickened, her heartbeat rushing in her ears.
Slowly—hesitantly—Andy obeyed. Her thighs parted, tentative, trembling, her breath catching as she exposed herself fully under Miranda’s unwavering gaze.
The silence pressed down heavier than ever, but Miranda seemed entirely at ease, lips curving with the faintest suggestion of approval.
“Yes,” she murmured, voice low and deliberate. “Just like that.”
Miranda then began to explore Andy's body, her fingers tracing a path from Andy's collarbone down to her stomach, circling her navel before dipping lower. Andy gasped as Miranda's fingers found her clit, her touch light yet electrifying. Miranda then began to rub Andy's clit in slow, circular motions, her other hand pinching and rolling Andy's nipples.
She bit her lip to suppress a moan, her body writhing under Miranda's touch. She was so close to climaxing, her body aching for release. But she knew she had to hold on, she had to obey Miranda's command.
Miranda then lowered her head, her tongue replacing her fingers on Andy's clit. Andy's body jerked in response, her hands fisting the sheets as Miranda's tongue began to explore her insides. Miranda's tongue was relentless, flicking and lapping at Andy's clit, driving her wild with desire.
Andy could feel her orgasm building, her body trembling with the effort to hold it back. She could hear Miranda's muffled moans as she continued to pleasure Andy, her tongue darting in and out of Andy's pussy.
"Please, Miranda," Andy begged, her voice barely a whisper. "Please let me come."
Miranda looked up, her lips glistening with Andy's juices. "Not yet," she said, her voice stern. "I want you to feel the same torture I feel every day."
Andy whimpered, her body aching for release. Miranda then began to finger Andy, her fingers sliding in and out of Andy's pussy with ease. Andy could feel her orgasm building, her body trembling with the effort to hold it back.
"Now," Miranda commanded, her voice barely a whisper. Andy's body convulsed as her orgasm washed over her, her body shaking with the force of her climax. Miranda then lowered her head, her tongue lapping up Andy's juices as she continued to finger Andy.
Andy lay there, her body limp and sated, as Miranda climbed on top of her. Miranda then began to grind her pussy against Andy's, her movements slow and deliberate. Andy could feel Miranda's wetness, her own pussy responding with a throb.
Miranda then began to rub her clit against Andy's, her movements becoming more frantic as her own orgasm approached. Andy then reached up, her fingers finding Miranda's nipples. She began to pinch and roll them, her movements matching Miranda's frantic pace.
The older woman then let out a low moan, her body convulsing as her own orgasm washed over her. She then collapsed on top of Andy, her body slick with sweat. The two women laid there, their bodies entwined, as they caught their breath.
“Remember,” Miranda murmured, her voice barely rising above the hush of the suite. The whisper brushed Andy’s ear like velvet, deliberate and low, meant only for her. A glint of warning—half stern, half amused—flickered in those ice-blue eyes. “No extra fees. They make you pay extra if there’s a noise complaint.”
Andy’s breath caught, her pulse tripping over itself at the sheer audacity of the reminder. Even now, in the most intimate of circumstances, Miranda was thinking ahead, controlling the details, dictating the rules of engagement. It sent a shiver straight through her.
She bit her lip, fighting back a laugh, then let a slow, wicked smile bloom across her face. The look in her eyes was mischievous, almost daring. “I’ll remember,” Andy promised, her voice dropping into a husky echo of delight. She leaned in, lips brushing close, deliberately taunting the very boundary Miranda had just laid out. “I’ll remember.”
Andy’s grin lingered, playful and smug, but beneath it her heart thudded wildly. She had pushed, teased, tested the waters—and Miranda hadn’t pulled away. Instead, that subtle curve of her lips deepened, sharp as a blade, soft as silk.
Miranda leaned in until the world seemed to contract to nothing but the press of her breath against Andy’s skin. “Good,” she whispered, every syllable deliberate. “Because I have no intention of paying for your recklessness.”
Andy swallowed hard, her smirk faltering into something softer—awed, reverent, and hungry all at once. She didn’t speak, didn’t dare. She only nodded.
Miranda reached out, fingertips grazing Andy’s chin, tilting her face up with exquisite precision. Their eyes locked, ice meeting fire, command meeting surrender.
“Now,” Miranda murmured, final as a signature on a contract. “Remember yourself.”
And then her lips captured Andy’s, silencing every thought but one: there was no escaping her. Nor, Andy realized with a shiver, did she want to.