Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

It was another late night at the Runway office, though this one carried a different weight than all the others. The usual rhythm of departure—the sharp click of Miranda’s heels echoing toward the elevator, the staff collectively releasing a breath once she was gone—never came. Instead, she remained. Her silhouette sat illuminated against the vast windows of the top floor, the city glittering far below as she typed with quick, precise strokes on her computer. The office, normally buzzing with activity even into the night, had quieted to a tense stillness.

Her focus, however, was unshakable. Miranda was drafting what appeared to be yet another ruthless directive, most likely about the latest photoshoot that had already been rescheduled twice. The culprit this time was an approaching hurricane skirting the coast, a looming threat that had every sensible person scrambling to cancel flights and secure studios. But Miranda Priestly was not a sensible person—she was an inevitable force. Her stance had been clear from the beginning: the shoot would go on. Rain, wind, or tidal wave, Runway’s issue would not be delayed. The hurricane, she’d remarked earlier with a cool flick of her wrist, was “merely weather,” while this magazine—her magazine—was immortal.

The glow of the monitor reflected off her glasses, her lips pressed into the familiar, unreadable line that told anyone within a twenty-foot radius not to disturb her. Still, there was something different in the air tonight. It wasn’t just late; it was restless, electric, as if even the storm brewing hundreds of miles away had slipped into the Runway office and coiled itself around her chair.

It was well past midnight, the kind of hour when even the city outside seemed to exhale and grow quieter, yet the Runway office still hummed with artificial light. The two women were the only ones left on the floor, their shared silence broken only by the muted tapping of keys and the occasional rustle of paper.

Inside her glass-walled office, Miranda sat hunched over her desk, the sharp planes of her face illuminated by the bluish glow of her monitor. Her glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose, threatening to slide off with every slight tilt of her head, yet she made no move to fix them. Her attention was locked on the screen as she poured over a stream of emails from the photographer, every subject line more exasperating than the last. The hurricane had turned the photoshoot into a logistical nightmare, and Miranda’s expression—tight, unreadable—suggested she was calculating ten moves ahead, already devising the most ruthless solution.

Just beyond those glass doors, Andy sat at her own desk, her posture slumped but her determination intact. The fluorescent lights overhead made her head throb, but she forced her eyes to stay open, blinking rapidly as she stared at the notes scattered across her workspace. Her assignment was simple in wording but impossible in practice: find a way to keep the shoot on schedule. She chewed at the end of her pen, fighting off a yawn, her gaze flicking every so often toward Miranda’s office. Through the pane of glass, she could see the faint rise and fall of Miranda’s shoulders, steady, relentless, like a general preparing for battle.

Andy couldn’t help it—her mind began to drift. The exhaustion made her thoughts slower, looser, and she found herself lingering on the figure framed in the glow of the office light. Miranda, ever composed, with her sharp features cut in stark relief against the screen, her silver hair catching faint reflections like a halo made of steel. There was nothing soft about her—her gaze, her posture, her voice, even her silences carried weight—and yet Andy found that very strength magnetic. She had always known Miranda was beautiful, but beauty was too shallow a word for what sat behind those glass doors.

It wasn’t just her face or her style; it was the way she commanded space, the way her presence shaped the world around her. That force had intimidated Andy at first, then inspired her, and now—God help her—it stirred something else entirely. Something she had never let herself acknowledge.

Her pulse gave a nervous flutter at the thought, and she quickly tore her eyes away from the office, fixing them instead on the meaningless jumble of notes on her desk. No. She wasn’t going to do this. It was ridiculous. Miranda Priestly was her boss. Miranda Priestly was untouchable. Entertaining anything beyond admiration was dangerous.

Andy straightened in her chair, shaking her head lightly as if she could dislodge the thought before it rooted itself deeper. She pressed her pen to the page, forcing herself back into the work. But the image of Miranda—cool, brilliant, devastatingly out of reach—hovered at the edges of her mind, refusing to fully dissolve.

Andy’s gaze lingered longer than it should have. She watched as Miranda’s fingers flew over the keyboard with precise, almost predatory speed, the faint clack of the keys filling the silence between them. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration, sharp and unyielding, every line of her face set with purpose. To anyone else, it would have been just Miranda working—efficient, untouchable. But to Andy, in her half-exhausted haze, the sight felt devastatingly intimate.

Her imagination betrayed her before she could stop it. She pictured those elegant fingers slowing, no longer pounding at the keys but trailing instead across her skin—light, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She swallowed hard at the thought, her breath catching as she imagined Miranda tracing patterns on her, lingering, pressing deeper, until…

God. Andy shut her eyes for a moment, her pen slipping in her grip. How long had it even been since she’d had real sex? Since someone had touched her with intent, with care? She tried to remember and came up with nothing but a blur of faces and hurried encounters that felt pale compared to the fantasy her mind was spinning now.

The sudden heat creeping up her neck startled her, and she gave her head a quick shake, as if the motion could physically dislodge the thought. This was insane. Miranda wasn’t someone you daydreamed about—not like this. And yet, the image of those hands on her lingered, stubborn and sweet, making it impossible to focus on the work sitting in front of her.

Miranda finally looked up from her screen, and Andy froze. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, met Andy’s before the younger woman could look away. There was a pause—a long, electric moment where Miranda’s gaze seemed to pierce through the dim office light, unreadable, calculating, yet not without notice of the flutter in Andy’s chest.

“Andrea, come in here,” she said, her voice low, precise, carrying that familiar authority that demanded obedience without question. It wasn’t a request; it was an invitation wrapped in command, the kind that made Andy’s pulse spike in a way she would normally chastise herself for.

Andy’s stomach flipped as she pushed back from her desk, every step toward Miranda’s office magnified by the soft echo of her heels on the polished floor. The closer she got, the more aware she became of the distance shrinking between them, of the weight in the room that went beyond emails and schedules. Miranda remained seated, composed, yet somehow entirely in control of the energy swirling between them.

By the time Andy reached the threshold, she realized that the storm outside wasn’t the only thing brewing in the office tonight.

Miranda looked up, her eyes locking onto Andy’s with that unnervingly calm intensity. She didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence stretch, and Andy felt heat prickling along her spine.

“Andrea,” Miranda said finally, her voice low, deliberate, every syllable measured like a command. “Stand closer. Watch carefully. Do not touch anything. Not yet.”

Andy’s stomach dropped, her pulse stuttering. Oh shit…Her breath caught in her throat, and she realized, with equal parts shock and guilty thrill, that this was…turning her on. Every precise word, every clipped instruction, sent a shiver through her, leaving her uncomfortably aware of herself and impossibly aware of Miranda.

She licked her lips, tried to steady her breathing, but the magnetic pull of Miranda’s control was impossible to ignore.

Miranda leaned back slightly in her chair, steepling her fingers as she launched into a relentless rundown of the photoshoot.

“Andrea, first, the lighting. We cannot—cannot—allow shadows to fall on the model’s face. That streak on her jawline yesterday? Unforgivable. I want ring lights at forty-five degrees, and double-check the reflectors. Do you understand me?”

Andy nodded quickly, though her mind was only half on the words. Her pulse throbbed, a mix of adrenaline and something far more distracting. The way Miranda’s voice clipped through the office, sharp and exacting, made her stomach flutter in ways she wasn’t ready to admit.

“And then there’s the wardrobe. I do not care if the hurricane threatens to blow it away. Each outfit must be perfectly steamed, color-matched, hung at the proper angle. I want you there with the intern when they’re unpacked, directing the folding. Every crease, every line. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy said, her voice tighter than she intended. Her fingers clenched on her notebook, but she wasn’t really taking notes. Her thoughts had drifted entirely to the slow, deliberate way Miranda dominated the space, the precision in her movements, the low hum of control in her tone.

“And the makeup,” Miranda continued, her gaze locking on Andy’s even as she spoke, “must be impeccable. I want the contouring sharper than yesterday. The blush—yes, the blush—cannot overpower the natural glow. And do not even think about rushing the hair. Every strand, every flyaway, accounted for. Perfection, Andrea. You will ensure it.”

Andy’s chest tightened. Oh god…this…this is…turning me on, she thought, her stomach knotting with every clipped instruction. She shifted slightly, trying to maintain composure, but every word, every deliberate pause, made her hyper-aware of herself, of the heat pooling low and sharp.

“And finally,” Miranda added, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk, “the schedule. It will not slip. You will not allow a single delay. If the photographer falters, you correct it. If the model complains, you handle it. If the lighting crew sighs—you know what to do. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Andy breathed out, voice barely audible, and internally cursed herself for the warmth spreading through her at the sheer force of Miranda’s control.

Miranda didn’t pause. She adjusted her glasses and continued, voice crisp and unyielding.

“The props. Each must be inspected. Nothing chipped, nothing crooked. I want the flowers symmetrical, the glassware polished, the furniture aligned with millimeter precision. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy whispered, her notebook lying forgotten at her side. Her heart was hammering. Every word felt like a lash against her nerves, every sharp inflection a jolt she couldn’t shake. She shifted slightly in place, aware of how her body responded—heat pooling in a place that had nothing to do with work.

“And the assistants,” Miranda pressed on, eyes flicking to Andy briefly, just enough to make her flinch, “must follow your instructions exactly. You will correct them immediately if they falter. Do not hesitate, do not second-guess. I expect precision, efficiency, and obedience. No excuses. Do you grasp that, Andrea?”

“Yes,” Andy stammered, swallowing hard as the words left her throat. Her mind spun, torn between mental notes on reflectors, makeup, and lighting angles—and the increasingly distracting thought of Miranda’s proximity, her voice, the way she controlled everything in the room.

Miranda paused, letting the silence stretch for a fraction longer than necessary, like she knew the effect she had. Then she went on, unrelenting:

“The schedule. Every shot must follow the exact timeline I’ve laid out. No improvisation. The photographer is not to decide angles by himself. The models—don’t let them speak unless necessary. Make sure the wardrobe changes are completed in precisely three minutes. Not four. Three. Understood?”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy breathed, voice tight, stomach twisting. She was hyper-aware of every detail—the way Miranda’s fingers tapped the desk rhythmically, the slight curl of her lips when she delivered a point like it was gospel, the absolute authority in her tone. Every meticulous instruction was a tease, each command a reminder that she was powerless in this moment, and every bit of it made her pulse thrum in ways entirely inappropriate for a magazine shoot.

“And finally,” Miranda said, leaning back slightly, gaze sweeping the office, “if anything goes wrong, you fix it. I will not, and you will not disappoint me. Andrea, I need you to be flawless tonight. Understand?”

“Yes…perfectly,” Andy whispered again, and in the silent aftermath, she could feel herself trembling slightly. She was supposed to be taking notes, organizing the shoot—but instead, her body betrayed her, reacting to the sheer dominance of Miranda’s voice, to the precision and authority that radiated off the older woman in waves. Oh god, she thought again, pressing her hands to her thighs, desperate to rein in the heat that refused to be ignored.

And before she could even process what was happening, a familiar, insistent warmth began to pool in her underwear, spreading low and heavy like wildfire. Her breath caught sharply. The heat was maddening—urgent, demanding, and entirely undeserved—ignited by nothing more than the sound of Miranda’s voice, the way she commanded the room, the relentless precision of her instructions.

Andy bit back a groan, the taste of it bitter on her tongue, and forced herself to inhale slowly, trying to regain control, to remind herself that this wasn’t supposed to happen here, not now, and certainly not with Miranda standing just a few feet away, entirely oblivious to the storm she was creating. She quickly went back to her desk, hoping to hide.

“Oh, and Andrea?” Miranda’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the office, slow and deliberate, dragging Andy’s attention back to her even as heat still pulsed low in her body.

“Yes Miranda?” Andy replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She forced herself to sit straighter, but her stomach twisted with a mix of dread and anticipation, and her pulse was painfully aware of everything between them.

Miranda’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto hers for a beat longer than necessary. Then she leaned back slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, and said, “Try not to make a mess. It’s very…noticeable.”

Andy’s breath hitched instantly. Her chest tightened, and she pressed her thighs together under the desk, desperate to regain control as a shiver ran through her. The words echoed in her mind, a whisper of command that felt impossibly intimate, as if Miranda had known exactly how to push her buttons without even touching her.

Her hands clenched in her lap, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus, trying to convince herself this was about professionalism, about the photoshoot, about nothing at all—but the flush spreading across her cheeks and the heat pooling low said otherwise.

Miranda returned her attention to the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard with the same ruthless precision as before, leaving Andy frozen in place, trembling quietly under the desk. The air between them still thrummed with tension, heavy and charged, but Miranda gave no indication that she had noticed—or cared—about the effect she’d had.

Andy swallowed hard, cheeks flushed, and slowly exhaled, pressing her hands to her thighs to steady herself. The warmth that had pooled low in her body lingered, electric and insistent, but she forced herself to shift, sit up, and focus on the stack of notes in front of her. She was still flushed, still painfully aware of every clipped instruction, every measured pause—but she was in control again. Almost.

Miranda’s voice finally broke the silence again, cool and precise, without malice or even acknowledgment of what had transpired. “Good. Now finish your notes.”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy murmured, a small shiver running through her as she bent over her notebook. She had survived—mostly unbroken, mostly intact—but the memory of the storm Miranda had stirred inside her would linger far longer than the hurricane outside.

And for the first time in weeks, Andy realized she didn’t hate the tension, the restraint, or the control. She didn’t hate it at all.

Chapter Text

Andy sat curled into the corner of the sleek leather sofa, the townhouse living room bathed in the soft amber glow of a single floor lamp. Her laptop balanced across her thighs, its screen casting faint blue light across her face as she scrolled. Outside, the city hummed faintly through the windows, muffled and distant—an almost soothing backdrop to the rapid tapping of her fingers on the keyboard.

Her heart beat just a little faster than usual, the same way it always did when she let herself wander into this corner of the internet. The subject had always fascinated her—BDSM. Not just in the glossy, over-dramatized ways she’d seen in films or stumbled across in novels, but in the smaller, more tangible details that hinted at a world built on control, surrender, and intimacy. She thought of the polished cold of nipple clamps, the sharp crack of a whip echoing through a room, the metallic clink of handcuffs being fastened shut. Each image ignited a spark of restless curiosity deep inside her.

It wasn’t like she had ever been given the chance to explore it—life, as always, had gotten in the way. She’d observed from a distance, lingering in words, in images, in fleeting moments of fantasy. And now, late at night with silence pressing in around her, that curiosity returned with a stubborn persistence.

She bit her lip, shifting slightly on the couch, conscious of the house itself—how still it was at this hour. The girls were already asleep upstairs, their bedroom doors closed. It was ten at night, that liminal time where everything felt just private enough to dare, but still dangerous enough to make her hesitate. She couldn’t exactly type “whips and restraints” into a search bar with the Wi-Fi shared throughout the house. Not without risking someone stumbling across her history.

So instead, she scrolled idly, her thoughts drifting further than the screen itself, wandering into fantasies she never voiced out loud.

Andy scrolled, then scrolled again, her thumb dragging across the trackpad a little too fast, like she could outrun the prickling unease building in her chest. Every image and article she passed only seemed to heighten the tension—every sleek leather strap, every polished bit of steel was a reminder of what she’d done.

Tucked away in the very back of her dresser drawer, behind a pile of mismatched socks and folded T-shirts, sat the small package she’d ordered weeks ago. Just a pair of clamps, nothing elaborate, nothing that screamed depravity the way her nerves told her it did. They were small, discreet, something she’d told herself she had to see in person, to hold, to feel, just to know if her imagination had any ground in reality.

But every night since the box arrived, she hadn’t been able to look at them without her stomach twisting. She’d touched them once—cold and alien against her fingertips—and shoved them right back into their hiding place.

And now, every time she sat down with her laptop like this, every time her brain whispered what if, what if, she thought of Miranda.

Miranda with her sharp eyes that seemed to notice everything, even the things Andy wished she could keep invisible. Miranda who moved through the townhouse like she owned the very air inside it, who didn’t need to pry to know when Andy was hiding something.

God, if Miranda ever found them… Andy’s fingers hovered nervously over the keyboard. Her mind sketched the possibility too vividly—Miranda sliding open a drawer, tilting her head in that subtle, devastating way, the silence heavy before she’d say anything at all. Andy felt hot just imagining it, not from thrill but from the sheer mortification that clamped around her like a vice.

She exhaled shakily, snapping the laptop shut for a second just to steady herself, as though even the computer screen might betray her secret if she lingered too long.

The townhouse was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Too silent.

Andy pulled the laptop open again, scrolling with more force than before, but her eyes were hardly tracking the words anymore. Her thoughts circled back, again and again, to the hidden little secret upstairs, and the looming question of what if she knows?

Andy’s scrolling slowed, her stomach twisting with every headline she skimmed past without really reading. She dragged her lower lip between her teeth, glancing toward the shadowy hallway as though the walls themselves might carry her secret upstairs.

Miranda was probably in her study. She almost always was at this hour, especially when the house was quiet and the girls were asleep. Andy could picture her there so clearly—perched at her desk in that impossibly straight-backed posture, glasses low on her nose, a single lamp illuminating a spread of old Runway editions she’d pulled from the shelves. She’d be combing through the pages with that sharp, exacting eye, hunting for inspiration or some forgotten detail worth reimagining.

That was the thing about Miranda—her mind never truly rested. And if she wasn’t pouring over layouts or past spreads, she was sketching out the bones of the next big issue in the margins of some notebook, weaving threads of brilliance out of silence.

And here was Andy, on the couch, jittering with nerves over a pair of clamps hidden under socks.

The contrast made her want to laugh, except it wasn’t funny—it was terrifying. Because if Miranda ever strayed from the study, if she ever decided to go upstairs for a sweater, or simply decided to look, then Andy’s quiet, harmless little experiment would become humiliatingly real.

She rubbed her palms against her thighs, the laptop still glowing faintly in the dark. Maybe Miranda was too focused to notice. Maybe she’d never even think to open that drawer. But then again…Miranda always seemed to notice what others didn’t.

And the thought of those cool, knowing eyes falling on her secret made Andy’s pulse trip over itself, the unease so sharp she nearly closed the laptop again.

Andy’s scrolling slowed to nothing, her finger hovering uselessly over the trackpad. She stared at the glowing screen, but the words blurred, slipping away as her thoughts spiraled back—again and again—to that drawer upstairs.

She swallowed hard. The clamps were right there. Just sitting in the dark, waiting.

Her pulse fluttered uncomfortably in her throat as she shifted on the couch, legs curling tighter beneath her. What would it even hurt, just to look at them again? To hold them for a second, see if they really felt as foreign as the first time? She’d hidden them away as if simply touching them had been a crime—but wasn’t that ridiculous? They were just… objects. Pieces of metal. Nothing more.

And yet, they weren’t nothing, not to her.

Her hand slipped off the trackpad and closed the laptop with a quiet snap. The silence that followed felt thunderous. Andy sat frozen, listening for any sound from upstairs. The townhouse seemed to breathe with her—steady, quiet, waiting.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she rose from the couch, bare feet brushing against the cool hardwood. She padded carefully through the living room, past the darkened kitchen, and into the hall that led to the stairs. Every creak of the floorboard felt like a shout.

She hesitated at the bottom step, chewing the inside of her cheek. Miranda was still in the study—she had to be. The soft glow had spilled out from under the door earlier when Andy passed by, and Miranda never left her desk until she was satisfied. Still, the risk made Andy’s skin prickle.

She drew in a breath and began climbing, step by cautious step. The air upstairs felt different—closer, heavier somehow—as though the walls themselves knew what she was sneaking toward. At the end of the hall waited the bedroom she and Miranda shared, the door cracked just enough to reveal a sliver of shadowed space beyond.

Andy slipped inside, holding her breath like a thief. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, the faint scent of Miranda’s perfume lingering in the air. She glanced toward the dresser against the wall—her dresser.

Her heart thudded painfully as her gaze locked on it. That was where she’d hidden them. Buried them under socks and shirts like some shameful contraband.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She was so close now—so close to daring herself to actually open the drawer.

Andy’s hand hovered inches above the drawer handle, her breath caught in her throat. She could already feel the cool metal against her skin, already imagine the rush of daring herself to finally confront the thing that had been gnawing at her thoughts for weeks.

Then—footsteps.

Her heart stopped.

They were measured, deliberate, unmistakable. Miranda’s footsteps. The soft click of her heels against the floorboards carried down the hall, closer, closer.

Andy’s hand jerked back as if burned. She shut the dresser drawer without even opening it, fumbling with the edge of her shirt to make it look like she’d been adjusting it. The bedroom door opened with its smooth, unhurried sweep, and there Miranda was—framed in the doorway, a folder in one hand and her glasses still perched at the tip of her nose.

Her gaze fell instantly to Andy, and though Miranda’s expression remained unreadable, Andy felt like she’d just been caught red-handed.

“Andrea.” Miranda’s voice was calm, cool, laced with curiosity more than suspicion. “What are you doing?”

Andy’s mind scrambled, her pulse so loud in her ears she thought it might drown her out completely. She forced a laugh, too thin, too sharp, and turned halfway toward the dresser with her hand still hovering awkwardly near the drawer.

“Oh—uh, I was just… looking for a shirt. One of my old ones. I thought maybe it got shoved to the back when I did laundry the other day.” Her voice pitched upward at the end, a little too defensive, a little too rushed.

Miranda’s eyes lingered on her, cool and assessing, before sliding toward the dresser. The silence stretched long enough for Andy’s palms to start sweating.

Finally, Miranda arched a brow ever so slightly and crossed to the bed, setting her folder neatly on the nightstand. “At ten-thirty at night?” she murmured, tone dry, though not unkind. “Fascinating timing.”

Andy’s laugh came out nervous, high in her throat. “Yeah, well…I couldn’t sleep, and I figured it’d be a good time to…you know, find it.”

Miranda gave no sign of pressing further, simply removing her glasses and folding them with deliberate care. But Andy could feel those eyes on her—sharp, knowing, as though Miranda could read the frantic rhythm of her pulse without her saying a word.

Andy shifted in place, wishing desperately that her excuse sounded better than it did.

Miranda slipped her glasses into their case, her movements precise, unhurried. She didn’t look at Andy again right away, which only made the silence heavier, sharper. Andy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, heart pounding so hard she thought it might echo through the room.

Finally, Miranda spoke, her tone smooth and deceptively casual. “Mm. Well, do try not to reorganize the entire dresser in your search. I’d hate to wake the girls with unnecessary noise.”

Andy’s breath caught, a half-formed reply tangled in her throat. She nodded quickly instead, forcing a small smile that she hoped looked natural.

Miranda gave her a faint glance, the kind that lingered just a fraction too long, and then reached for the silk robe draped across the end of the bed. “I’ll be taking a shower,” she announced, as though it were a simple fact of routine rather than the reprieve Andy’s nerves desperately needed.

The robe slipped over her shoulders with effortless grace, and then Miranda was moving toward the bathroom, the soft pad of her steps fading as she closed the door behind her. The faint sound of running water followed seconds later, muffled through the wall.

Andy let out a shaky exhale, pressing a hand to her forehead. Her body was still buzzing with adrenaline, the drawer behind her practically humming with the secret she’d almost exposed.

She glanced toward the closed bathroom door, her chest tightening at the thought of how close she’d come—and how easily Miranda could’ve unraveled her with a single question.

Andy stayed frozen for a long moment, listening to the faint rush of water on the other side of the wall. Only when she was sure Miranda wasn’t coming back out immediately did she finally sink onto the edge of the bed, her laptop still downstairs, her thoughts spiraling here instead.

Her eyes flicked toward the dresser. The drawer.

Her chest tightened. She dragged both hands through her hair and muttered under her breath, “God, what am I even doing?”

She wanted to look. She wanted to feel them again, to hold the weight of them in her palm and remind herself they weren’t anything more than cold metal. That was the pro, wasn’t it? She could prove to herself it wasn’t such a big deal. No one would know. Miranda was in the shower—she had at least fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty, if she washed her hair. That was time.

Another pro: maybe, just maybe, the curiosity would quiet down after that. If she confronted it instead of hiding from it, maybe she could finally stop obsessing every night.

But the cons… The cons were heavier.

What if Miranda came out sooner than expected? What if Andy froze and couldn’t get the drawer shut fast enough? What if Miranda already suspected something, that look in her eye earlier not just curiosity but knowledge? The thought alone made Andy’s face burn with mortification.

And even if she wasn’t caught tonight—what if Miranda found them later? What if the clamps shifted in the drawer, caught her eye when she went rifling for something? Andy couldn’t explain them away. They weren’t lingerie or jewelry. They were exactly what they were, and there was no disguising it.

Andy pressed her hands against her knees, bouncing them up and down restlessly. “Pros: I get it out of my system. Cons: my life ends if Miranda finds them.”

Her laugh came out shaky, almost hysterical in the quiet.

The water kept running. The steady, indifferent sound of it only made her feel more cornered by her own indecision. She stared at the dresser, her pulse climbing with every second.

Andy sat there another long moment, her pulse pounding, her body practically vibrating with indecision. The sound of the shower was steady, a strange kind of cover, urging her forward.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice thin, trembling. “Just for a second. Just to look.”

Before she could overthink herself back into paralysis, Andy pushed off the bed and crossed to the dresser. Her hand lingered on the drawer handle for only a heartbeat before she pulled it open in one swift motion. Socks shifted as she dug past them, shirts rustling quietly until her fingers brushed something smooth, cool.

She froze, breath caught in her throat. Then she pulled them out.

Small. Silver. They looked almost harmless like this—just metal clamps, the kind she’d seen a hundred images of online. Functional, minimal. Nothing dramatic. Except she knew exactly where they were meant to go, what they were meant to do. The thought alone sent a rush of heat crawling across her skin.

Andy held them delicately between her fingers, as if they might bite. She turned them this way and that under the dim lamplight, the polished edges catching faint glimmers. They were so unassuming, but her imagination filled in everything they represented—pressure, restraint, sharp pleasure balanced with control.

Her stomach fluttered uneasily. It was insane, standing here with them in her hand while Miranda was just in the next room. Her brain shouted put them back, put them back now, but her fingers refused to let go.

They weren’t big or flashy, not padded in leather or adorned with chains—just simple silver clamps designed for the chest. And yet, her heart was racing as though she’d stolen a crown jewel.

Andy swallowed hard, her hand trembling slightly as she turned them over in her palm. “Just looking,” she reminded herself, though it didn’t sound convincing at all.

Andy sat on the edge of the bed again, the small silver clamps resting in her palm. They were so deceptively ordinary—cool metal, a simple design, meant for the chest. Nothing about them screamed dangerous or forbidden. And yet, her pulse hammered like she was holding contraband.

Her mind wavered back and forth, the debate looping endlessly.

Pro: If I just try them, even for a second, I’ll know. I won’t have to keep wondering.
Con: If Miranda walks in, I’ll die on the spot.
Pro: She’s still in the shower. The water’s running. It would only take a moment.
Con: She notices everything. She’ll know.

Andy sighed shakily, rubbing her thumb over the polished edge of one clamp. She imagined the sharp pinch, imagined the jolt it would send through her body. Would it hurt too much? Would it be unbearable? Or—God help her—would it feel good?

Her face burned just thinking about it.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring down at the little things in her hands as if they held an answer she couldn’t find anywhere else. Her breath came faster, shallow, until she finally whispered, “Do I dare…?”

The water stopped.

Andy’s heart leapt straight into her throat. She scrambled up from the bed, panic sparking through her veins. She barely had time to shove the drawer closed with her hip before the bathroom door opened.

Miranda stepped out in her robe, steam curling around her like mist, her silver hair pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck. She moved with her usual effortless grace, adjusting the tie of the robe as she crossed the room.

Andy, caught in the middle, froze. She shoved the clamps behind her back in a clumsy rush, fingers curled tight around the cool metal. Her pulse thundered so loudly she was sure it could be heard across the room.

Miranda’s eyes flicked briefly toward her, that usual sharp, unreadable glance. “Andrea,” she said smoothly, her tone neutral, as though nothing were out of place.

Andy forced a weak smile, the heat of the hidden clamps burning against her skin even though they were made of cold silver.

Andy’s smile wobbled, her throat tight, as Miranda moved farther into the room with her usual unhurried elegance. The faint scent of her perfume—crisp, expensive, unmistakably her—mingled with the steam drifting from the bathroom.

Miranda adjusted the cuff of her robe before glancing toward the nightstand. “I was looking over some of the spring editions earlier,” she remarked, her tone conversational, almost distracted. “I’m convinced the color palettes were far too muted. Honestly, what was the team thinking? Beige in April.” She gave the faintest huff of disdain.

Andy clutched the clamps tighter behind her back, pulse thundering. Her palms were damp, the cool metal pressing against her skin like evidence. She forced a nod, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her. “Y-yeah, I mean… beige isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Miranda’s gaze flicked back to her, sharp for just a second, before softening again. “At least someone agrees with me.” She crossed to the vanity, idly running a fingertip over the surface, her reflection caught in the mirror. “Did you manage to eat dinner earlier, or did you bury yourself in that article again?”

Andy laughed nervously, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening painfully around the clamps. “I—I ate. Eventually. Just… leftovers.”

“Mm.” Miranda’s reply was soft, distracted, as she adjusted a few bottles neatly into place. To anyone else, it might have seemed like idle small talk, but to Andy it was unbearable—every word stretching out the seconds, every pause an opportunity for Miranda to suddenly turn, look, and see the guilty flush on her face.

Andy tried to steady her breathing, tried to act like she wasn’t hiding something behind her back, but every muscle in her body screamed that she was.

Andy’s stomach dropped the moment Miranda turned fully toward her, eyes narrowing just slightly—enough to pierce right through the careful smile Andy was plastering on her face.

“Andrea,” Miranda said, her voice smooth but carrying that quiet authority that made Andy’s knees feel like jelly. “I know you’re hiding something.”

The words hit like cold water. Andy’s chest tightened, and the clamps behind her back suddenly felt unbearably heavy. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but her fingers curled instinctively, pressing the metal harder into her palms.

Miranda took a step closer, still calm, measured, giving Andy time to respond—but not too much time. “It’s very… obvious, Andrea. The way you’re standing, the way you’re holding yourself. You’re trying too hard to look casual.”

Andy swallowed, heat blooming across her face. “I—I was just… uh…” Her voice faltered, and for a moment she considered throwing the clamps onto the bed and confessing everything. But the words wouldn’t come.

Miranda’s lips quirked in the tiniest hint of a smile, just enough to unsettle Andy further. “I don’t need you to say anything,” she said quietly, almost kindly. “I just want you to understand that I see. Always.”

Andy’s hands shook slightly, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go. The moment stretched, tense and delicate, the steam from Miranda’s recent shower curling lazily through the room like a third observer.

“You can put it down,” Miranda added softly, her gaze steady. “Or you can tell me why it’s there. Either way, hiding it won’t work.”

Andy’s throat tightened. She wanted to speak, to explain, to make excuses, but her curiosity—and her fear—warred with every word.

Andy’s fingers trembled as she slowly brought the clamps out from behind her back, holding them up so Miranda could see. The small silver metal glinted in the soft light, simple and unassuming, yet Andy felt exposed just for revealing them.

Miranda’s gaze didn’t waver; she simply observed, calm and unreadable, letting Andy’s panic fill the room.

“I… I just—uh…” Andy’s words stumbled out, rushed and shaky. “I bought them to… I don’t know… to see what it was like. I’ve been curious, that’s all. I didn’t… I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Her voice pitched higher with every word, her hands twisting the clamps nervously. “I didn’t…I wasn’t planning on…you know, using them! I just wanted to understand…the idea. I thought I could look at them, maybe hold them…”

She trailed off, cheeks burning, fully aware of how ridiculous she probably sounded.

Miranda’s expression softened ever so slightly, though her eyes were still piercing. “I see,” she said quietly, folding her arms. “Curiosity is not a crime, Andrea.”

Andy exhaled shakily, lowering the clamps a little, relief and residual panic twisting in her chest. The tension didn’t leave entirely, but at least now it was out in the open.

Miranda’s eyes lingered on the small silver clamps in Andy’s hands. To her, they were just…clamps. Simple, polished metal, nothing dramatic or intimidating. She tilted her head slightly, her brow arching ever so slightly in curiosity.

“And these,” she said, her voice smooth and deliberate, “what exactly are they for?”

Andy’s cheeks flamed hotter, and she fumbled with the clamps, twisting them in her hands like they might explain themselves. “They’re kind of for the chest,” she blurted out, words tumbling over one another. “It’s…you clamp them on, and um, it’s like…sensation play?”

She trailed off, realizing how little that actually explained, and how ridiculous she probably sounded. Her heart hammered as she held them out, desperate for Miranda to just understand without judging.

Miranda’s lips quirked in that faint, calculating way she always had. “Sensation play,” she repeated thoughtfully, as if filing it away in her mind. “So for pleasure?”

Andy nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Y-yeah! Just…curiosity. I’ve never tried it before, I just wanted to understand. I thought I could see what it felt like—safely. That’s it.”

Miranda’s gaze softened fractionally, though it remained steady, calm, and judging just enough to keep Andy’s nerves taut. “Mm,” she said, folding her arms. “I see. Well, curiosity is understandable. Just don’t hurt yourself.”

Andy exhaled shakily, lowering the clamps a little, a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment coursing through her. Miranda wasn’t judging—at least, not harshly—but Andy could feel every heartbeat, every flush of heat in her face, as if the room itself had grown smaller around her.

Andy’s hands twisted the small silver clamps nervously, her pulse racing faster with every passing second. She bit her lip, her throat dry, and finally—before she could talk herself out of it—she blurted out, almost whispering, “C-Can I try them on you?”

Miranda froze for a fraction of a second, the calm mask on her face holding, but her eyes flickered with surprise, sharp and assessing. Andy’s heart nearly stopped. She’d expected curiosity, maybe judgment—but not this.

“I—uh—I mean, I just wanted to see how it worked,” Andy rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “I thought… maybe if I tried it on you first…I’d understand better…safely. I promise I’d be careful!”

Her cheeks burned hotter with every syllable, her fingers twisting the clamps tighter as if holding them gave her courage and torment at the same time.

Miranda’s gaze didn’t waver. She tilted her head, lips pressed in a thoughtful line, her posture calm and unshaken. “You want to use these on me?” she repeated evenly, as if testing the idea in her own mind. “I see.”

Andy nodded quickly, almost too eagerly. “Just…just to show me? I won’t—nothing bad, I swear! I just need to understand how they work.”

Miranda studied her quietly, those piercing eyes weighing her, analyzing not just the request, but the trembling eagerness behind it. Finally, she let out a faint sigh, a small, controlled exhale that somehow made Andy’s stomach twist even more.

“Mm,” Miranda said slowly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Very well. But carefully, Andrea. I trust you won’t overdo it.”

Andy’s heart leapt in her chest, equal parts panic and exhilaration, as she carefully stepped closer, clamps in hand, hands shaking with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached out to undo Miranda’s robe. The older woman's breasts were full and firm, her nipples already erect from the shower. Andy took a deep breath, her fingers brushing against the cold metal as she clipped the first clamp onto Miranda's nipple.

Miranda quickly gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as the clamp bit into her flesh. Andy watched, mesmerized, as Miranda's body responded to the sensation. She could see the older woman's arousal.

Encouraged, Andy clipped the second clamp onto Miranda's other nipple. She moaned, her body arching towards the younger woman. Andy could feel her own pussy getting wet, her clit throbbing with need.

"Fuck, Miranda," Andy breathed, her fingers tracing the line of the clamps. "You look so…gorgeous."

Miranda opened her eyes, her gaze meeting Andrea’s. "You're not so bad yourself, Andrea," she said, her voice thick with desire. "Now, why don't you take off those clothes and show me what you've got."

Andy didn't need to be told twice. She quickly stripped off her clothes, her body quivering with anticipation. Miranda's gaze raked over her, her eyes darkening with desire.

"Get on the bed, Andy," Miranda commanded, her voice low and husky. "I want to taste you."

Andy complied, her body shaking with anticipation as Miranda climbed onto the bed. The older woman's mouth was hot and wet as she licked Andy's pussy, her tongue flicking over the younger woman's clit. Andy moaned, her fingers tangling in Miranda's hair as she brought her to the brink of orgasm.

"Fuck, Miranda," Andy gasped, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm. "I'm coming."

Miranda didn't stop, her tongue lapping at Andy's pussy as the younger woman came. Andy could feel her juices flowing, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm.

When Andy finally came down from her high, she looked at Miranda, her gaze filled with gratitude and desire. "Thank you, Miranda," she said, her voice hoarse. "That was amazing."

Now they lay on the bed, the air thick with heat and unspoken tension. Andy’s chest rose and fell faster than Miranda’s, her pulse hammering like it wanted to escape her ribs despite not having the clamps on herself.

“God, these hurt,” Miranda admitted, voice shaky, breath hitching. Andy’s hands hovered nervously, unsure whether to touch or pull back. “Take them off,” she whispered, and the tone—soft, deliberate, commanding—sent a shiver down Andy’s spine.

Andy’s fingers twitched, suspended between obedience and curiosity. She swallowed hard, the metallic gleam of the clamps still vivid in her mind, and the weight of the moment pressed against her like a physical thing. Every muscle in her body was taut, waiting, as if Miranda’s single whispered order had the power to unravel her completely.

Andy’s hands moved almost of their own accord, reaching out to undo the clamps. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unclasped the first one, then the second, letting them drop softly onto the sheets.

“Mm, careful,” Miranda murmured, a faint hum of approval in her throat, eyes half-closed as she leaned back against the pillows.

Andy’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, a spark of daring in her chest despite the nervous fluttering of her own heart. “Careful?” she teased lightly. “You say that like I’m the one in trouble.”

Miranda’s eyes flicked toward her, just the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “And you aren’t?”

Miranda leaned closer, her fingers brushing against Andy’s arm as if testing the waters, playful but gentle. “Maybe not yet,” she whispered, voice low, teasing, letting her thumb trace the edge of the sheet near Andy’s hand. “But you could be, if you’re not careful.”

Miranda hummed again, a sound somewhere between amusement and warning, and Andy felt the thrill of their shared tension spike through her. Every subtle glance, every soft word hung in the air between them, intoxicating and charged.

Andy’s smile widened, her playful daring growing bolder, but she kept her movements deliberate, careful—enough to tease, enough to thrill, but never crossing the line Miranda had drawn.

Andy’s fingers lingered on the sheets, brushing just close enough to feel Miranda’s warmth, her teasing smile softening into something more intimate, more vulnerable. Miranda’s eyes met hers, calm but bright, a subtle acknowledgment that the game—and the trust—was shared.

For a long moment, neither spoke, letting the quiet of the room and the lingering heat between them do the talking. Andy’s pulse slowed, the initial rush of adrenaline giving way to a steady, almost gentle thrill.

Finally, Andy leaned back slightly, still close enough to feel the faint scent of Miranda’s hair, and whispered with a playful sigh, “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Miranda hummed softly, a quiet approval, and shifted just enough to pull the blanket around them both. “Perhaps,” she said, her voice low, carrying that same measured control, “but don’t think this means you’re off the hook for curiosity.”

Andy laughed softly, a mix of relief and amusement, and let herself sink into the warmth beside Miranda, the clamps forgotten for now on the sheets. The tension that had pulsed through the night softened into something shared, unspoken, and electric—the kind of connection that lingered long after the moment had passed.

And in that quiet, the thrill of curiosity, trust, and teasing intertwined, leaving them both with a sense that tonight was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

Today had been utterly exhausting. From the moment she’d arrived at Runway’s glass doors that morning, Andy had been swept into Miranda’s orbit, forced to match the Editor-in-Chief’s pace as they navigated a world that seemed to never stop moving. The corridors of the building had been alive with the staccato of high heels on polished floors, the buzz of phones clamped to ears, and the chatter of assistants trading updates in urgent whispers. Outside, flashing cameras had all but blinded her, their bulbs popping like tiny fireworks as they tracked Miranda’s every step, hungry for the slightest flicker of expression.

Interview after interview blurred together, each journalist sharper, more eager to pierce Miranda’s carefully crafted armor. Andy scribbled notes, checked times, adjusted the recorder, her pen scratching furiously to keep up with the clipped precision of Miranda’s replies. Then came the photoshoots—rooms transformed into shrines of perfection where lighting rigs glared down, makeup artists fluttered around like anxious moths, and Miranda’s gaze cut through the chaos with surgical sharpness. Every detail mattered. A hemline a fraction too low, a strand of hair catching the light wrong, even the faintest crease in fabric—all of it drew Miranda’s scrutiny, and Andy’s heart would clench each time, waiting for the verdict.

By the afternoon, Andy felt as though she’d been hollowed out. Her arms were sore from carrying garment bags and prop boards, her shoulders tense from balancing the day’s ever-shifting schedule, and her head still rang with the click-click-click of camera shutters echoing in her ears. Even her feet throbbed inside her heels, every step a reminder of just how far she’d pushed herself. And yet, Miranda strode forward without a single misstep—her movements fluid, deliberate, as though she were immune to the fatigue that clung to everyone else. Not a hair was out of place, not a single flicker of weariness touched her face. She was, as always, an untouchable force of control and elegance.

Andy couldn’t decide if it left her in awe… or if it left her wondering how anyone could possibly keep up without breaking.

By the time they finally returned to their suite at the Savoy, Andy felt every bit as if she’d been run over by a bus—and then asked to smile for the press while brushing herself off. Her body protested with every step, her heels biting into sore feet, her shoulder aching from the weight of Miranda’s bag she’d carried half the day. Even her fingers throbbed faintly from the endless scribbling of notes and adjustments to schedules that never seemed to stay fixed for longer than five minutes.

The suite greeted them with an elegance so carefully composed it felt unreal, as though stepping into a stage set rather than a hotel room. Marble floors gleamed under the soft golden light, reflecting back the muted glow of antique sconces. Velvet curtains, rich and heavy, were drawn just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of the city below: rain-slick streets, lamps casting halos of light onto glistening pavement, taxis darting like fireflies through the London night. The air carried the faintest trace of polished wood and fresh flowers, the hotel’s quiet luxury settling around her like a blanket she hadn’t yet earned the right to touch.

After a day defined by the constant assault of flashing bulbs and shouted questions, the stillness was almost jarring. The silence rang in her ears, louder than the chaos had been, as though her body didn’t quite know how to accept the sudden absence of noise. Andy stood near the door for a long moment, bag sliding from her shoulder, simply trying to breathe without bracing for the next command or interruption. Her mind buzzed with static, a collage of voices, camera clicks, and Miranda’s sharp, decisive tones. It was as if her brain hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that the day was, for now, truly over.

Miranda, however, slipped seamlessly into the suite as though she hadn’t just spent the last ten hours dominating rooms full of people. Her coat slid from her shoulders into Andy’s waiting arms with effortless expectation, and she moved across the room like the embodiment of composure—graceful, unhurried, entirely untouched by exhaustion. For Andy, it was almost maddening. Miranda was a whirlwind and a monument all at once, someone who bent the chaos of the day around her until it obeyed her rhythm, and Andy, trailing in her wake, felt both privileged to witness it and absolutely wrung out.

Andy dropped her bag with a soft thud by the door, the straps slipping from her aching shoulders like dead weight. She bent to tug off her heels, sighing in relief as she wriggled her sore toes against the cool marble. Her feet throbbed angrily, but at least they were free. For a moment, she simply stood there barefoot, debating whether she had the strength to move any farther.

Miranda, naturally, was already settled as though the day hadn’t touched her at all. She had claimed the corner of the long leather sofa, posture as impeccable as ever, a sleek tablet in hand glowing faintly against the soft gold of the lamps. The faint click of her nails against the glass was the only sound she made as she flicked through frame after frame from the afternoon’s shoot, her expression unreadable but her attention razor-sharp.

Andy staggered toward the chaise lounge opposite and all but flopped into it, letting her limbs sprawl gracelessly in contrast to Miranda’s perfectly contained poise. She tilted her head toward the parted curtains, taking in the blurred reflection of the city: glistening black streets, neon puddles stretching beneath the drizzle, the ghostly glow of London at night.

“London looks dreary tonight,” she murmured, voice thick with exhaustion but carrying a trace of wry humor. “But at least it’s quiet here…for now.”

Miranda’s eyes flicked up from the tablet, cool blue narrowing just slightly. One arched brow lifted in mild disdain, her tone clipped as she echoed the word: “Dreary?” The syllables alone carried enough weight to make Andy wince, though Miranda’s gaze softened with the faintest gleam of challenge. “It’s atmospheric, Andrea. Properly dramatic. That’s the point.”

Andy bit back a laugh, sinking deeper into the chaise. “Right. Atmospheric. I’ll try to remember that when my feet stop screaming.”

Miranda didn’t reply at once, simply returned her attention to the glowing images—but Andy swore she saw the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth, so fleeting she couldn’t be sure it had been there at all.

Andy exhaled, a long, weary breath that seemed to drain straight out of her bones, and let her head fall back against the cushions. The soft leather was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the overheated whirl of the day. The city outside might have been soaked in rain, blurred in shades of gray and gold through the crack in the curtains, but in here the suite wrapped around her with a quiet, indulgent warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been craving. The lamps cast a honeyed glow, muted and steady, like a balm against the frantic strobe of camera flashes that still haunted her vision.

For the first time in hours, Andy allowed herself to stop moving. No phone buzzing at her hip, no frantic notes to jot, no eyes on her waiting for the next task. She sank into the stillness, limbs heavy, shoulders slowly unclenching as if they’d forgotten how. It was only a fragile reprieve, she knew—Miranda’s next command, however casual, would inevitably pull her back into motion. But here, in this pocket of silence, she let herself breathe.

Her gaze drifted across the room, unguarded now, to where Miranda sat. Even in the supposed privacy of their suite, she was a figure of perfect composure, posture straight, every movement deliberate. The faint glow of the tablet lit her profile in cool silver, throwing her sharp cheekbones and poised expression into delicate relief. There was something strangely grounding about the sight—this woman who never seemed to bend beneath the weight of the world, sitting across from Andy in the quiet, unshaken.

It was almost comforting. Almost.

Miranda finally set the tablet aside, her fingers brushing once over the screen before placing it neatly on the side table. With a quiet sigh, she rose, stretching just enough to ease the stiffness from her shoulders, then turned her gaze to the tall mirror across the room. The reflection staring back was flawless—smooth hair, unwrinkled blouse, the faintest gleam of light catching on her jewelry. Satisfied, she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve and spoke without looking at Andy.

“I’ll be going to a dinner in a little while,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind, like the brushing of silk against glass. “It’s important. You’re free to explore London while I’m gone.”

Andy blinked, caught off guard by the rare offering of freedom. For a moment she pictured herself out there—the misty air brushing her cheeks, umbrellas colliding as strangers hurried past, neon signs bleeding color into rain-slick puddles. She could almost feel the vibration of the Underground beneath her feet, hear the chorus of accents drifting through crowded pubs. It should have been thrilling. The kind of adventure she’d once imagined when she thought about traveling with Runway.

But when Miranda left, the door shutting behind her with that definitive click that seemed to seal the suite in silence, Andy just… stopped. The echo of that sound lingered in her chest, and suddenly the thought of venturing into the unfamiliar city felt impossibly heavy. Her body, still weighted with the day’s demands, refused to move.

Instead, she sank deeper into the chaise lounge, sliding lower into the cushions until her spine melted against them. Her heels dangled loosely from her fingers before she let them drop to the rug with a muffled thump. Beyond the glass, London glowed—an endless expanse of motion and light, alive and buzzing in a rhythm she couldn’t summon the strength to match. To her, it might as well have been another planet.

Her thoughts drifted, looping back over the day in fragments—the burst of camera flashes that still pricked at her vision, Miranda’s sharp commands slicing through the air, the blur of faces and questions she could barely remember answering. The more she replayed it, the heavier her eyelids grew, until her exhaustion pressed down like gravity. Curiosity, freedom, even the promise of London’s restless pulse—all of it surrendered to fatigue.

She didn’t explore. The thought of stepping outside, of pushing through the crush of umbrellas and unfamiliar streets, felt like more work than freedom. Instead, she stayed in the suite, wrapped in its warmth and quiet, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bursts of laughter that drifted up faintly from below. It was a strange kind of peace—knowing the city churned endlessly just outside, but here, in this cocoon of velvet and marble, she was untethered from it. For once, she didn’t have to move, didn’t have to impress anyone, didn’t have to anticipate Miranda’s every next step. She simply… existed. A pause. A breath. Letting London swirl on without her.

She flipped on the TV, the soft glow spilling across the room and breaking up the shadows. The channels flickered by in quick succession: a stiffly delivered news segment, a host on a cooking show flambéing something that reminded her uncomfortably of her last failed attempt at dinner, a glossy travel documentary with a voiceover so calm it nearly lulled her to sleep. None of it stuck. The sound became background noise, thin and distant, as though she were watching from underwater.

Abandoning the remote, Andy pushed herself up with a sigh and wandered toward the minibar. The tiny door clicked open, releasing a faint coolness that brushed against her bare legs. She leaned on the counter, idly poking at the neatly arranged contents—rows of miniature bottles standing at attention, tiny snacks stacked as if waiting to be chosen. She pulled out a small bottle of sparkling water, twisted it in her hand, then set it down unopened. A snack followed, then another, each inspected without appetite before being returned to its place or left in a careless line on the counter. It was motion without intent, her body restless though her mind begged for stillness.

The silence behind the flickering TV grew heavier, and Andy caught herself glancing toward the door as though expecting Miranda to sweep back in at any moment, scattering this aimless drifting with purpose.

She wandered from room to room, not with purpose, but with the kind of restless energy that comes when the body isn’t quite ready to surrender to sleep. Her fingers trailed absently over the suite’s surfaces—the cool marble of the counters, the polished sheen of the end tables, the supple leather arm of a chair. Each texture grounded her in its own way, proof that she was here, inside this rarefied pocket of luxury that still didn’t quite feel like hers.

She tidied as she moved, though not out of obligation—just small, almost unconscious gestures. A stray magazine left slightly askew was squared neatly on the coffee table. A pillow slumped to one side of the sofa was fluffed and returned to its crisp angle. The throw blanket, half-slipped from the chaise lounge, was folded into a more deliberate drape. It wasn’t Runway work, it wasn’t Miranda’s orders—it was just something for her hands to do, a rhythm to quiet the static in her head.

Eventually, she drifted back toward the window, drawn once more to the slice of city visible between the velvet curtains. The rain hadn’t let up; it slicked the streets below in a mirror sheen, bending the lights of neon signs and headlights into shimmering streaks of color. Umbrellas bobbed like black petals in the current of pedestrians, taxis cut through the wet roads in sharp, deliberate lines, and every so often, a faint flash of red from a double-decker bus broke through the blur.

Andy rested her temple lightly against the cool glass, watching the flow of it all from her safe distance. She felt detached, suspended above it, as if she were outside time for a moment.

Eventually, she returned to the chaise lounge, tucking her knees close and pulling the throw blanket around her shoulders. The cushions seemed to cradle her in a way the bustling city outside never could. She scrolled absently through her phone, eyes flicking over texts she didn’t really need to answer, news alerts she didn’t care to open, notifications that felt oddly distant from the world she occupied now. After a few minutes, she set it aside, letting her hand dangle loosely over the edge of the chaise.

Her thoughts drifted, unmoored, the kind that came only when the demands of the day finally loosened their grip. Time stretched lazily, the hours soft and formless, broken only by the occasional laugh spilling from a distant apartment window, the faint hum of traffic far below, and the slow, deliberate tick of the clock on the wall. Those small sounds seemed to punctuate the silence, reminders that the world outside still turned, even if she had stepped out of its rhythm.

The minutes slipped into hours, though Andy barely registered the passage. She stayed cocooned in the suite, surrounded by Miranda’s carefully curated world of gleaming surfaces, tailored lines, and subtle luxuries. Even her idleness seemed to echo the precision of the space—as though simply being still here carried its own quiet ritual. She didn’t need to go anywhere, didn’t need to fill the silence with anything more than these small, meaningless acts: adjusting the blanket, tracing patterns in the condensation on her water bottle, staring at the shifting light outside the window.

After what felt like hours of drifting between the TV, the minibar, and the chaise lounge, Andy finally decided she needed something more than aimless distraction. She rose, stretching her stiff limbs, and made her way down the short hall to the bathroom—a sleek, spa-like sanctuary tucked just beyond the main living space of the suite. The marble floors were cool and smooth beneath her bare feet, a sharp, refreshing contrast to the lingering warmth of the living area. Soft, ambient lighting bathed the space in a gentle glow, casting muted reflections off the polished fixtures and gleaming countertops. It felt almost otherworldly, as if she had stepped out of the hectic, rain-soaked streets of London and into a quiet oasis all her own.

She turned on the taps, adjusting them carefully, letting the water hiss and splash until it reached that perfect balance: warm enough to coax tension from every tight muscle, but not so hot that it made her head spin. The bathtub filled quickly, and the steady rush of water became a hypnotic rhythm, drowning out the distant hum of the city and the faint echoes of the day’s chaos.

Andy eased herself into the tub, the warm water lapping against her skin and immediately coaxing a long, shuddering sigh from her lips. The heat seeped into her sore shoulders and stiff back, drawing the knots of fatigue from the relentless day into something pliable, almost forgotten. Her limbs floated, weightless, sinking deeper into the water as if the tub itself was absorbing the exhaustion she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

She closed her eyes, letting herself exist entirely in the moment—the softness of the water, the muted golden glow of the bathroom lights, the faint, distant patter of rain against the window. For a few precious minutes, she could pretend the world outside didn’t exist, that cameras, commands, and schedules were a distant memory. It was a rare indulgence, one she felt both guilty for enjoying and desperate to cling to.

She rested her head against the edge of the tub, closing her eyes and letting herself simply exist—no schedules, no cameras, no constant need to anticipate Miranda’s next move. The warm water cradled her body, coaxing her muscles to release their tension, and the gentle golden glow of the bathroom lights reflected softly off the marble surfaces. The city outside continued its restless energy, rain streaking the windows and headlights casting fleeting patterns across the glass, but inside, everything was calm, private, entirely hers. For a few fleeting moments, Andy could forget the relentless pace of the day, let her chest rise and fall without the shadow of expectation pressing on her.

Her mind had begun to wander again, drifting toward nothing at all, when it happened—a faint click from the suite door, so subtle she almost thought she’d imagined it, followed by the delicate echo of heels against marble. Her eyes snapped open, heart hammering in her chest, and her hands clenched the sides of the tub.

“Miranda?” she murmured under her breath, the word barely escaping her lips, tinged with both surprise and a spike of apprehension. She shifted slightly in the water, the tub sloshing around her, muscles tensing reflexively.

From the living area, the soft, measured sounds of Miranda moving reached her: the rustle of fabric, the slight shuffle as someone passed over polished floors, the faint tap of a heel brushing against the carpet.

Andy froze for a moment, caught between instinct and disbelief, unsure whether to call out, stay still, or dash for a robe. The bath that had moments ago been a sanctuary of warmth and solitude now felt impossibly exposed. Every splash, every small movement seemed magnified, echoing off the marble and polished surfaces, turning the gentle hum of the city outside into an almost deafening reminder that her private reprieve had ended.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and adrenaline surged through her limbs. With a sharp intake of breath, she shot upright in the tub, the water lapping over the edges and dripping onto the cool marble floor. Heart hammering, she snatched the nearest towel, wrapping it tightly around her body as if the thin fabric could shield her from being seen. Her hands trembled slightly as she patted at her damp hair and skin, the steam from the bath curling in small clouds around her.

Andy stole a quick, anxious glance toward the living room, half-expecting to see Miranda already there, scanning the space with that piercing, all-seeing gaze. But the heels had stopped moving, and the soft hum of Miranda’s voice had fallen entirely silent—an ominous pause that made Andy’s pulse hammer in her chest and her stomach knot tight.

She hurried to finish patting her hair and shoulders dry, the towel clutched tightly around her, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. Her fingers trembled slightly as they smoothed across her damp skin, and she drew a deep, shaky breath, silently hoping the thin barrier of fabric was enough to shield her modesty. The luxury of the bath—the warmth, the quiet—had evaporated, replaced by a sudden, acute awareness that Miranda was back, and that any moment now, the formidable woman could step into the bathroom or catch sight of her before she was fully ready.

Andy froze mid-towel adjustment, realizing with a jolt that Miranda hadn’t come any closer. The soft shuffle of heels, the rustle of fabric, even the faint whisper of movement—everything had stopped somewhere in the suite. The only sound was the distant murmur of traffic and occasional laughter from the streets below. A slow, cautious thought crept into her mind, prickling with both dread and curiosity: the bathroom door wasn’t completely closed. A narrow, almost imperceptible crack ran along the edge, just wide enough to let her glimpse into the living area.

Through it, the space beyond looked calm, almost deceptively so. The warm glow of the lamps highlighted the sleek lines of the sofa and the polished surfaces of the side tables. And there, faintly, in the stillness of the suite, Andy could just make out Miranda’s silhouette—or at least the suggestion of it—seated or standing somewhere beyond the crack, poised, deliberate, entirely in control.

Andy’s heart raced, a mixture of tension and the strange, electric curiosity that came from knowing she was being observed—or could be—without knowing precisely when or how. The pause stretched, long and taut, as if the suite itself were holding its breath along with her.

Her pulse quickened, a tangle of curiosity and something she couldn’t quite name twisting through her chest. Every step she took closer to the crack of the bathroom door was careful, measured—her fingers clutching the towel tighter, willing it to shield her from sight. She barely dared to breathe, as though even the softest exhale might betray her presence.

Through the narrow sliver of space, Miranda’s silhouette came into focus. Every movement was deliberate, fluid, and commanding, the kind of graceful precision that seemed to bend the room to her will. Andy’s eyes followed each gesture, the slight tilt of Miranda’s head, the controlled arc of her arms, the calm confidence that radiated from every line of her posture. It was mesmerizing, almost magnetic—the way someone could be so utterly poised and self-assured, even in a moment meant to be private.

Andy’s heartbeat thudded louder in her chest, a mix of astonishment and the electric thrill of observing something forbidden, of catching a glimpse behind the carefully maintained veneer of control Miranda projected. She felt like a voyeur not everything intimate.

She knew she should look away, should retreat and preserve the privacy of the moment. Yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from the sight of Miranda moving, adjusting, transitioning with quiet, fluid efficiency. Each measured movement spoke volumes—strength, precision, confidence—and Andy found herself transfixed, absorbing it all with a mix of awe, admiration, and the sharp tension of knowing she was witnessing something she wasn’t supposed to see.

Miranda's suit jacket came off first, revealing a silk blouse that clung to her body. Andy could see the outline of her bra, the lace detailing hinting at the treasure that lay beneath. Then, Miranda unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers working deftly to reveal her toned stomach and the curve of her breasts. Andy felt a familiar warmth spreading between her legs, her body responding to the erotic sight before her.

Miranda's skirt was next, pooling at her feet to reveal a pair of lacy panties that left little to the imagination. Andy's mind raced with thoughts of what lay beneath, her imagination running wild. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She knew she should stop watching, but she couldn't tear her eyes away.

Miranda turned around, her eyes meeting Andy's. There was a moment of silence, a moment where time seemed to stand still. Then, Miranda smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down Andy's spine. Andy felt a flush creep up her neck, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She had been caught, and she knew it.

But Miranda didn't seem angry. Instead, she crossed the room, her movements slow and deliberate. She stood in front of Andy, her body mere inches away. Andy could feel the heat radiating off her, could smell the musky scent of her perfume. She felt her body respond, her nipples hardening beneath her shirt.

Miranda reached out, her fingers tracing the line of Andy's jaw. Andy closed her eyes, her breath hitching in her throat. She could feel Miranda's fingers on her skin, could feel the electricity that seemed to crackle between them. She knew she should push her away, but she didn't want to. She wanted this, wanted Miranda.

Miranda's fingers trailed down Andy's neck, her touch light and teasing. Andy's breath hitched in her throat, her body arching towards Miranda's touch. She could feel herself getting wetter, her body damp with her arousal. She wanted more, wanted Miranda's fingers on her skin, wanted to feel her touch.

Andy's body responded without her conscious control, her hips bucking against Miranda's touch. She could feel the heat building inside her, could feel the tension coiling in her stomach. She knew she was close, knew she was about to come. She tried to hold back, tried to resist the urge, but it was too much.

Andy's body convulsed, her orgasm hitting her like a tidal wave. She cried out, her voice echoing off the walls of the hotel suite. She could feel the wetness spreading between her legs, could feel the warmth of her release. She felt Miranda's fingers slip inside her, felt her touch her in the most intimate of ways.

Andy's orgasm subsided, leaving her breathless and panting. She looked up at Miranda, her eyes wide with surprise. She had never experienced anything like this before, had never felt so alive, so free. She knew she should feel ashamed, should feel embarrassed, but she didn't. She felt empowered, felt like she had just discovered a part of herself she never knew existed.

Miranda leaned down, her lips brushing against Andy's ear. "Next time, I'll let you watch me undress," she whispered, her voice low and sultry. Andy felt a shiver run down her spine, her body responding to Miranda's words. She knew there would be a next time, knew she wanted more. She was ready, ready for whatever Miranda had in store for her.

Chapter Text

Andy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the old leather chair creaking softly beneath her weight as she tried—unsuccessfully—to focus on the stack of neatly clipped papers in front of her. Her pen hovered above the page, its tip resting just enough to leave a faint dot of ink that spread like a tiny bruise against the margin. She adjusted again, crossing and uncrossing her legs, as though her body itself was rebelling against the discipline of stillness.

Miranda’s study was unlike the rest of the townhouse, which was curated with pristine modern elegance—sleek lines, subdued colors, art pieces that whispered quiet prestige. This room, however, felt like an entirely different world. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves crammed with books, spines worn with time and touch. A faint, comforting musk of leather bindings, ink, and parchment lingered in the air, undercut by the sharper notes of Miranda’s perfume—subtle yet commanding, like the woman herself. The heavy oak desk between them bore faint scratches and rings, marks that hinted at decades of use despite its polished surface. The lamp’s golden glow spilled across piles of manuscripts and notes, casting elongated shadows that seemed to bend toward Miranda as if drawn to her gravity.

Miranda sat across from her, posture impeccable, her slender fingers moving with quiet precision as she turned a page of the manuscript she was devouring. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked rapidly across the lines, every so often narrowing or softening with barely perceptible changes in expression. To Andy, it was mesmerizing—watching Miranda dissect words and ideas with the same surgical elegance she applied to fashion. She held her pen loosely, tapping the edge of the paper whenever she came across a line worth noting, the soft sound punctuating the silence of the room like a metronome.

Andy tried to mirror that discipline, to keep her own eyes pinned to the paragraphs she was supposed to be reviewing. But the letters blurred, lines bleeding into one another until they became nothing more than a jumble. She found her gaze drifting upward, inevitably snagging on the woman across from her. The stern set of Miranda’s mouth, the faint arch of her brow, the unyielding aura of control she exuded—it was all painfully distracting.

She had been dating Miranda for a few months now, a fact that still sent a thrill down Andy’s spine every time she thought of it. Dating. Miranda Priestly. The same woman who had once been her impossible, terrifying boss was now the person she texted before bed, the one whose laugh—when Andy managed to coax it out—was a secret reward that belonged only to her.

But tonight, there was something different. Andy felt it gnawing at the edges of her concentration, something heavier than her usual attraction, though that was still very much alive. Her pulse fluttered uncomfortably in her throat, and her mind kept circling back to the same thought she couldn’t quite pin down, let alone dismiss. It was a mix of nerves, desire, and something more vulnerable that she wasn’t sure she wanted Miranda to see just yet.

Her fingers tightened around her pen, and she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing her eyes back to the papers. But the truth was unavoidable—her focus wasn’t on the work, or even the words before her. It was entirely on Miranda.

Andy had recently stumbled into a discovery—one that had taken her by surprise with its intensity. It wasn’t something she’d ever imagined herself obsessing over, but once the thought had lodged itself in her head, it refused to leave. A new kink, quiet and insidious, rooted in something deceptively simple: hands. Not just any hands, but hands that moved with precision and authority, hands that could command or comfort with equal ease.

She had spent late nights down the rabbit hole of articles, forums, and images, her laptop glowing in the darkness as she devoured every nuance of this fascination. Fingers trailing over lips, nails grazing skin, palms pressing against throats or cheeks—she catalogued it all with a hunger she hadn’t felt in years. The more she read, the deeper she fell into it, until the idea no longer felt like curiosity but compulsion.

Now, sitting across from Miranda, the weight of that obsession pressed in on her. Her gaze betrayed her, flicking down from Miranda’s face to her hands resting on the manuscript. Long, elegant fingers, nails painted in a soft, gleaming neutral that only highlighted their immaculate shape. The subtle strength in the way Miranda held her pen, the practiced grace in the way her knuckles flexed as she turned a page—it all made Andy’s stomach tighten and her breath catch in her throat.

She shifted again, acutely aware of the heat rising in her cheeks. She tried to tell herself to look away, to focus on the neat rows of text in front of her, but her eyes disobeyed. Instead, they lingered on the slow, deliberate movement of Miranda’s thumb smoothing down the edge of a paper, the faint tap of her forefinger against the desk as she paused to think.

Andy’s imagination betrayed her, conjuring sensations with startling clarity. She wondered how those fingers would feel tracing the line of her jaw, or brushing across her lips in a silent command. More than anything, she wondered what it would be like to take them into her mouth, to feel their weight on her tongue, to taste the faint tang of Miranda’s perfume and polish. The thought made her pulse throb uncomfortably fast, each beat echoing in her ears.

Her throat went dry, and she swallowed hard, gripping her pen tighter as though the physical anchor would keep her from spiraling further. But the images kept coming—Miranda’s hand against her cheek, fingers pressing gently but insistently past her lips, that cool, practiced detachment in her eyes as she watched Andy give in.

Andy tore her gaze back to the papers, but the words swam uselessly. She bit down on her lip, praying Miranda wouldn’t notice the way her attention kept drifting, or the restless shifting of her legs beneath the desk.

Because if she did, Andy wasn’t sure she’d be able to explain the truth—that she was sitting here, in the quiet sanctum of Miranda’s study, unable to think of anything else but the taste of her lover’s fingers.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the rustle of paper and the steady scratch of Miranda’s pen. Then, with the same effortless authority she carried into every room, Miranda spoke without looking up.

“Runway’s spring issue is already behind schedule,” she said, her tone brisk, matter-of-fact. “Half the photographers apparently forgot what light is supposed to do to fabric, and Jacqueline insists on pushing that dreadful cover concept. I’ll have to remind her, again, that no one reads a magazine for mediocrity. They read it for vision.”

Andy straightened in her chair, nodding quickly, pen poised as though she were ready to take notes. But the truth was, her brain only caught fragments—spring issue…dreadful cover concept…vision—the rest blurred into background noise, drowned out by the hypnotic movements of Miranda’s hands.

Miranda gestured lightly with her pen, her wrist rolling with casual precision, fingers framing every word as if even her complaints deserved choreography. The gleam of her wedding-band-sized diamond ring caught the lamplight and flashed against Andy’s eyes, pulling her focus deeper. She nodded again, lips parting slightly, the motion automatic.

“I’ll need the entire accessories layout redone,” Miranda continued, finally turning a page with a quick flick of her fingers, the faint whssht of paper a whisper in the room. “And the couture spread requires someone competent enough to understand the difference between structure and draping. Honestly, is that too much to ask?”

Andy swallowed hard, her throat tight. She forced herself to murmur, “Right. Of course,” though she hadn’t entirely tracked what she was agreeing to. All she could see was the delicate bend of Miranda’s knuckles, the way her nails tapped briefly against the edge of the desk as she emphasized her frustration.

The older woman’s hands moved constantly—writing, underlining, sliding a sheet into a separate pile—and each movement was a small torment. Andy’s pulse drummed in her ears as her mind betrayed her again, overlaying fantasy onto reality: those fingers tilting her chin upward, that pen discarded so they could trace down her throat, pressing lightly at her lips. She nearly bit down on her own tongue to stop the thought from spiraling further.

Miranda’s voice cut sharply into the haze. “Andrea, are you listening?”

Andy blinked, forcing her gaze up, though her eyes flickered once more to Miranda’s poised hand resting on the manuscript before she met her gaze. “Yes, Miranda,” she said, a little too quickly. She gave another automatic nod, hoping it was enough to mask the heat blooming in her chest.

Miranda studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as though considering whether to probe further. Then she returned to her pages, voice resuming its measured cadence.

Andy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, clutching her pen until her knuckles whitened, trying desperately to appear composed even as her every thought was tangled around Miranda’s hands.

Andy cleared her throat, desperate to redirect her thoughts before Miranda’s scrutiny pinned her down again. “You know,” she blurted, her voice a little too loud in the hushed room, “I’ve been thinking about pitching something to a paper. Maybe a long-form piece…you know, something investigative. I don’t know what yet, but—uh—maybe something about the way local governments handle redevelopment projects, or…” She trailed off, fumbling, then quickly picked up the thread again.

She let out a nervous laugh, her pen tapping against her notebook in rapid little bursts, a poor attempt to bleed off the restless energy knotted in her chest. She was talking too much, she knew it, but at least it kept her mind off Miranda’s hands—mostly.

“I mean, I could do something else, actually,” Andy continued, words tumbling out before she could stop herself. “Balance something heavier with something lighter. That’s what they always tell you, right? That people like contrast, they like to feel informed but not crushed by the weight of the world, and—”

She stopped herself mid-sentence, suddenly aware of the silence on the other side of the desk. When she looked up, Miranda was no longer absorbed in her manuscript. She was watching Andy, her chin resting lightly on the back of one hand, her expression unreadable. But there was no mistaking it—she was listening. Not just hearing, but actually following, letting Andy’s words wash over her with a kind of quiet attentiveness.

Andy froze, her mouth half-open, realizing her babbling had been laid bare under that cool, steady gaze. A flush crept up her neck, equal parts embarrassment and something else—something softer, almost startled by the fact that Miranda, who so rarely gave her attention without demand, was giving it freely now.

“Go on,” Miranda said simply, her voice even but not unkind. The command was understated, almost indulgent, as though she was curious to see what Andy would do next.

Andy blinked, thrown, her thoughts scattering. For the first time that evening, she wasn’t thinking about hands or fantasies or kinks. She was thinking about the startling intimacy of being listened to—truly listened to—by Miranda Priestly.

Miranda tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes narrowing with the faintest glimmer of interest. “The redevelopment angle,” she said at last, her tone measured. “That has potential. It isn’t new, of course—corruption and mismanagement never are—but framing it through the impact on smaller communities? That could make it relevant. Accessible.”

Her pen clicked softly against the desk as she set it down, her fingers unfurling with deliberate grace. “People respond to stories that show them what’s being taken from them. Their corner shops, their parks, the buildings they’ve walked past for decades suddenly gone overnight. Government, at its core, is supposed to preserve—but too often, it consumes.”

Andy nodded quickly, trying to keep her expression thoughtful, but her attention was slipping again. Miranda’s words became a low hum, her mind betraying her as it zeroed in on the hand now resting in plain view on the desk. Fingers long and poised, nails immaculate, the subtle curve of her knuckles as she leaned her weight lightly against them. Even the casual bend of Miranda’s wrist seemed elegant, as though nothing her body did could ever be clumsy.

Andy’s lips parted slightly, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to ground herself. She could still hear Miranda, “…and when those who are meant to lead instead erode what should be safeguarded, the public loses faith. And faith, Andrea, is the only true currency government holds.” but each word was tangled with the image of those fingers brushing across her lips, pressing lightly, asking without asking.

Miranda shifted her hand then, absentmindedly drumming her fingers against the wood in a slow, steady rhythm while she continued her analysis. Andy’s stomach knotted, her pulse skipping in time with the sound. She nodded again, almost too quickly, hoping the motion would disguise how hard it was to keep her focus.

“Yes,” Andy managed, her voice faint, nearly hoarse. She willed her eyes upward, back to Miranda’s face, but found herself caught again in that downward pull. Miranda’s hands. Always her hands.

Andy forced her eyes up, willing herself to focus on the sharp cadence of Miranda’s words rather than the hypnotic curl of her fingers against the desk. But the pull was relentless, like gravity. Her gaze darted down again, snagging on the faint movement of Miranda’s thumb brushing idly against the edge of the manuscript, the elegant arc of her forefinger tapping once, twice, as though to punctuate her point.

Before she could stop herself, Andy’s voice slipped out, softer than she meant it to be. “How do you know that?”

Miranda’s hand stilled, her eyes lifting to meet Andy’s with a calm, cutting directness. There was no hesitation in her reply. “Stephen,” she said simply, her voice carrying the faintest thread of disdain. “He used to ramble on about the subject incessantly. Zoning laws, redevelopment projects, the supposed failure of municipal oversight. Dreadfully dull at the time, though I suppose it does leave one with a certain…foundation.”

She picked up her pen again, rolling it between her fingers in a slow, practiced motion that made Andy’s throat tighten.

Miranda’s gaze dropped briefly back to the page, but her hands remained in Andy’s line of sight, deliberate and maddening. Andy nodded along quickly, pretending she was digesting the point. In reality, all she could think about was how even in a throwaway anecdote about Stephen, Miranda’s hands had taken on center stage, commanding Andy’s attention more completely than any lecture ever could.

Her chest ached with the effort of restraint. She wanted to ask more—not about Stephen, not about zoning laws—but about what those fingers might feel like against her skin, in her mouth, curling and pressing and undoing her. Instead, she forced another quick nod, her voice steady only by sheer will. “Makes sense.”

But her eyes betrayed her, darting back down to Miranda’s hands, unable to stop themselves.

Miranda finally lifted her gaze from the page, the faint scratch of her pen falling silent. The lamplight caught in her eyes, pale and sharp, and Andy felt as though the air in the room thickened under that sudden attention. “Is there something you need, Andrea?” Miranda asked, her voice smooth, cool, measured—an edge of curiosity hidden beneath the ice.

Andy froze, her pen slipping slightly in her fingers. She hadn’t planned on speaking, not really—her thoughts had been meant to stay private, safely contained where Miranda’s gaze couldn’t reach. But now, with those eyes locked on her, it was as if the words had been summoned to the surface whether she wanted them or not. She hesitated, chest rising and falling too quickly, then drew in a shaky breath.

“Miranda,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “can I ask you something?”

One of Miranda’s brows arched, a subtle lift that managed to convey both intrigue and warning. She set her pen down with deliberate care, the soft click as it touched the desk loud in the quiet study. “Of course,” she replied, tone clipped but expectant, as though daring Andy to waste her time.

Andy’s throat tightened. Her heart hammered so violently she wondered if it was audible. She felt suddenly very small in the expanse of Miranda’s study, the towering bookshelves pressing in on her, the scent of parchment and perfume thick in her senses. Still, she forced the words out before fear could strangle them completely.

“I have a…” She faltered, swallowing hard, then pushed on. “A thing. An interest. And I was wondering if you’d be okay with it.”

Miranda said nothing at first. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating. She regarded Andy with that unreadable expression that had once reduced entire staff meetings to silence. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, her posture as regal as a queen settling into her throne. Her hands folded lightly in her lap, fingers interlacing in a gesture of composed elegance.

“Go on,” Miranda said at last, the words low, deliberate. Not permission, exactly, but invitation—delivered in that precise way of hers that managed to feel both generous and dangerous all at once.

Andy’s palms dampened against her papers, and she wasn’t sure if her next breath would be steady enough to carry her confession.

Andy took a breath so deep it almost hurt, her chest tight as if the words themselves weighed more than she could carry. “I want…” Her voice cracked, and she forced herself to hold Miranda’s gaze. “I want to suck on your fingers. While you work.”

The silence that followed stretched like a taut string. Miranda’s expression remained cool, perfectly composed, but Andy wasn’t imagining the subtle flicker in her eyes—the tiniest shift, a glint that betrayed intrigue. Miranda leaned back slightly, her body language unhurried, her presence filling the space with quiet dominance.

“And why,” Miranda said finally, her voice smooth as glass, “would you want to do that?”

Andy’s face flushed hot, her skin prickling under the weight of the question. She shifted in her chair, suddenly very aware of how small she felt across from Miranda’s commanding poise. “I don’t know,” she admitted, words tumbling out in a rush. “It just… it just turns me on. The thought of it, I mean.” Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her notebook, nails worrying at the paper until it crumpled.

Miranda was silent for several long seconds, studying her. The room seemed to hum with the sound of the clock on the far wall, each tick loud and insistent. Then Miranda tilted her head, her lips curving into something that was not quite a smile. “And what,” she asked, her tone deceptively mild, “do you expect to get out of this?”

Andy’s breath caught. The question lodged in her throat like a challenge. She swallowed, pulse hammering, and forced herself to answer. “I just want…” She hesitated, her voice trembling, then steadied herself. “I just want to feel your fingers in my mouth. I want to taste you.”

Her own admission echoed back at her in the silence, raw and vulnerable. She had never said anything like this out loud before, never laid bare a desire so strange, so consuming, and certainly not in front of Miranda.

Miranda’s gaze didn’t waver. She sat perfectly still, her hands resting in her lap, but there was a sharpness to her eyes now, as though she were dissecting Andy’s words, weighing their merit, deciding whether to dismiss or indulge.

Andy could hardly breathe. Every nerve in her body seemed to buzz, caught between dread and anticipation, waiting for Miranda’s verdict.

The silence pressed on until Andy thought she might break under it. Then, slowly, Miranda unfolded her hands from her lap. She rested one on the desk, the movement elegant, deliberate, her long fingers stretching ever so slightly as if to remind Andy exactly what she was asking for.

When she spoke, her voice was calm but edged with command. “Very well,” Miranda said, as though Andy had just requested something as mundane as more coffee. Her eyes, however, were far from casual—cool, piercing, measuring Andy’s reaction. “But listen carefully, Andrea. No biting.”

Andy’s breath caught, a rush of relief and heat flooding her all at once. The explicit permission, the caveat delivered in that sharp, unyielding tone—it went straight through her. She nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Of course. I wouldn’t. I—thank you.”

Miranda’s expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest arch of her brow, a hint of amusement tucked behind her composure. She adjusted slightly in her chair, settling back into her usual posture of regal command. Then she extended her right hand, palm down, resting it on the desk between them like an offering that was anything but casual.

“Then show me,” she said simply, her gaze never leaving Andy’s.

Andy’s mouth went dry. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she leaned forward, her eyes fixed on those elegant fingers she’d spent weeks imagining. For the first time, they were within reach, and Miranda was watching—waiting.

Andy took Miranda’s hand in hers, her heart pounding in her chest. She began to gently suck on the older woman's fingers, her tongue swirling around each digit, tasting the faint ink traces and the essence of Miranda.

Miranda’s initial surprise quickly gave way to a slow, approving smile. She watched as Andy’s tongue darted out, licking and sucking on her fingers, her own breath hitching in her throat. The younger woman's mouth was warm and inviting.

Andy’s actions were surprisingly bold, but her intentions were pure. She wanted to taste Miranda, to know her in a way no one else did. She wanted to make the older woman feel things she had perhaps forgotten. As she sucked on her fingers, she felt a strange sense of power. She was in control, and she reveled in it.

Miranda, for her part, was not immune to Andy’s charms. She felt a warmth spread through her body, a warmth that had been absent for far too long. She watched as Andy’s lips closed around her fingers, her tongue darting out to lick her skin. She felt a stirring in her loins, a desire she had long suppressed.

As Andy continued to suck on her fingers, the older woman's stern exterior began to crumble. Her cold demeanor melted away, replaced by a look of pure desire. She wanted Andy, wanted her in a way she hadn't wanted anyone in years. She wanted to feel the younger woman's lips on her skin, her tongue exploring her body.

Andy, sensing Miranda’s desire, pulled away, a proud smile playing on her lips. She had achieved what she set out to do.

The room was quiet again, save for the soft rustle of pages and the faint scratch of Miranda’s pen. Andy had sat back in her chair, her lips tingling, the taste of Miranda still clinging faintly to her tongue. Her heart hadn’t slowed; it thudded against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her body felt loose, almost light, as though something deep inside her had finally been released.

Miranda’s hand, now returned to her manuscript, showed no sign of what had just happened. Her fingers moved with the same effortless precision, turning a page, jotting down a note, tapping once against the desk as though to test a point. If not for the lingering heat in Andy’s mouth, she might have doubted the moment had ever happened at all.

Andy drew in a shaky breath, her eyes flicking upward, searching Miranda’s face for any trace of judgment. But Miranda remained composed, serene, her focus seemingly tethered once more to the work in front of her. Only after several long moments did she glance up, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” Miranda said at last, her voice calm, as if she were commenting on the weather. “You appear to have gotten that particular fixation out of your system.”

Andy flushed, biting her lower lip. “Not… completely,” she admitted softly, unable to keep the tremor of honesty from her voice. “But—thank you. For letting me.”

Miranda studied her for a beat, her pale eyes sharp and assessing, then gave the faintest incline of her head. “You were careful. That’s why I allowed it. Restraint, Andrea, is the difference between indulgence and disaster.”

Andy nodded quickly, almost reverently, though she wasn’t sure if Miranda had meant it as praise or a lesson—or both. Either way, it made warmth bloom in her chest, chasing away the anxiety that had been twisting there all evening.

Miranda returned her attention to the manuscript, as if dismissing the topic entirely, but Andy noticed something subtle: her free hand, the one not holding the pen, rested lightly on the desk, a fraction closer than before. It wasn’t an invitation, not exactly, but it was something—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that the act had not been meaningless.

Andy leaned back in her chair, her notebook forgotten. She didn’t need words to know she had been heard, and seen, in a way that mattered.

The study settled into silence again, but it was different now—thicker, charged, no longer sterile. Andy allowed herself a small smile, content to sit in that quiet, Miranda’s presence filling every corner of the room, her own body humming with the afterglow of a boundary crossed and accepted.

For the first time all night, Andy felt she could finally breathe.

Chapter Text

“Shit, shit, shit!” Andy hissed under her breath, weaving through the dense stream of people that clogged the Runway hallway like a living artery. Her bag bounced against her hip, the paper cup clutched in her hand threatening to spill as she darted sideways, narrowly avoiding a rolling rack of designer gowns that seemed deliberately placed in her path. Her pulse hammered at her temples—this was not the morning to be late, not the morning to be empty-handed. Miranda would already be at her desk, poised and expectant, the silence in her office more menacing than any sharp word.

Andy tightened her grip on the coffee, knowing it wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t the exact order that Miranda required, that impossible concoction the café had somehow failed to deliver. Instead, she carried the closest approximation, a desperate substitute that she could only hope might soften Miranda’s legendary wrath.

As she rounded the corner, her shoulder brushed a passing assistant who hissed in protest, but Andy didn’t spare a glance. She moved in a half-run, half-dodge, apologizing under her breath but never slowing. Her nerves were a raw edge, the clack of her boots echoing sharply against the polished floor, each sound driving home how little time she had left.

Emily appeared in her path like a cat lounging in sunlight, arms crossed and lips curled in that insufferably smug smirk. She didn’t move aside—of course she didn’t—forcing Andy to sidestep sharply to avoid colliding. Emily’s eyes flicked down at the coffee cup in Andy’s hand, then back up to her frantic expression, amusement sparking like firelight.

Andy almost growled, her teeth gritted, but she surged past, muttering another curse. For one dizzying second, she indulged herself in the fantasy—Emily tripping over her own impossibly high heels, sprawling dramatically across the glossy floor, papers flying everywhere. The thought was nearly enough to make Andy smile. Nearly. But reality shoved itself back into her chest as she heard the clock tower chime faintly in the distance.

No time. No room for mistakes. She had one mission: reach Miranda before the day began.

Andy shoved through the last stretch of the hallway, ignoring the sting in her lungs as she forced herself to slow her pace just enough to look somewhat composed. She couldn’t risk barreling into Miranda’s office like a panicked intern on the verge of collapse—that would be a death sentence.

Her heart skipped when she reached the glass doors, already ajar, the hum of early-morning activity drifting faintly from the bullpen beyond. Miranda’s coat wasn’t on the hook yet. Relief washed over Andy in a dizzy wave. She had made it—barely.

She slipped inside, her heels clicking softly against the immaculate floor, and hurried to Miranda’s desk. Setting the cup down carefully on the coaster at its precise spot, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. The faint aroma of roasted coffee drifted upward—close enough to the usual order that maybe, just maybe, Miranda wouldn’t notice. Or if she did, perhaps she wouldn’t care.

Andy straightened quickly, scanning the desk with the sharp eye she’d cultivated under constant fire. Yesterday’s papers—reorganized into neat stacks. The fountain pen—angled just slightly to the right of the leather-bound notebook. The phone—aligned, cord looped neatly. She adjusted everything with precise, almost reverent movements, each detail a silent prayer for survival.

The office itself was unnervingly still, bathed in the pale morning light spilling through the tall windows, the air carrying that faint, expensive perfume Miranda always left behind wherever she went. Andy smoothed her skirt, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, trying to erase the evidence of her frantic dash through the building.

Just as she stepped back, satisfied that everything was perfectly arranged, she heard it—the sharp, purposeful click of heels approaching down the hall. Each step grew louder, closer, more commanding. Andy’s stomach dropped and tightened all at once.

Miranda was coming.

The sound of Miranda’s heels snapped Andy into motion. Her pulse spiked, and she all but darted across the outer office to her desk, the legs of her chair scraping softly as she pulled it out and dropped into it as though she had been there all along. She adjusted her posture in a split second—back straight, hands folded over the keyboard, face set in what she hoped was a mask of calm professionalism instead of the panicked scramble it truly was.

Across the way, Emily was already lounging against her own desk, posture effortless, her hip cocked against the polished wood. Her arms crossed, eyes gleaming like a predator’s, lips twisting into that perfectly sharpened smirk.

“Well,” Emily drawled, her voice pitched low and syrupy-sweet, meant to cut just deep enough, “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. Nearly broke a sweat, didn’t you?”

Andy felt the heat rise in her cheeks but kept her gaze fixed on her computer screen, fingers tapping uselessly at the keys. “I made it in time,” she muttered, trying to sound steady.

Emily tilted her head, feigning innocence, but the condescension dripped through every syllable. “Oh, of course. Barely. But I suppose miracles do happen, don’t they? Though…” her gaze flicked meaningfully toward Miranda’s office, where the faint steam of the coffee cup rose from the desk inside, “let’s hope your little improvisation passes muster. I’d hate to be in your shoes if she notices.”

Andy’s chest tightened, her jaw clenching as she resisted the urge to snap back. She didn’t have the luxury of trading jabs—not with Miranda seconds away. Emily knew it too, and the smug satisfaction in her eyes said she was savoring every ounce of Andy’s restraint.

The footsteps drew closer, sharper now, cutting the tension in the air like a blade. Emily leaned in slightly, her smirk widening just enough to make Andy’s stomach twist.

“Good luck, darling,” Emily murmured, as if bestowing a curse.

And then—the office doors swung open.

The glass doors pushed open with a soft but commanding sweep, as though the room itself bent to make way for her. Miranda Priestly entered without pause, the crisp staccato of her heels ringing against the marble floor like a judge’s gavel. The air shifted—every hum of conversation in the bullpen beyond seemed to collapse into silence, and even the morning light through the windows appeared to sharpen, falling across her silver hair like a deliberate spotlight.

Andy straightened instinctively, heart hammering. Miranda didn’t so much as glance at her as she strode forward, shrugging out of her immaculate coat with one graceful motion. Without warning, the heavy fabric was tossed in Andy’s direction. She barely caught it, the sleeves tangling in her arms as the expensive weight of it settled across her lap. The faint trace of Miranda’s perfume clung to the lining, distracting Andy just long enough that she nearly missed the second demand: a large leather bag, set with a decisive thud on her desk.

“Emily,” Miranda said, voice smooth, cool, utterly distracted as she rifled through her gloves.

Andy froze, the syllables sharp and startling. Emily. Miranda had called her Andrea since proving herself—never Andy, never anything else. Andrea. Always precise, always pointed. But now…Emily? The name cut oddly in her ears, like a note played off-key. She glanced across the room to see the real Emily already standing, lips parted in a faint flicker of confusion before curling quickly into another smirk.

Andy swallowed hard, unsure if it was an absentminded slip or something else entirely. She didn’t dare correct Miranda—not when her boss had already swept past her without pause, eyes locked on the pristine interior of her office.

Still, the sound of it clung to Andy, echoing in her mind long after Miranda disappeared behind the glass doors. Emily’s smirk deepened across the way, as though she’d just witnessed some cosmic joke at Andy’s expense.

Andy sat there with Miranda’s coat draped over her lap, the leather bag looming on the desk beside her keyboard, her pulse still racing. Called Emily. Not Andrea. For the first time that morning, the coffee wasn’t the thing making her stomach twist.

Andy carefully slid Miranda’s coat off her lap, rising just enough to hang it neatly on the hook beside the door. The leather bag she placed on the edge of Miranda’s desk, squaring it so the handles lay flat—everything arranged exactly as it should be. She moved with care, but her eyes flicked once, twice, toward Emily, who was still leaning on her desk like a queen surveying her court, that insufferable smirk tugging at her lips.

Andy couldn’t hold it in. She leaned sideways, lowering her voice but sharpening it into a hissed whisper that cut through the charged silence of the outer office. “How the hell did you even notice the coffee was different?”

Emily didn’t even flinch. Her smirk curved into something almost feline, lazy and deliberate. She leaned back in her chair, folding one leg over the other, then tilted her head just enough to meet Andy’s eyes. “The smell,” she replied smoothly, almost sing-song. “Miranda’s usual has a richer roast—warmer, more bitter. That one?” Her gaze flicked toward the faint steam rising through the office glass. “It’s sweeter. Almost vanilla.”

Andy’s mouth dropped open, incredulous. “You can tell just by—smelling it?” she whispered, her words strained, sharp, almost a whisper-shout.

Emily’s grin widened, her eyes glinting with victory. “Details, Andrea. It’s why I’m still here. And why you’re always…catching up.”

Andy bit down a retort, jaw tight, and turned back to her desk before Miranda’s voice could cut across the air again. She settled stiffly into her chair, smoothing her skirt, fingers flying over the keyboard to make herself look busy. But beneath it all, her stomach churned—between the wrong coffee, Miranda calling her Emily, and Emily’s smug precision, it was shaping up to be a long, long morning.

“Emily.”

The voice cracked through the glass walls like a whip. Andy’s spine went rigid. Miranda’s tone carried no raised volume—she never needed it—but the authority in it left no room for hesitation. Andy glanced once at Emily, who arched an eyebrow and gestured with her chin toward Miranda’s office as if to say go on, darling, enjoy your execution.

Andy smoothed her skirt and stood, forcing her legs to move even though every instinct screamed at her to bolt in the opposite direction. She pushed open the door to Miranda’s office, careful not to let it slam, and stepped inside. The scent of coffee hung faintly in the air, mingling with Miranda’s perfume, sharp and cold.

Miranda didn’t look up immediately. She stood behind her desk, glasses perched on her nose as she leafed through a portfolio, her movements brisk and economical. Then—slowly, like a predator acknowledging prey—her eyes lifted. Pale blue, cutting, steady.

“This,” Miranda began, gesturing at the coffee cup without touching it, “is not what I asked for.”

Andy’s mouth went dry. “The café was—”

Miranda’s hand sliced through the air, silencing her. “Excuses bore me, Andrea. What interests me is how you thought bringing me this,” the word landed like a shard of ice, “was acceptable.”

Andy swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the folder she carried, though she hadn’t realized she was still holding it. “I—I thought it was the closest option, Miranda. They didn’t—”

“Closest.” Miranda’s eyes narrowed, her lips curving into something that was not quite a smile. “You believe ‘close enough’ is what Runway is built upon? That this magazine, my reputation, your position—any of it—functions on approximations?”

Her voice stayed level, never rising, yet each syllable pressed down heavier than the last. Andy’s chest burned, her heart pounding against her ribs.

“No, Miranda,” she managed softly, the words barely audible.

Miranda regarded her for a long, suffocating beat, then sighed—a sound so delicate it was somehow worse than shouting. She turned her gaze back to the papers on her desk, dismissing Andy with the flick of a glance.

“Do better,” she said simply, before adding, “That will be all.”

Andy stood there for half a second too long, heat flooding her face, before she nodded and turned, slipping quickly out of the office.

The hours crept by, but each minute felt like a test Andy was barely passing. Miranda’s dismissal over the coffee still stung, the echo of her cool do better humming at the back of Andy’s mind like a threat. She threw herself into tasks, answering calls, scribbling notes, forwarding emails—but her nerves frayed with every ring of the phone, every click of heels echoing from Miranda’s office.

By early afternoon, she was juggling three separate tasks at once: confirming an appointment with a Parisian designer, rearranging a lunch meeting that Miranda had suddenly deemed “unacceptable,” and forwarding proofs from the art department. Her inbox was a tangle, the phone pressed to her shoulder as she typed furiously.

That was when it happened.

“Send the proofs to my office immediately,” Miranda’s voice drifted from behind the glass walls, cool as ever.

Andy nodded automatically—even though Miranda couldn’t see—and hit send. She exhaled in relief when the email zipped away, feeling for a fleeting second like she’d actually gotten something right.

But within seconds, the office door clicked open. Miranda appeared, proofs in hand, her gaze slicing across the outer office like frost.

“Emily.” Her voice was a whipcrack again.

Andy shot up from her chair. “Yes, Miranda?”

Miranda lifted the proofs, pinched between her manicured fingers like something distasteful. “Would you like to explain why these are last week’s drafts? Outdated layouts I specifically told you to discard?”

The words hit like a stone to the chest. Andy’s stomach dropped. She remembered—too late—that the new files had come in this morning, marked urgent. In her frenzy, she’d clicked the wrong set, attaching the old versions instead.

“I—” Andy stammered, heat flooding her face, “I must have—”

“Must have,” Miranda echoed, her tone razor-thin. “You must have sent me the wrong files? You must have confused the drafts?” Her lips pressed into a line, eyes narrowing to slits of pale fire. “Andrea, I do not operate on mistakes. Mistakes are for children. You are not a child, are you?”

Andy shook her head quickly, throat too tight to speak.

“Then perhaps you might start demonstrating it.” Miranda let the papers flutter down onto Andy’s desk like falling ash. “Correct it. Now.”

And just like that, she pivoted and swept back into her office, the door shutting with a finality that made Andy’s chest seize.

Across the desks, Emily had been watching the entire exchange with predatory delight. She raised her brows, lips twitching. “Twice in one day,” she murmured, her tone dripping mock sympathy. “At this rate, darling, you’ll hold a record.”

Andy dropped back into her chair, heart pounding, hands shaking as she reached for the right files. Her day was far from over—and already it felt like she was unraveling thread by thread.

The afternoon dragged on, each hour heavier than the last. Andy had managed to correct the proofs, send the right drafts, and even triple-check them before passing them along. For a moment—just a fragile, fleeting moment—she allowed herself to breathe.

But Runway didn’t forgive so easily.

By four o’clock, Andy was drowning again, juggling Miranda’s calendar, a flood of phone calls, and a dozen tiny demands stacked like dominoes waiting to fall. Her head throbbed from staring at her screen, her fingers cramped from typing, yet she pressed on, determined not to stumble a third time.

Then the call came.

“Where are the binders for tonight’s preview?” Miranda’s voice slid through the intercom, deceptively calm.

Andy froze. The binders. The ones Miranda had requested first thing that morning—color-coded, tabbed, prepared for a dinner meeting with the board. Andy’s stomach twisted. She’d meant to pick them up from the copy room hours ago, but the proofs, the rescheduling, the endless phone calls… she hadn’t gone back. They were still sitting there, untouched.

She scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking her chair over, and rushed down the hall, her heels clicking too loudly. Her mind was a whirlpool of panic as she reached the copy room—only to find the stack of binders still sitting on the counter, unassembled, uncollated. Just a mess of loose pages and covers.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, hands flying as she tried to jam everything into the binders as quickly as possible. Pages bent, tabs stuck, the order slipped with each frantic movement.

By the time she staggered back to Miranda’s office, the binders were done but sloppy—edges uneven, tabs askew, one binder slightly thinner than the rest. She tried to smooth them out as she set them on Miranda’s desk, but Miranda was already watching, her expression cool, assessing, merciless.

“These,” Miranda said after a pause, “look as though a child assembled them in the dark.”

Andy’s chest constricted, her breath shallow. “I—I’ll fix them right away.”

“No.” Miranda’s voice cut her off instantly. She tapped a manicured finger against the top binder, her eyes never leaving Andy’s. “You will not. You will bring them as they are, and you will watch as I hand them to the board. And when they inevitably notice, when they see the sloppiness reflected back at them, you will understand—viscerally—what it means to waste my time.”

The words sliced through Andy, leaving her rooted in place, humiliation searing hot across her skin. Miranda picked up the stack without another glance, sliding them into her bag with a grace that made Andy’s fumbling look even more pathetic.

“Close the door on your way out,” Miranda added, already moving on to the next task.

Andy did as she was told, the latch clicking shut behind her. The outer office swam in silence, every assistant pretending to be busy, though she could feel Emily’s gaze cutting across the room. When Andy finally dared to look, Emily’s smirk had grown sharper, edged with pure satisfaction.

“Three,” Emily said softly, tilting her head. “And it’s not even five o’clock.”

Andy sank back into her chair, throat tight, wishing she could melt into the floor.

The city was lit like a stage that night, glass towers gleaming against the dusk sky, headlights streaming in ribbons across the avenues below. The preview event occupied an entire floor of a sleek Midtown building, its wide gallery space glowing with white light and polished steel. Models in carefully curated ensembles drifted like living mannequins between clusters of editors and investors, the murmur of conversation weaving beneath the soft hum of music.

Andy trailed half a step behind Miranda as they entered, clutching her notebook to her chest like a shield. Miranda was a vision of composed elegance, her silver hair a perfect crown, her evening coat draped effortlessly over her shoulders. She moved through the space like she owned it, which, in a sense, she did. Every eye turned, every conversation faltered, the energy of the room bending subtly in her direction.

Andy, meanwhile, felt like she was moving through water. The binders in Miranda’s bag weighed on her like bricks. Her mistakes from earlier coiled tight in her stomach, a knot of dread that refused to loosen. She walked carefully, aware of her shoes, of the way her hands gripped the notebook too tightly, of how Emily’s voice—three, and it’s not even five o’clock—still echoed in her ears.

They were greeted almost immediately by a small circle of board members and investors, all crisp suits and polite smiles. Miranda’s expression softened into the faintest suggestion of warmth—just enough to charm without compromising her authority. She gestured with a gloved hand, and Andy stepped forward, fumbling slightly as she offered the binders to each member of the group.

The papers slid out unevenly. One binder cover bent under her fingers. She tried to steady them, but her hands felt clumsy, heavy. And as each person took one, Andy could see it—the flicker of a raised brow, the polite but unmistakable glance at the crooked tabs and unevenly collated pages.

Miranda, of course, noticed too. She said nothing, didn’t so much as twitch an eyelid. But Andy caught the subtle stillness in her posture, the cool pause as her hand lingered over the last binder before withdrawing. It was silence used as a weapon, a reminder sharper than any words.

As the board members began leafing through the binders, murmuring amongst themselves, Andy stood behind Miranda, her chest tight, the weight of humiliation pressing down harder with every passing second. She could feel the flush creeping up her neck, hear her own pulse in her ears.

Miranda leaned slightly toward her then, voice low, meant for Andy alone.

“Take notes,” she murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “Every hesitation. Every comment. Every frown. You will remember them all. And you will remember why.”

Andy nodded quickly, scribbling as if her life depended on it, though the words blurred on the page.

Miranda didn’t look at her again—but Andy felt the lesson burn deeper than any reprimand from earlier that day.

The board members fanned through the binders as the presentation shifted around them. The click of pens and the shuffle of papers cut through the polite murmur of the crowd. Andy’s pulse quickened with every page turned, every sidelong glance.

Then one of them—a sharp-faced man in a navy suit with rimless glasses—paused. He lifted his gaze to Miranda, his brow faintly arched.

“Miranda,” he said smoothly, the edge of curiosity laced in his tone, “the formatting here seems… off. These tabs don’t match the index. And a few pages appear to be out of sequence.”

Andy’s stomach dropped to her knees. She braced for the strike, for Miranda’s cold precision cutting her to ribbons in front of the entire board.

But Miranda only tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a beat too long, silence stretched. Then, with the slightest curve of her lips, she said:

“How tedious. An intern’s mistake.” She flicked the edge of her binder closed with manicured fingers, her tone dismissive, already moving the conversation forward. “We’ll have the final versions on your desks by morning. What matters now is the design itself, and as you can see—” she gestured toward the models gliding through the room, “—the vision is perfectly intact.”

The shift was seamless. The board member nodded, his attention pulled back to the gowns and the glint of camera flashes, his critique dissolved by Miranda’s effortless redirection. Within seconds, the conversation flowed again, voices rising around the sparkle of champagne and the rustle of silk.

Andy stood just behind her, gripping her notebook so tightly her knuckles turned white. The words an intern’s mistake rang in her head, half relief, half humiliation. Miranda hadn’t called her out by name—but the dagger had still been there, sharpened, and Andy knew exactly where it had landed.

Emily’s voice from earlier crept back into her mind: Three, and it’s not even five o’clock. Now she wondered if Miranda was keeping count too.

The board members murmured their approval now, champagne glasses raised, eyes flicking toward the models as Miranda moved through the room with her usual effortless command. Andy stayed close behind, notebook in hand, scribbling observations in a shaky hand—the angle of a cuff, the subtle alignment of a hem, the way light hit a particular fabric. Every detail became a lifeline, a way to redeem the day in some small way, even if it felt impossible.

Miranda paused by a cluster of editors, voice low and deliberate, weaving critique and praise in a way that left Andy awestruck. Each word, each gesture, was precise, magnetic; she could command attention without ever raising her voice. Andy felt herself shrink against the wall, almost invisible in the wake of that authority, yet painfully aware of the binders still tucked under Miranda’s arm—a tangible reminder of her earlier failures.

A soft laugh floated from Miranda as she spoke to one editor, and Andy almost missed the subtle glance directed toward her. Her pulse jumped. Was it approval? A warning? Or merely the casual acknowledgment that she existed in the periphery? She couldn’t tell. She scribbled faster.

The preview wound down. Photographers snapped the last shots, a few final notes were made, and Miranda began her sweep toward the exit, bag in hand, binders carefully balanced, coat draped over her arm with perfection. Andy followed, silent, barely breathing.

As Miranda reached the door, she paused, just long enough for Andy to feel the faintest edge of her gaze.

“Andrea,” she said, crisp, deliberate, her voice carrying through the quiet room, “review your notes. Every single observation counts. Tomorrow, I expect precision—not effort. Precision.”

Miranda stayed at the door, bag slung effortlessly over her shoulder, coat draped perfectly over her arm. She turned, pale eyes fixed on Andy, who had been hovering near the edge of the room, notebook clutched like a lifeline.

“Andrea,” she said, her tone measured, sharp, but not unkind—though it carried that unmistakable edge of authority that made Andy feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. “I need you to come with me.”

Andy froze, confusion and apprehension knotting her stomach. “Follow… you?” she whispered, her voice uncertain.

Miranda gave a small tilt of her head, the faintest hint of a smile—half an acknowledgment, half a challenge. “Yes. There are details from tonight’s presentation that require review. It will be faster if we continue at my residence.”

Andy’s mind spun. Following Miranda home? The thought was absurd, terrifying, and somehow exhilarating all at once. She opened her mouth to ask if she should call a cab, or if someone else would accompany them, but Miranda’s eyes held hers, and the single, unspoken command in that gaze was enough.

“Of course,” Andy said finally, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Miranda nodded once, crisply. “Good. Prepare yourself. We leave immediately.”

Andy tucked her notebook into her bag, smoothed her skirt, and fell in step beside her, heels clicking in echo with Miranda’s down the quiet hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last—not just from the heels, but from the weight of anticipation, the unspoken tension of what it meant to be called along like this.

Outside, the city had dimmed slightly for the evening, a soft pulse of light against the dark sky. Andy matched her pace, careful not to falter, careful not to breathe too loudly, careful not to do anything that might shatter the delicate equilibrium Miranda allowed her to share.

The night air hit them as soon as they stepped outside, crisp and carrying the faint scent of city exhaust mixed with the lingering perfume of the gallery. Miranda didn’t speak immediately, her stride unwavering, her expression set in that unreadable mask that made Andy feel simultaneously exposed and invisible.

Andy’s heels clicked against the pavement, a staccato echo that seemed far too loud in the stillness. She kept her gaze just ahead, careful not to step too close, careful not to breathe too audibly. Each block they passed tightened the knot in her stomach—the city felt different at night, slower, darker, more dangerous somehow when she was alone with Miranda like this.

Finally, after a few silent blocks, Miranda’s hand brushed her bag subtly, a signal that their destination would soon be reached. Then, as though sensing Andy’s tension, she spoke, her voice smooth, precise, and utterly composed:

“The girls are at their father’s for the weekend,” she said, eyes forward, tone casual but carrying an unmistakable finality.

Andy’s stomach twisted. It was a simple statement, but in the quiet night it felt loaded. She swallowed, nodding slightly, unsure if she was meant to respond or simply acknowledge.

Miranda glanced at her briefly, just enough for Andy to feel the weight of the gaze. “So you won’t be distracted by… domestic chaos. That makes tonight simpler.”

Andy’s pulse quickened. The words weren’t unkind, but the undertone was unmistakable. Simpler—for Miranda. Not for her. Every step she took beside her boss was measured, careful, the tension in her shoulders a constant reminder that one misstep—literal or figurative—could undo her.

They turned a corner, the townhouse rising before them like a dark, elegant monolith. Its façade was polished, commanding, every window reflecting the city lights like careful mirrors. Miranda’s pace didn’t falter, but Andy felt the distance between them stretch and shrink with each step, a taut string of unspoken rules and expectations.

By the time they reached the front steps, Andy’s hands were clammy, her breaths shallow. Miranda unlocked the door with effortless precision, slipping inside before Andy could even reach for the handle. Andy followed, closing the door softly behind her, stepping into the warm glow of Miranda’s world—and instantly aware that the evening had only just begun.

The townhouse foyer was just as she remembered: a soaring, double-height space with pristine white walls that seemed to reflect every glint of light. A staircase arched elegantly along one side, its dark wood railing polished to a mirror-like sheen, while the marble floor stretched beneath them, immaculate and cool to the touch, catching the warm glow from a modern chandelier that hung like a constellation above. Minimalist artwork punctuated the walls, each piece carefully placed, perfectly balanced, and screaming of deliberate taste.

Miranda’s heels clicked against the marble as she moved with effortless grace, her bag and coat handled with the same precision she applied to every task in her life. Andy’s own heels sounded far too loud, echoing in the cavernous space. The silence was thick, almost reverent, broken only by the soft whoosh of the entryway air and the faint hum of the city beyond the doors.

The foyer seemed even larger in the evening light, every surface gleaming, every detail perfect, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that any misstep—any breath too loud, any gesture too clumsy—would be noticed immediately.

Miranda moved toward the stairs, her coat draped over her arm like a statement rather than a necessity, and Andy followed, careful to stay just behind, absorbing every detail: the crisp edges of the marble console, the glint of the chandelier crystals, the faint scent of Miranda’s perfume lingering in the air.

Miranda moved with that effortless precision toward the curving staircase, the dark wood railing gleaming under the chandelier’s soft light. Each step she took seemed deliberate, a measured glide that emphasized both her poise and the unspoken authority she carried. Andy followed closely, trying not to let her own heels clack too loudly against the marble. She forced herself to match Miranda’s rhythm, heart hammering with every step, aware that the slightest misstep could draw notice.

The staircase arched gracefully, the curve lending a fluid elegance to the space, the dark wood polished so perfectly it seemed almost liquid beneath their fingers. Andy’s gaze kept flicking up, noting the interplay of shadows and light, the way the foyer stretched below them, a silent witness to every step they took.

When they reached the second-floor landing, the tone of the townhouse shifted subtly. It felt quieter here, more intimate, yet every surface retained that signature sharp elegance: white walls, clean lines, minimalist art—but now softened by personal touches that made Andy hesitate.

Her eyes caught a small gallery of framed photographs along the wall leading down the hall. Two little girls, frozen in time, smiles wide and unselfconscious. The twins. Andy blinked, stomach twisting slightly at the rare glimpse of vulnerability in Miranda’s otherwise impenetrable world. In one picture, they were building sandcastles; in another, bundled in matching coats, laughing in the snow. Each frame was carefully placed, straight, gleaming—perfectly curated yet undeniably tender.

Andy felt herself swallow, noting the contrast between this private warmth and the cold, commanding figure that Miranda exuded in the office. She adjusted the notebook in her hands, careful not to let her eyes linger too long, but she couldn’t help noticing a small, worn stuffed animal tucked on a side table, as if left behind in a fleeting moment of domestic chaos.

Miranda’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts, calm but carrying that unmistakable authority:

“Office,” she said simply, nodding toward a door at the end of the hall.

She followed, heels clicking softly against the polished floorboards now, each step weighted with nervous anticipation.

The air seemed to thicken as they approached the door at the end, and when Miranda opened it, the world shifted entirely.

The office was a study in shadows, a deliberate departure from the gleaming, minimalist elegance of the rest of the townhouse. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the city lights, leaving the room bathed in deep amber from a single desk lamp. The walls were lined with tall, dark bookshelves, overflowing with leather-bound tomes, architectural sketches, and folders stacked in neat, almost obsessive precision. Rich, earthy scents of aged paper, polished wood, and a faint trace of tobacco mingled in the air.

A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface almost entirely clear except for a single lamp, a vintage penholder, and a stack of carefully arranged papers. The chair behind it was high-backed, leather, commanding. A globe sat in the corner, bronze and muted, as though it had seen centuries of silent observation. Every surface, every shadow, radiated authority and knowledge.

Andy stepped in cautiously, acutely aware of the contrast to the hallway she’d just walked through. There, the city lights had danced across marble and glass; here, the glow of the lamp cast deep shadows, emphasizing the solidity, the history, and the weight of the space. She could almost feel the centuries of intellect pressing down from the shelves, the kind of gravity that made her shoulders tighten and her stomach flutter nervously.

Miranda didn’t offer a word of welcome. She strode to her desk with effortless command, draping her coat over the back of the chair, then turned to the stack of binders and papers Andy had brought along. The dim light caught the sharp lines of her face, pale and exacting, and her eyes flicked toward Andy, taking her in fully.

“Sit,” Miranda said, voice low, deliberate. “Close enough that you can see. Not so close that you distract. This is going to require attention.”

Andy obeyed, pulling her chair forward carefully. The lamp’s warm glow illuminated the fine lines of her notebook, the edge of her pen, the small, careful details she hoped would be enough to keep up with Miranda’s scrutiny.

Miranda settled behind her massive mahogany desk with a fluid motion, draping her coat neatly over the back of the high-backed leather chair. She flicked on a second desk lamp, letting its narrow pool of light illuminate the stack of binders, papers, and sketches Andy had brought. The rest of the office remained in shadow, the tall bookshelves looming like silent sentinels, the richness of the dark wood and aged leather giving the room a weighty, almost scholarly gravitas.

Andy perched on the edge of her chair, notebook open, pen at the ready. The quiet hum of the city outside seemed a world away, swallowed by the dense, intellectual air of the office.

Miranda’s eyes scanned the binders with a cool precision. She did not speak immediately, letting the silence stretch, letting Andy feel the full weight of her presence. Then, with the faintest lift of her chin, she began:

“Tonight,” she said, her tone crisp, deliberate, utterly professional, “we will review the layout and presentation for the upcoming issue. I expect precision, clarity, and foresight. Everything must align with the vision. Nothing else will do.”

She picked up the first binder, sliding it across the desk toward Andy without a word, her eyes never leaving the papers. “Follow along. Take notes. I will expect you to identify inconsistencies, inefficiencies, and areas for refinement. This is not a casual review. Consider it a rehearsal.”

Andy nodded, pen poised, her nerves taut, but her determination sharpened. She could feel the structure of the office, the weight of the shadows, the authority in Miranda’s measured tone, all pressing her into focus.

Miranda continued, methodical: “We begin with the first layout sequence. Note the alignment of imagery to text, the hierarchy of information, the spacing, the font usage. Discrepancies must be observed immediately. I will not repeat myself.”

Andy’s hand moved quickly over her notebook, jotting down every observation, every critique Miranda’s voice implied even without speaking them aloud. The dark, academic space seemed to amplify every sound—the rustle of paper, the faint scratch of pen on paper, the soft click of the lamp switch. Every detail mattered.

Miranda’s gaze lifted occasionally, scanning Andy over the top of her glasses, assessing her attentiveness, her comprehension. The message was clear: this was a test. Professional, exacting, and uncompromising.

“You will not fall behind,” Miranda said finally, laying the binder flat. “Every error you’ve made today is noted. This is your opportunity to prove that you can correct them, and anticipate the next.”

Andy exhaled softly, the tension coiling tighter in her chest. This wasn’t just work. This was survival.

Miranda’s fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the desk, her gaze tracing the lines of the binder in front of her. Her posture remained impeccable, her tone still formal, but there was a shift—a narrowing of the eyes, the faintest tilt of her head—that made the air between them feel suddenly charged, more personal.

“Andrea,” she said, voice low, deliberate, just enough for Andy to feel it settle around her like a shadow, “tell me. Were you attempting to sabotage your own day?”

Andy’s pen froze mid-scribble. Her stomach lurched. The words were professional enough—Miranda’s vocabulary precise, no raised voice, no dramatic gestures—but the undertone cut sharper than any reprimand in front of the office. It was as though the question itself had slipped past the professional veil into something pointedly intimate, meant to unsettle.

“I wasn’t trying to—” Andy began, voice trembling slightly, but she caught herself, tightening her jaw. “I was just, I mismanaged things. I—”

Miranda leaned back slightly, her eyes never leaving Andy. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen around her, accentuating the subtle authority that didn’t need words to dominate the space. “Mismanaged, yes. Or perhaps testing me. Testing how far you can push boundaries before the consequences land. I’d like to believe it’s the former, but you’ve had quite a string of ‘coincidences’ today, haven’t you?”

Andy swallowed hard, trying to keep her composure. The combination of professionalism, intimate scrutiny, and sharp implication made her heart race, her palms slick despite the controlled posture she forced herself to maintain.

Miranda’s lips curved faintly, the smallest tilt—hardly a smile, but enough to unsettle Andy further. “I want you attentive. Focused. Precise. But I also want honesty. Was today an accident, or was it deliberate?”

Andy’s mind spun. She could feel the weight of Miranda’s gaze, the tension in the dark academic office pressing in from all sides. Even in this intimate moment, the boundary of professional expectation was razor-sharp—any misstep, any falter, and it would be noticed, catalogued, remembered.

“I…it wasn’t deliberate,” Andy whispered, words barely audible, though firm in their sincerity.

Miranda’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer, sharp and penetrating, before she picked up the binder again.

Miranda set the binder down with a soft, deliberate thud. The lamplight caught the curve of her cheekbones, the sharp line of her jaw, and for a fraction of a second, Andy felt the room shift in temperature, as though every shadow leaned closer.

“You know,” Miranda began, her voice calm, almost conversational, but carrying that unmistakable weight of authority, “I won’t lie. There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing someone squirm after a misstep.”

Andy froze, pen hovering above her notebook. The words were professional, measured, yet intimate, charged with an honesty that was rare for Miranda. She didn’t look accusatory, only observant—evaluative, like a scientist noting a reaction.

“It’s not about cruelty,” Miranda continued, fingers lightly brushing the surface of the desk, tracing the edge as she spoke. “It’s instructional. But I would be remiss if I denied that the discomfort—your discomfort—is gratifying in the sense that it sharpens you, forces awareness. Mistakes are expensive, Andrea. They sting. And when they sting…it ensures they are not repeated.”

Andy’s stomach tightened, part mortified, part unsettled. The line between professional rigor and personal scrutiny blurred in the soft amber glow of the lamp. She could feel the tension coil around her, each word imprinting itself with precision in her mind.

“Every misstep today,” Miranda added, her tone crisp again but with that subtle edge of personal admission, “each one reminded me exactly how high the stakes are. And yes, it is, satisfying, to see that lesson registered. Not for the humiliation itself, but for the understanding it breeds.”

Andy nodded slowly, trying to absorb the mixture of revelation and warning. It wasn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake—it was control, exacting and intimate, a combination of authority and expectation that left her both wary and acutely aware of her own limits.

"You've made quite a mess of things, however." Miranda said, her voice as sharp as a blade. "I did expect better from you." She leaned back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Andy's face. "You need to learn to focus, Andrea. Your mistakes did costing my time. And I won't have that."

Andy's breath hitched as Miranda's gaze drifted down to her chest, where her nipples were visibly hard beneath her blouse. Miranda's lips curled into a slight smirk, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to Andy. "Stand up. Let's see if you can handle more pressure."

Andy hesitated for a moment before standing, her legs trembling slightly. Miranda's eyes roamed over her body, taking in every curve and contour. "Take off your blouse. I want to see what you've got."

Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her blouse, revealing her lacy bra underneath. Miranda's eyes narrowed, and got up from her chair, her voice low and commanding. "Now the pants. I want to see everything."

Her heart raced as she unbuttoned her jeans and let it fall to the floor, leaving her in just her bra and panties. Miranda's eyes were like lasers, burning into her skin. "Turn around. Let me see you."

She turned slowly, feeling Miranda's gaze on her bare skin. She could feel the heat building between her legs, her pussy throbbing with need. Miranda's voice was like a whip, cutting through the air. "Bend over the desk, Andrea. Let's see if you can handle discipline."

Andy's breath hitched as she bent over the desk, her ass exposed to Miranda's hungry gaze. Miranda's hand came down hard on her ass, the sting of the slap sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. "You need to learn to focus. And I'm going to teach you."

Miranda's hand came down again and again, each slap sending waves of pleasure and pain through Andy's body. She could feel her pussy dripping wet, her clit throbbing with need. Miranda's voice was like a drug, pulling her deeper and deeper into a haze of pleasure.

"Fuck, Miranda," Andy moaned, her body trembling with need. "Please, I need more."

The hand paused, and she leaned down, her breath hot on Andy's ear. "You want more, Andy? You want to learn to focus? Then you'll do as I say."

Andy's body was on fire, her pussy aching with need. She could feel Miranda's fingers brushing against her clit, sending waves of pleasure through her body. "Fuck, Miranda," she moaned, her body trembling with need. "Please, I need to come."

The older woman’s fingers slid inside her, pumping in and out of her pussy. Andy's body was on fire, her orgasm building with each thrust. Miranda's voice was like a whip, cutting through the air. "You need to understand while I’m doing this.“

Andy's body convulsed as she came, her orgasm ripping through her body like a tidal wave. Miranda's fingers were still inside her, pumping in and out of her pussy, drawing out every last drop of pleasure. Andy's body was limp, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Miranda's voice was low and commanding, her fingers still inside Andy's pussy. "Now, let's get back to work."

Andy's body was still trembling with pleasure as she stood up, her legs shaking slightly. Miranda's eyes were fixed on her, a smirk playing on her lips. "You did well, Andrea. But don't think this is over. I expect better from you next time."

Andy eventually sat back in her chair. The lamp’s glow cast long shadows across the dark wood and leather-bound books, the room still heavy with the quiet aftermath of their work. She felt the tension in her shoulders slowly release, though her heart still beat a little too fast, a remnant of the intensity that had defined the evening.

Miranda leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her gaze sweeping the binders and papers as if filing them away in her mind. For a moment, the sharp authority that had dominated the evening softened ever so slightly—not completely, never completely—but enough that Andy allowed herself a fleeting breath of relief.

“You’ve done well,” Miranda said finally, her tone even, professional, but with an undercurrent of something quieter—approval, acknowledgment. “Not perfect, not without mistakes, but better. Sharper. Attentive. You’re learning.”

Andy exhaled, the knot in her chest loosening just a fraction. She felt pride mix with exhaustion, a flush of warmth creeping up her neck. The evening had been grueling, demanding, and at times mortifying—but she had endured. She had followed instructions, absorbed lessons, and managed to navigate the sharp edges of Miranda’s expectations.

Miranda’s gaze lingered on her a beat longer, then she stood, moving with the same fluid, commanding grace she had exhibited all evening. She draped her coat over her shoulders, slung her bag effortlessly across her arm, and gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod toward Andy.

“You may leave when you’re ready,” she said, the finality in her voice unmistakable.

Andy nodded, gathering her notebook and pen, her hands steady despite the residual tension. As she stepped toward the door, she glanced back at Miranda’s desk, at the polished surfaces, the tall bookshelves, the shadows and lamplight that had framed their evening. The office had been intimidating, exacting, intimate in ways she hadn’t expected—but she also realized she had survived it, and in surviving, she had learned.

Miranda watched her go, expression unreadable, posture perfect, as if the evening had never happened at all—except, of course, it had, and every lesson, every sharpened observation, would remain with Andy long after the lamp was turned off and the townhouse fell into quiet darkness.

Outside, the city stretched endlessly, lights glimmering, alive with possibility. Andy stepped into it, notebook clutched tightly, heart still racing, but with a small, determined smile forming. She had made it through. She had done it, she survived Miranda—again—and perhaps, just perhaps, she was better for it.

Chapter Text

Tonight, Andy was in charge—a shift neither of them would have imagined back when she was still stumbling through coffee orders and errands at Runway. But over time, their relationship had evolved, shedding its rigid hierarchies and transforming into something far more complex. It hadn’t happened all at once. There had been weeks, then months, of tentative steps, late-night confessions, and a gradual unraveling of Miranda’s carefully constructed armor. Andy had learned, through trial, error, and quiet observation, that beneath the steel and precision lay a woman who carried the weight of control every waking hour—and who, occasionally, longed to set it down.

That was how they had found themselves here. After a long evening where Miranda had allowed herself the rare indulgence of vulnerability, Andy had leaned close and whispered that she wanted to take the reins. There had been a pause—long enough for Andy’s heart to hammer in doubt—before Miranda’s lips had curved in the faintest, knowing smile, her eyes glittering with both challenge and trust. And when Miranda had handed her the silk blindfold, it had been as much an offering as a surrender.

Now, bound to the bed and blindfolded, Miranda was at Andy’s mercy. The woman who commanded boardrooms, fashion weeks, and entire empires was rendered still, dependent. Andy stood over her with a wicked grin tugging at her lips, savoring the delicious reversal. Slowly, she trailed her fingertips across Miranda’s exposed skin, her touch as soft as a whisper yet carrying the sharp intensity of a lightning strike. She watched as the older woman’s body responded instinctively, her porcelain skin erupting in goosebumps, her breath catching in her throat despite the careful composure she tried to maintain.

For once, it wasn’t Miranda setting the pace, dictating the outcome, or deciding the rules. Tonight, the control was Andy’s—and she intended to wield it with both tenderness and fire.

Andy began to play with Miranda’s senses, determined to draw her further into this game of surrender. She reached for the feather she had set aside earlier, twirling it slowly between her fingers as she leaned over Miranda’s restrained form. The older woman lay blindfolded, her wrists bound to the headboard, every line of her body taut with anticipation.

With exquisite patience, Andy dragged the feather across Miranda’s collarbone, the lightest brush of down against skin. The reaction was instantaneous: a sharp intake of breath, followed by the subtle arch of Miranda’s back as though she were chasing the sensation. Andy bit her lip to stifle a triumphant smile, then let the feather wander—along the delicate curve of Miranda’s throat, down the flat plane of her stomach, circling dangerously close to where Miranda ached for more. The movements were maddeningly slow, designed to tease rather than satisfy, and Andy relished every shiver, every tiny twitch that betrayed how deeply it was affecting her.

When Miranda finally let out a low, frustrated sound, Andy set the feather aside. She reached instead for the glass she had prepared, condensation dripping down its surface. From it, she plucked an ice cube, holding it aloft for a moment, letting the air kiss its cold edges before pressing it against Miranda’s bare skin.

The effect was immediate. Miranda gasped sharply, her entire body tensing against the sudden shock of cold. The cube trailed down from the hollow of her throat, leaving behind a wet, glistening path as it slid over the swell of her chest and across her ribs. Andy followed its journey with her eyes, entranced by the way Miranda’s skin responded—the goosebumps rising in stark contrast to the heat that seemed to radiate off her in waves.

Every gasp, every strained arch of Miranda’s body told Andy she was succeeding. The older woman, who ruled every room she entered with unshakable authority, was unraveling beneath the deliberate contrast of soft feather and biting ice. Andy’s grin widened.

Andy then brought out a bowl of strawberries, feeding them to Miranda, the juices running down her chin. She could see Miranda's tongue darting out, trying to catch the sweet juices. Andy then brought out a bowl of whipped cream, spreading it along Miranda's body, her tongue following the trail of cream, making Miranda moan in pleasure.

Andy then brought out a blindfold, tying it around her own eyes. She wanted to experience what Miranda was feeling. She reached out, her fingers finding Miranda's nipples, pinching them gently, making Miranda gasp. She then moved her fingers lower, finding Miranda's wet pussy, her fingers slipping inside easily.

Miranda moaned, her body writhing under Andy's touch. Andy could feel her own pussy getting wet, her body responding to Miranda's moans. She moved her fingers faster, her thumb finding Miranda's clit, making her scream in pleasure.

Andy then moved her body, straddling Miranda's face, her pussy hovering above Miranda's mouth. She could feel Miranda's tongue darting out, trying to reach her pussy. She then lowered herself, feeling Miranda's tongue enter her, making her moan in pleasure.

Andy then moved her body, positioning herself above Miranda's pussy. She could feel Miranda's pussy dripping, ready for her. She then lowered herself, feeling Miranda's pussy engulf her, making her moan in pleasure.

They moved together, their bodies in sync, their moans filling the room. Andy could feel herself getting closer, her body tensing. She then felt Miranda's pussy clench around her, making her scream in pleasure as she came.

Andy then moved her body, positioning herself above Miranda's face again. She could feel Miranda's tongue entering her again, making her moan in pleasure. She then lowered herself, feeling Miranda's tongue enter her, making her scream in pleasure as she came again.

She then moved her body, positioning herself above Miranda's pussy again. She could feel Miranda's pussy dripping, ready for her again. She then lowered herself, feeling Miranda's pussy engulf her again, making her moan in pleasure.

They moved together again, their bodies in sync, their moans filling the room. Andy could feel herself getting closer again, her body tensing. She then felt Miranda's pussy clench around her again, making her scream in pleasure as she came again.

They laid there, their bodies entwined, their breathing heavy. Andy then removed the blindfold, her eyes meeting Miranda's. She could see the satisfaction in Miranda's eyes, the pleasure she had given her. She then leaned in, her lips meeting Miranda's in a passionate kiss.

Miranda didn’t speak at first—she simply reached for Andy, pulling her down into the bed beside her. The movement was uncharacteristically unguarded, almost needy, and Andy’s heart twisted at the contrast. She slipped easily into Miranda’s arms, feeling the older woman’s breath still uneven against her hair.

For a long while, they lay there in silence, the only sounds the steady hum of the city outside and their own mingled breathing. Andy traced idle patterns on Miranda’s skin, feather-light touches that were no longer meant to tease but to soothe. She could feel the way Miranda relaxed under her, her body gradually melting into the mattress, her ever-present tension slipping away piece by piece.

“You’re impossible,” Miranda murmured at last, her voice low, roughened by exhaustion and something else Andy couldn’t quite name.

Andy smiled into her shoulder. “And you love it.”

A quiet huff of laughter left Miranda—small, but real. She turned her head just enough to press her lips against Andy’s temple, the kiss lingering there.

Wrapped together in the soft tangle of sheets, the remnants of play left behind on the bedside table, Andy held Miranda as she drifted. For once, Miranda Priestly was not editor-in-chief, not an untouchable icon. She was simply Miranda—warm, vulnerable, human—curled in the arms of someone who adored every side of her.

And in that quiet moment, Andy realized she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Chapter Text

When Andy was younger, she had never imagined herself in a motherly role—certainly not one that involved caring for two identical twin girls with more energy than most adults she knew. Parenthood, in her mind, had always belonged to some distant future version of herself, if it ever belonged to her at all. Yet here she was, standing in the middle of Miranda’s townhouse on a chilly Saturday morning, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back, with two expectant little faces looking up at her.

Miranda had been abruptly called away to London to handle a crisis at British Runway after their editor-in-chief suffered an unexpected injury, leaving a temporary vacuum only Miranda could fill. There had been no time to arrange for the usual nanny, no polished contingency plan—just a hurried goodbye kiss and a reminder that “the girls have their schedules.”

And so the responsibility had fallen to Andy. Strangely, she didn’t mind. In fact, there was a flutter of warmth in her chest as she watched the twins chatter at each other, their voices overlapping in that uncanny way siblings had of carrying two conversations at once. Andy suspected the girls liked her—or at least, tolerated her in that way children sometimes did when they sensed someone was trying. Every so often, one of them would slip her a shy smile or tug at her hand, as though granting her approval.

By the time the afternoon melted into early evening, Andy found herself in unfamiliar but oddly comfortable territory—standing at the Priestly stove, stirring a pot of pasta sauce while two identical sets of blue eyes peeked over the counter at her. Caroline and Cassidy had pulled up stools, elbows propped, little hands busy with colored pencils and a half-abandoned drawing.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to order takeout?” Andy asked, half-teasing, half-genuinely nervous that her cooking might not live up to Miranda’s standards.

Cassidy wrinkled her nose. “We always get takeout when mom isn’t here. We want real food.”

“Yeah,” Caroline chimed in, grinning. “And Daddy never lets us help. You’re more fun.”

Andy laughed, shaking her head as she sprinkled oregano into the pan. “Well, I can’t promise this will be great food, but it will definitely be real food.”

The girls giggled, whispering something to each other in that secret twin language before hopping down from their stools to retrieve plates. Andy watched them bustle around the kitchen with surprising competence for their age, her heart tugging a little at how eager they were to be involved. It was domestic in a way she’d never expected her life to be—and it didn’t feel half bad.

Dinner was simple—spaghetti with sauce and garlic bread—but the twins dug in like it was a five-star meal. Andy sat with them at the long dining table, twirling her own forkful of pasta, listening as they rattled off stories from school and their latest squabble over who got to borrow which sweater.

Somewhere between laughter and Cassidy trying to convince Caroline to trade her last meatball, the conversation shifted.

“You know,” Caroline said suddenly, almost conspiratorial, “Mom likes you.”

Andy blinked, nearly dropping her fork. “Uh…what?”

Cassidy nodded enthusiastically, mouth full. “She does. She talks about you all the time.”

“She does not,” Andy said, cheeks heating.

“She does,” Caroline insisted, eyes sparkling. “She says you’re…what was the word? Reliable. And…” she glanced at her sister for confirmation.

Cassidy swallowed, leaning closer. “And prettier than most of her assistants.”

Andy choked on her water, sputtering into a napkin while the twins dissolved into peals of laughter at her reaction.

“She didn’t mean it in a bad way!” Cassidy said quickly, though she was still giggling. “She smiled when she said it.”

“She never smiles,” Caroline added with mock gravity, then smirked. “Except when it’s about you.”

Andy sat back, stunned into silence. She tried to laugh it off, to deflect with some joke about Miranda smiling only at her coffee order, but the warmth in her chest betrayed her.

Andy cleared her throat, still flushed from the girls’ bold little revelation, and decided a subject change was in order before they could topple her composure completely. She twirled her fork, raising her brows playfully.

“So,” she said, “this pasta passes the test?”

“Way better than takeout,” Caroline declared with authority, spearing another bite.

Cassidy hummed in agreement. “Yeah. Most babysitters just order pizza or Chinese.”

Andy tilted her head, suppressing a grin. “Wait a second—do you mean to tell me that whenever Miranda’s away, you two live off takeout?”

Both girls froze for a fraction of a second, then exchanged a guilty glance. Caroline bit her lip, Cassidy stared hard at her plate.

Andy leaned in, lowering her voice as if sharing a grand secret. “Does your mom know about this? Because if I recall correctly, she has, let’s say…strong opinions about fast food.”

That cracked them. The twins burst into laughter, nearly tipping their chairs as they clutched their sides.

“She’d die if she knew!” Cassidy admitted between giggles.

Caroline nodded vigorously, eyes wide with mock horror. “She thinks french fries are—what did she call them?—‘calorie dense.’”

Andy laughed so hard she nearly spilled her water. “That sounds exactly like her.” She shook her head, still smiling. “So you’re telling me, when the head of fashion is away, her heirs eat takeout?”

“Only sometimes!” Cassidy protested, though her grin betrayed her. “And we don’t tell her. Ever.”

Caroline smirked. “You won’t tell either, right?”

Andy placed a hand over her heart, feigning solemnity. “Cross my heart. Your secret’s safe with me.”

But as she watched them grin at each other, noodles dangling from their forks, Andy couldn’t help thinking how surreal this was.

By the time dinner was cleaned up and dishes were stacked neatly in the dishwasher, the townhouse had settled into a softer kind of quiet. Andy found herself curled up on the couch between Caroline and Cassidy, a big fleece blanket draped over the three of them. The girls had insisted on a “classic,” which in their eyes meant The Parent Trap. A bowl of popcorn balanced precariously in Cassidy’s lap, and Caroline had her head propped on Andy’s shoulder, already half-drowsy.

Andy kept her eyes on the screen, but her mind kept wandering—to Miranda, across the ocean, probably in some impossibly elegant boardroom slicing through excuses like glass. It was strange, sitting here with her daughters, watching Lindsay Lohan play two parts at once, while pretending she was just… the babysitter.

Halfway through the movie, Cassidy shifted, glancing at Andy with a conspiratorial little smile.

“You know, Mom’s different when you’re around.”

Andy blinked, popcorn halfway to her mouth. “Different?” she echoed carefully.

“Mm-hm.” Caroline nodded sleepily against her shoulder. “She’s not as scary. She doesn’t yell as much.”

“She doesn’t yell at all when you’re there,” Cassidy added. “It’s like… she wants you to think she’s nice.”

Andy bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to react too much. “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe she just doesn’t need to yell as much lately.”

Caroline tilted her head, studying Andy as though she could puzzle out the truth herself. “She also wears lipstick more when she knows you’re coming.”

Andy nearly choked on her popcorn. “She—what?”

Cassidy giggled, shoving a handful of kernels in her mouth. “She totally does. We can tell. It’s her ‘Andrea lipstick.’”

Andy could feel her ears burning. She prayed the dim light from the television was hiding her blush. “You two notice everything, don’t you?”

Caroline gave a sleepy shrug, already sinking deeper into the couch. “She works a lot. So when she’s different, we see it. She smiles more with you. Like…real smiles.”

Andy’s throat tightened, a knot of warmth and nerves settling there. She wanted to laugh it off, wanted to change the subject, but she couldn’t deny the truth in their little observations. And yet—they had no idea. To them, she was still just “Andrea the helper,” someone their mother liked maybe more than the others, but nothing more than that.

So Andy sat there, still and quiet, letting the girls snuggle into her sides, taking the weight of their confessions without giving anything away.

The movie rolled on, the girls munching absentmindedly on popcorn, but their attention seemed to drift more toward Andy than to the antics on screen. Caroline sat up a little straighter, her eyes gleaming with that particular mischief reserved for children who knew they were sharing secrets.

“You know,” she whispered, leaning close like she was passing state-level classified intel, “Mom doesn’t like most people. Like, at all.”

Cassidy nodded vigorously. “But she likes you.”

Andy shifted in her seat, heart stumbling. “Well, I try to be helpful—”

“No,” Caroline interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. She says other people are…‘insufferable.’ But she doesn’t call you that.”

Cassidy grinned. “She calls you ‘resourceful.’ And once I heard her say you were ‘refreshing.’”

Andy tried not to let her jaw drop. “Refreshing?”

“Yeah,” Cassidy said, digging into the popcorn again. “She only says that about cucumber water.”

That made Caroline snicker, and Andy couldn’t help but laugh too, though her stomach fluttered with nerves.

“And,” Caroline went on, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “she keeps a picture of you in her secret photo album.”

Andy nearly dropped her own handful of popcorn. “What picture?”

“The one where you’re laughing at Paris Fashion Week,” Caroline said confidently. “We saw it once. She never messes with it. Mom messes with everything.”

Cassidy added in a stage whisper, “She doesn’t even mess with our pictures that fast.”

The girls cracked up at their own joke, and Andy had to laugh too, even as her pulse thundered in her ears. She sat there stunned, trying to process that Miranda—perfectionist, critic, untouchable Miranda—kept a candid photo of her hidden away.

“And she works less when you’re around,” Caroline mumbled as her eyelids began to droop again. “Like…she sits with us more.”

Cassidy smirked knowingly. “She only does that when she’s in a good mood. And you’re the reason.”

Andy swallowed hard, forcing her gaze back to the movie, though she hadn’t followed the plot in the last twenty minutes. The girls leaned against her, warm and trusting, their tiny voices echoing truths Miranda herself would never admit out loud.

By the time the credits rolled, both girls had slumped against Andy—one on her shoulder, the other curled up against her side. Their soft, even breathing filled the room, a stark contrast to the laughter and chatter that had filled it just an hour ago. Andy sat there for a long moment, unwilling to disturb the warmth and peace of it.

Eventually, she shifted carefully, untangling herself from the blanket cocoon. “Alright, you two,” she murmured softly, brushing Caroline’s hair from her face. “Bedtime.”

Caroline mumbled something unintelligible but obediently let Andy guide her up the stairs, Cassidy following in a sleepy daze. Andy tucked them into their beds, smoothing down their comforters and switching on the soft glow of the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon.

“Thanks for staying with us,” Cassidy mumbled drowsily. “You make the house feel… quieter.”

Andy smiled faintly, brushing her hand over the girl’s hair. “That’s a good thing, right?”

Cassidy’s eyelids fluttered shut. “Yeah. It means Mom won’t worry.”

That last line lingered with Andy as she padded back downstairs. The townhouse was silent now, the only sound the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. She gathered the empty popcorn bowl, rinsed it out, and set it on the drying rack—stalling, maybe, or just letting the quiet wrap around her before she reached for her laptop.

It was past midnight in London, but she knew Miranda rarely slept on travel days. Her thumb hovered over the mouse a moment before she hit Video Call.

The screen lit up after a few rings, revealing Miranda in a hotel room—immaculate as ever, silk robe perfectly tied, reading glasses perched on her nose. Even through the grainy light of the computer camera, she looked impossibly composed.

“Ah. Andrea.” Her voice, low and familiar, sent an involuntary shiver through Andy. “I trust the girls behaved?”

Andy smiled. “Perfectly. They’re asleep now. You’d be proud.”

“I’m always proud when they’re asleep,” Miranda quipped dryly, though there was a flicker of softness behind her eyes. “No crises?”

“None that couldn’t be solved with dinner and a movie,” Andy said.

That earned her a faint lift of Miranda’s brow, and Andy swore she saw a hint of a smirk. “I see. Corrupting them with food and cinema.”

“They adored it,” Andy said, leaning back on the couch. Then, hesitating, she added, “They, uh…told me some things tonight.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed, though not in anger—more curiosity than command. “Did they now?”

Andy tried for casual, failing miserably. “Just about you. About how you—uh—smile more lately. How you keep a picture of me in your album.”

Miranda didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, that faint, knowing expression curling at the corner of her lips.

“Children,” she said finally, her tone smooth but betraying the tiniest hint of amusement, “do have a tendency to notice what adults prefer to ignore.”

Andy felt her face warm. “So they weren’t making it up?”

Miranda’s gaze lingered on her through the screen—steady, intimate, far too perceptive. “Perhaps not.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between time zones, heavy and soft all at once. Then Miranda exhaled quietly, her tone dipping into something that sounded almost fond.

“You handled them well, Andrea. Thank you.”

Andy smiled faintly, voice soft. “Always.”

She soon watched as Miranda stood up from her chair and walked over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and slowly spreading her legs.

Andy's eyes widened as she watched Miranda begin to touch herself, her fingers tracing slow circles over her inner thighs. Miranda's eyes never left Andy's, and she could see the heat building in Andy's gaze as she watched.

Miranda's fingers moved higher, brushing against the damp fabric of her panties. She could feel herself growing wetter as she touched herself, and she let out a soft moan as she slipped her fingers beneath the fabric.

Andy's breath hitched as she watched Miranda touch herself, her own hands moving to her own breasts as she began to touch herself in response. Miranda's fingers moved faster, her moans growing louder as she approached her climax.

Just as Miranda was about to come, she pulled her fingers out of her panties and brought them to her lips, tasting herself on her fingertips. Andy's eyes were wide with desire as she watched, her own fingers working furiously between her legs.

Miranda smiled wickedly at Andy, her fingers still glistening with her own wetness. "Fuck, Andrea," she said, her voice husky with desire. "I can't wait until I'm home and I can have you again."

Andy moaned at the thought, her own orgasm building as she watched Miranda. She could feel herself on the brink, her legs trembling as she came hard, her pussy clenching as she rode out the waves of pleasure.

Miranda watched, her own desire still burning strong as she watched Andy come. "That's it," she said, her voice full of desire. "Come for me."

As they both caught their breath, Miranda couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. She had never been one for long distance relationships, but with Andy, it was different. She couldn't wait to get back home and have Andy again, to feel her body pressed against hers and to lose herself in the heat of their passion.

The thought of it was enough to make Miranda reach for her vibrator, her fingers already slick with her own wetness. She couldn't wait to come again, thinking of Andy and the way she had looked as she touched herself on the screen.

When the screen finally went black, Andy just sat there for a long moment, the soft hum of the townhouse filling the silence. Her reflection glowed faintly in the laptop’s dark glass, cheeks still warm, breath unsteady.

The room felt different now—quieter, heavier, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the lingering echoes of Miranda’s voice. It wasn’t just the conversation that lingered, but the feeling behind it—something simmering, unspoken, and very real.

Andy closed the laptop gently, fingertips brushing over its cool surface before she leaned back on the couch, exhaling a long, shaky breath. She didn’t know what to call this thing between them—this impossible, electric connection that somehow threaded across time zones and continents. But she knew it was real. She could feel it in the steadiness of her heartbeat, the warmth that refused to fade from her skin.

Upstairs, the twins were still asleep, blissfully unaware of how the world shifted a little that night. Andy smiled faintly to herself, running a hand through her hair as she whispered into the quiet, “Goodnight, Miranda.”

Then she turned off the last light, letting the glow of the city spill softly through the windows. She made her way upstairs, a calm, satisfied warmth following her—like a secret she didn’t mind keeping just a little while longer.

And somewhere in a London hotel room, Miranda likely felt the same.

Chapter Text

Andy watched as Miranda moved gracefully around the studio, the soft whir and click of the camera filling the otherwise quiet space. Every movement Miranda made seemed deliberate—fluid, precise, as though even gravity bent itself to her rhythm. The older woman’s eyes were sharp and discerning, scanning the set, adjusting the lighting with a subtle gesture, repositioning a model with the smallest tilt of her hand. Her voice, when she spoke, carried that commanding tone Andy had come to know so well—low, calm, yet absolute.

There was something magnetic about her. The authority in her stance, the elegance in the way her tailored blouse and high-waisted trousers framed her form. Stray strands of silver-blonde hair had escaped her chignon, brushing against her cheek as she leaned closer to inspect a shot. Andy felt her pulse quicken at the sight. Miranda wasn’t just beautiful—she was power personified, control and confidence wrapped in silk and quiet fire.

As the day wore on, Andy found herself watching more than helping, her camera idle in her hands. Every time Miranda lifted the camera to her eye, Andy’s gaze drifted to the curve of her wrist, the smooth line of her throat, the faint flush that colored her cheeks from the heat of the lights. She wondered what it would feel like to touch her there—to trace those same lines with her fingertips, to see if Miranda would shiver beneath her touch or remain as composed as ever.

Her imagination betrayed her, pulling her into a slow, unguarded fantasy. She pictured Miranda turning, their eyes meeting across the set, that unreadable expression softening just a little. She imagined closing the distance, her fingers brushing over the older woman’s arm, feeling warmth beneath fine fabric. It was reckless, impossible—but Andy couldn’t stop the thoughts from spiraling. The more Miranda moved, the more she seemed untouchable, and the more Andy wanted to be the one who broke through that impossible calm to see what burned beneath it.

As the final photoshoot of the day wound to a close, the once-bustling studio began to quiet. The last of the assistants packed away lighting equipment, voices fading beneath the rhythmic sound of heels on polished concrete. Andy stood near the backdrop, watching as Miranda meticulously placed the lens cap onto her camera and began organizing her gear with her usual precision—each movement deliberate, unhurried, and maddeningly elegant.

Andy felt a pang of disappointment settle low in her chest. She had lingered all day under the guise of helping, secretly hoping for a moment—just one—where she might catch a glimpse of something softer behind Miranda’s controlled veneer. Maybe a smile, a stray compliment, anything that might hint that Miranda felt even a fraction of the pull that Andy did. But as the older woman closed her camera case and straightened her coat, it was clear the day was over. Whatever fantasy Andy had built in her head would have to wait.

She sighed and turned to leave, her bag slung over her shoulder—when Miranda’s voice cut through the silence.

“Andrea.”

The sound of her name in that low, velvety tone sent a jolt through her. Andy turned, heart suddenly pounding. Miranda was standing by the edge of the set, one hand resting lightly on the camera table, her gaze fixed on Andy.

“Can you stay behind for a moment?” she said smoothly. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Andy’s breath caught. For a brief second, she thought she must have imagined it—the slight curve at the corner of Miranda’s lips, the faint spark of amusement in her icy eyes. But no, it was there. Real. Tangible.

She nodded, words escaping her, and followed as Miranda led her toward the far end of the studio. It was quieter there, the light dimmer, the air thicker somehow. Miranda stopped in front of a half-draped backdrop, turning with an ease that made Andy’s pulse stumble.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” Miranda said softly, almost teasingly. The camera light flickered behind her, casting faint gold across her cheekbones. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Andy froze, her breath shallow.

Then Miranda took a step closer, her gaze steady, assessing—and beneath that cool exterior, unmistakably hungry. “I know what it is you want, Andrea.” Her voice dropped to a murmur, rich with intent. “And I assure you, I’ve noticed.”

Her mouth went dry as Miranda began to unbutton her shirt, revealing her lacy black bra. She watched as the older woman's fingers trailed down her stomach, undoing the button of her pants and sliding them down her hips.

She stood before Andy, completely naked, her body glistening with sweat. "Do you like what you see?" she asked, her voice low and husky.

Andy couldn't speak. She could only nod, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her. Miranda's body was perfect, her curves soft and inviting. Andy felt her own body respond, her pussy growing wet with desire.

Miranda moved closer to Andy, her hand reaching out to cup her cheek. "You can touch me, Andrea. I want you to touch me."

Her hands trembled as she reached out to touch Miranda's body. She ran her fingers over the older woman's soft skin, her hands exploring every curve and crevice. She felt Miranda's nipples harden beneath her touch, heard her breath catch in her throat.

She couldn't resist any longer. She dropped to her knees in front of Miranda, her hands sliding up the older woman's thighs. She looked up at Miranda, her eyes pleading for permission.

Miranda nodded, her eyes dark with desire. Andy leaned forward, her tongue darting out to taste Miranda's sweet pussy. She moaned as she tasted the older woman's juices, her tongue exploring every inch of her.

Her hands tangled in Andy's hair, pulling her closer as she bucked her hips against Andy's face. Andy could feel herself growing wetter, her own pussy aching for release.

She slipped a hand between her own legs, her fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in slow circles. She moaned against Miranda's pussy, the sensation of her own touch sending waves of pleasure through her body.

Miranda's breathing grew heavier, her moans filling the air as Andy continued to lick and suck at her pussy. Andy could feel herself growing closer to the edge, her body trembling with anticipation.

With a final cry, Miranda came, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over her. Andy lapped at her juices, her own orgasm building inside of her.

She leaned back, her fingers still working her clit as she watched Miranda's body shudder with pleasure. With a final gasp, Andy came, her own body convulsing as she rode the waves of pleasure.

The two women collapsed onto the studio floor, a tangle of limbs and laughter amid the soft hum of the cooling lights. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and sweat, camera cords snaking around them like evidence of what had just transpired. Andy lay on her back, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady her breathing, her hair wild and haloed in the dim light. Miranda lay partly draped over her, one hand resting lazily against Andy’s collarbone, the other tracing absent-minded circles on her arm as if she were memorizing the texture of her skin.

For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside the studio seemed impossibly distant—the soundproof walls holding in not just their gasps and laughter, but the fragile intimacy of the moment. Then Andy tilted her head, catching Miranda’s gaze, and a wicked grin curled across her lips.

“So, Miranda,” she murmured, her voice husky with satisfaction, “are you always this much of an exhibitionist?”

Miranda’s laugh was low and unrestrained, the kind that sent shivers down Andy’s spine. She shifted slightly, her silver hair brushing Andy’s cheek as she leaned close enough for their noses to nearly touch. “Only,” she whispered, eyes glinting with mischief and something dangerously tender, “when I’m around someone as beautiful as you, Andrea.”

Andy felt warmth flood her chest—not the rush of desire this time, but something deeper. She reached up, tucking a stray strand of Miranda’s hair behind her ear, her thumb lingering against her jaw. Miranda didn’t pull away. Instead, she closed her eyes for a brief second, as though savoring the rare stillness between them.

When she opened them again, her expression had softened, the sharpness replaced with quiet affection. “You’re full of surprises,” Andy said, smiling faintly.

“So are you,” Miranda replied, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her lips before rising gracefully to her feet. She extended a hand down toward Andy. “Come on. We should probably tidy up before someone walks in.”

Andy laughed, letting Miranda pull her up. Their fingers intertwined naturally, effortlessly, as though the world had already decided this was how it was meant to be. And as they stood together in the half-lit studio—disheveled, breathless, and radiant—Andy realized she didn’t want the night to end.

Neither, it seemed, did Miranda.

Chapter Text

The night in Milan glittered with decadence, every chandelier shimmering like captured starlight, every guest cloaked in couture. It was one of those evenings where even the air smelled expensive—champagne bubbles, perfume, and ambition all mingling under the vaulted ceilings of an ornate palazzo.

Andy, in a black off-the-shoulder gown that made her look both dangerous and divine, found herself caught in conversation with one of Milan’s more notorious figures: Luca Moretti. He was the kind of man who collected rumors like medals—heir to a fashion empire, serial heartbreaker, and the type of charmer who could make even a seasoned editor pause with a smile that promised more than it should.

But Andy wasn’t interested in flirtation. She’d cornered him because he had connections to a string of emerging photographers Miranda had been meaning to evaluate for Runway’s European issue. Her tone was professional, her posture confident, and she kept the conversation on track even as Luca leaned in with that glint of amusement that suggested he thought otherwise. It was business—strictly business—but from across the room, framed in gold and candlelight, it didn’t look that way at all.

Miranda saw her. She always did. Her gaze found Andy as if drawn by instinct, a quiet tightening in her chest as she caught sight of the young woman—her young woman—laughing softly at something Luca said, her hand briefly touching his sleeve to emphasize a point. The scene twisted something darkly possessive inside Miranda, something she usually kept locked behind her composed exterior. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

The conversation she’d been engaged in blurred into meaningless chatter; even the CEO of one of the world’s leading fashion houses suddenly felt like background noise. Miranda’s glacial eyes narrowed, the sharpness of her glare cutting through the crowd with precision that could silence an army. When Andy’s gaze flicked up for a brief second, catching her across the room, the look Miranda gave her wasn’t ambiguous—it was a warning.

Andy froze for just half a heartbeat, the ice in Miranda’s eyes hitting her with a familiar rush of adrenaline and guilt all at once. She knew that look. It said, We will be discussing this later. It said, You are mine, and you seem to have forgotten that for a moment. It said everything Miranda couldn’t afford to express in a public setting filled with flashing cameras and whispering lips.

Andy felt her pulse spike, the heat creeping up the back of her neck as Luca kept talking, oblivious to the silent storm brewing from across the room. She smiled politely, wrapping up the conversation as gracefully as she could manage, but Miranda’s gaze followed her every step as if tethered by an invisible line.

When Andy finally excused herself and crossed the marble floor back toward Miranda, she could feel the weight of every stride. The editor’s expression was once again the picture of control, but Andy knew better—the temperature behind that mask was rising. Miranda accepted a fresh flute of champagne from a passing waiter, her fingers elegant, her voice smooth as silk as she murmured something polite to the person beside her.

Yet when Andy reached her, Miranda didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. Her words, quiet and deliberate, cut through the noise like a blade: “I do hope, Andrea, that Mr. Moretti’s… reputation wasn’t what drew your attention.” It wasn’t loud, but the meaning was crystal clear, and the flicker in Miranda’s eyes when she finally looked at her—equal parts fire and frost—told Andy that this night in Milan was far from over.

The rest of the evening stretched on like a performance—beautiful, glittering, and unbearably tense. Andy stayed close, careful not to drift beyond Miranda’s line of sight again, though the older woman’s demeanor remained as smooth and unshakable as marble. To anyone else, Miranda Priestly was simply embodying her usual poise: a masterclass in elegance and emotional control. But Andy knew better. She could read the subtle cues—the measured stillness of Miranda’s hands, the slight arch of a brow that never quite relaxed, the too-precise way she dismissed yet another industry powerhouse with a cool smile. Miranda was furious. Not loudly, not pettily—dangerously. The kind of fury that simmered beneath couture silk and diamond restraint.

Andy played her role flawlessly for the rest of the night—she mingled when asked, fetched when needed, smiled when expected. But every moment felt like walking a tightrope strung high above a drop of Miranda’s making. Whenever their eyes met, even fleetingly, Andy felt that same pulse of warning that had frozen her earlier. And yet, beneath the edge of anxiety, there was something else—a strange, guilty thrill. The possessiveness in Miranda’s glare wasn’t just anger. It was hunger, sharp and territorial, and it made Andy’s heart pound in ways that weren’t entirely rational.

By the time the last glass of champagne was emptied and the party began to dwindle, Andy was half-drained, half-electrified. The Milanese night outside was quiet, cool, and alive with distant city sounds. Miranda moved first, gliding through the crowd toward the waiting car, and Andy followed without a word. The chauffeur opened the sleek black door, and Miranda entered with the sort of graceful finality that made the very air shift around her. Andy slipped in beside her, the door shutting with a soft thunk that sealed them into the low-lit cocoon of the backseat.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The city lights flickered across Miranda’s face as they drove—gold, white, then shadow again—painting her expression in fragments. She sat angled slightly toward the window, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her hand resting against her chin. Andy dared a glance, but Miranda’s gaze was far away, unreadable. The silence was thick enough to taste.

Finally, Miranda spoke, her tone quiet but razor-sharp. “You seemed…quite taken with Mr. Moretti.”

Andy exhaled slowly, keeping her voice calm. “It wasn’t like that, Miranda. I was just talking to him about some photographers he works with. I thought it might be useful for Runway.”

“Useful,” Miranda repeated, tasting the word as though it were a foreign delicacy. She turned her head then, meeting Andy’s eyes fully for the first time since the glare across the ballroom. The effect was immediate—Andy felt pinned, stripped bare beneath that gaze. “And yet, from where I was standing, it appeared you were rather…enjoying yourself.”

Her voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. Each word was measured, deliberate, and far more effective than any outburst could have been. Andy swallowed, her fingers curling into the silk of her dress. “I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t. You know I’d never—”

Miranda tilted her head, cutting her off with a faint, icy smile. “Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t. Still, it was…curious. How easily men like that seem to find you. How easily they make you laugh.”

There it was—the soft undercurrent of jealousy Miranda would never admit to in daylight. Andy felt her pulse quicken again, her voice catching somewhere between apology and defiance. “I wasn’t laughing at him,” she said quietly. “I was laughing because I didn’t want to make a scene.”

Miranda hummed, eyes flicking briefly to the window again. The tension between them filled the car like heat. When she finally looked back, her expression softened—not by much, but enough to shift the air. “Be careful, Andrea,” she murmured. “Men like him don’t understand boundaries. And I have little patience for misunderstandings.”

Andy nodded, her throat tight. “I know.”

The car slowed as they neared their hotel, but neither woman moved to end the conversation. The city outside gleamed with neon and moonlight, reflections rippling over the tinted windows. Miranda’s gaze lingered on Andy for one heartbeat longer than necessary, something almost tender flickering behind the ice.

When the chauffeur finally opened the door, Miranda rose smoothly, every inch the untouchable icon again. But as she stepped out, her hand brushed against Andy’s wrist—barely a touch, but enough to send a pulse of electricity through her. “Come upstairs,” Miranda said softly, without turning around. Not a command. Not a request. Just quiet inevitability.

The suite at the Palazzo Versace was everything one would expect from Miranda Priestly’s taste—modern elegance softened by Italian grandeur. Soft golden light spilled across marble floors and sleek furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the sleeping city, the glow of Milan stretching endlessly beyond the glass. A single vase of white orchids stood on the polished table, perfect and symmetrical, as if even the flowers dared not disappoint her.

Miranda walked in first, silent but commanding, her heels clicking once against the marble before she stopped near the window. Andy followed a few hesitant steps behind, the door closing with a muted click that made the space feel suddenly much smaller. The stillness between them was heavy, the kind of silence that demanded to be filled with truth.

Miranda didn’t turn right away. Her reflection in the glass was a pale ghost, the city lights flickering across her face like firelight. “Do you have any idea,” she began quietly, “what it looks like when my assistant—my companion—smiles so freely at a man like Luca Moretti?”

Andy froze. “I wasn’t—”

Miranda lifted a hand, silencing her without looking back. “Intentions are irrelevant, Andrea. Perception is everything. You know this. I’ve told you this.” She finally turned, her gaze sharp, cutting through Andy’s defenses. “And yet, tonight, you decided to test how far you could push those rules.”

Andy’s heart thudded. “I was just doing my job.”

“Your job,” Miranda repeated, stepping closer, her voice soft but no less precise. “Your job is to know how it looks before it happens. To anticipate what others will think, to control the narrative before anyone else can.” She paused, her tone lowering. “You forgot that tonight. You forgot what we are—what I am.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they were powerful, laden with meaning that went beyond professional reprimand. Andy looked down, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

Miranda studied her for a moment, the faintest sigh escaping her lips. “No,” she said, “I don’t believe you did. But you did forget who you were representing. And that, Andrea, is something I cannot allow to become a habit.”

Andy lifted her eyes then, meeting Miranda’s gaze. The editor’s tone had softened slightly, but her authority remained absolute. “So what happens now?”

Miranda moved closer still, her voice low but steady. “Now, you listen. You remember why there are rules. You understand that they exist not to constrain you—but to protect you. To protect us.” Her expression flickered, the tiniest hint of something human breaking through the mask. “There are consequences when those lines blur. And tonight, they did.”

Andy nodded slowly, the guilt and tension swirling inside her replaced by quiet understanding. “I understand,” she whispered.

Miranda’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then she turned away, crossing to the window again. The city lights caught in her hair, outlining her in pale gold. “Good,” she said softly. “Then perhaps that’s enough for tonight.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold anymore—it was thick with unspoken emotion, the kind that stretched between them like silk pulled taut. Andy stood still for a long time, unsure if she should leave or stay, until Miranda’s voice came again, gentler this time. “Close the curtains, Andrea. We’ve been seen enough for one evening.”

After a couple moments, Miranda’s voice rose again, but different. "Strip," Miranda commanded, her voice stern. Andy hesitated for a moment before slowly undressing, her hands shaking as she began. Miranda watched, her eyes never leaving Andy's body.

Once Andy was naked, Miranda took a leather whip from her drawer. She let the whip run over Andy's body, teasing her with it. Andy squirmed, her breath hitching as the leather touched her sensitive skin.

Miranda raised the whip, bringing it down on Andy's bare ass. Andy cried out, the pain mixing with pleasure as the whip left a red mark on her skin. Miranda continued, each strike of the whip making Andy squirm and moan.

After a few minutes, Miranda threw the whip aside. She climbed onto the bed, her body pressing against Andy's. Miranda's hands roamed Andy's body, her touch soft and gentle now. Andy moaned, her body arching into Miranda's touch.

Miranda's fingers found Andy's pussy, already wet from the punishment. She teased Andy, her fingers dancing over her clit before sliding inside her. Andy moaned, her hands gripping the sheets as Miranda fucked her with her fingers.

Her other hand reached up, gripping Andy's breast. She pinched Andy's nipple, the pain mixing with the pleasure of her fingers inside Andy's pussy. Andy moaned, her body writhing under Miranda's touch.

Miranda leaned down, her lips finding Andy's. The kiss was passionate, their tongues dancing together as Miranda continued to fuck Andy with her fingers. Andy moaned into the kiss, her body trembling as she approached her orgasm.

She broke the kiss, her lips trailing down Andy's neck. She bit down, her teeth sinking into Andy's soft skin. Andy cried out, her orgasm washing over her as Miranda's teeth pierced her skin.

Miranda pulled away, her lips red with Andy's blood. She looked down at Andy, her stern expression softening into a smile. "You took your punishment well," she said, her voice soft.

Andy smiled, her body still trembling from her orgasm. "Thank you, Miranda," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Miranda leaned down, her lips brushing against Andy's ear. "Next time, don't break the rules," she whispered, her voice stern again.

Andy slipped beneath the sheets, hesitating before reaching out. Miranda’s hand found hers anyway, fingers cool and deliberate. “You frustrate me sometimes,” Miranda murmured, eyes tracing the ceiling rather than Andy’s face. “Not because you’re careless, but because you forget how easily people want a piece of you.”

Andy turned toward her, voice quiet. “I wasn’t trying to be reckless. I just thought…maybe it would help. For you. For Runway.”

A small, almost weary smile touched Miranda’s lips. “And I love that about you—your eagerness to help, your insistence on believing that sincerity can survive in rooms full of men like Moretti.” She finally looked at Andy then, the steel of her gaze softened by something tender. “But I can’t bear the thought of them thinking they have the right to touch what I’ve built. What we’ve built.”

Andy’s throat tightened. “They don’t. He doesn’t.”

Miranda shifted closer, resting a hand against Andy’s cheek. Her voice was low but firm, the authority in it gentled by care. “Then promise me you’ll keep it that way. That you’ll stay away from him—from men like him. I won’t always be there to glare across a ballroom.”

Andy met her eyes, the blue-gray of them calm but unwavering. “I promise,” she said simply.

Miranda’s thumb brushed her jaw, the faintest sigh leaving her. “Good.” She leaned in just enough for their foreheads to touch, the world outside fading into nothing but the rhythm of their breathing. For all her sharpness, Miranda’s next words were soft—almost vulnerable. “I trust you, Andrea. Just don’t make me doubt that again.”

Andy nodded, the promise sinking into something deeper than obligation. “I won’t.”

They stayed like that for a while, quiet and close, until the tension melted into stillness. When Miranda finally settled back against the pillows, she let Andy pull her close, her hand resting over Andy’s heart as if anchoring them both.

Chapter Text

Andy hadn’t planned it. Not really. The thought had flickered through her mind once or twice during the countless nights she’d spent tangled up with Miranda, watching her sleep or watching her command the room with that impossible composure. There was something intoxicating about the way Miranda controlled everything—her staff, her daughters, her world. It was absolute. It was magnetic.

But it also left Andy wondering what it would look like if, just for once, that control was taken away. The idea began as nothing more than a playful curiosity, the kind of wicked thought that comes and goes in a heartbeat. Yet the more time Andy spent with her, the stronger the idea became, until it rooted itself deep in her imagination, curling there like a secret that refused to die.

The opportunity presented itself one evening while Andy was running errands for a photoshoot. One of the prop designers had been unpacking boxes of accessories for a “dangerous romance” spread. Among the mess of silk scarves, leather gloves, and imitation jewelry, Andy noticed a gleaming pair of silver handcuffs resting on a pile of velvet. They weren’t cheap costume pieces either—they were heavy, cold, and gleamed under the studio lights, polished to perfection.

The prop designer noticed her looking and laughed, tossing them up and catching them. “They’re real, you know,” she said with a wink. “You’d be surprised what gets approved for props these days.” Andy’s mind went blank for a moment, a flicker of an idea turning into something much more tangible. She played it off casually, made a joke, and when the shoot wrapped, she managed to borrow the pair under the pretense of a “creative project.”

That night, the handcuffs sat in the bottom of her bag, cool against her fingertips every time she checked to make sure they were still there. Andy felt a strange thrill every time she thought about them. It wasn’t about power, not really—it was about trust. She knew how much Miranda valued control, how every detail of her life was meticulously arranged. The thought of Miranda choosing to give that up, even briefly, was almost unbearably intimate.

Andy imagined her reaction: the sharp inhale, the icy blue eyes narrowing in disbelief, the flicker of something dangerous—curiosity, maybe, or desire. She wasn’t entirely sure if Miranda would laugh, scold, or surprise her by leaning into it. That unpredictability was half the allure.

By the time Andy got home, the idea had transformed into a full-fledged plan. She poured herself a glass of wine, set the cuffs on the table, and stared at them for a long time. The reflection of her face shimmered faintly on the metal, and she found herself smiling, thinking of all the times Miranda had turned her world upside down with a single word or a single look. Perhaps it was time to return the favor.

Andy imagined the scene—the candlelight, the way she’d coax Miranda into letting go, how her voice would soften as she promised that she could stop at any moment. It wasn’t about restraint so much as it was about balance, about showing Miranda that surrender didn’t mean weakness. In fact, in Andy’s mind, it was a new kind of strength entirely.

When she finally tucked the cuffs into her nightstand drawer, Andy felt her heartbeat still thrumming with nervous excitement. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever have the courage to actually use them—but the idea of it, the possibility, was already enough to make her pulse race.

Andy heard the familiar click of heels in the hallway long before she saw Miranda. That rhythmic, commanding sound sent a shiver down her spine, equal parts anticipation and dread. She’d spent the last hour pacing around Miranda’s townhouse, trying to look casual—pouring herself a drink, rearranging the pillows, putting the wine away, taking it back out again. The handcuffs were hidden in the drawer of the end table beside the sofa, out of sight but very much not out of mind. Every time she glanced toward it, her heart gave a nervous little stutter.

The door opened, and Miranda’s voice floated in—sharp and cool as ever. “Andrea.” She said it the way she always did: precise, a statement rather than a greeting. Andy straightened automatically, as though years of Runway conditioning had kicked in. “Hey,” she said, too brightly, too quickly. Miranda arched a perfectly sculpted brow as she handed her coat to the waiting housekeeper. “You’re here early. I thought you said your meeting would run late.”

“Yeah, it, uh—wrapped up faster than I expected,” Andy stammered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her slacks to hide their restlessness. She felt absurdly guilty, as if Miranda could somehow sense the secret in the next room. “I figured I’d get started on dinner. Or at least try to.”

Miranda’s lips twitched—an almost-smile, the rarest thing in her repertoire. “Trying, Andrea, is often a precursor to failure. But I appreciate the effort.” She stepped into the living room, pausing just long enough for her gaze to sweep the space with that sharp, assessing precision. Andy’s pulse spiked. Was she looking for something?

Andy trailed after her, awkwardly fussing with a throw pillow. “You, um, had a long day?” she asked, and immediately regretted it. Of course Miranda had. Every day was long in Miranda’s world. The question sounded idiotic even as it left her mouth.

“Endless,” Miranda replied, sinking gracefully onto the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. She exhaled, a rare gesture of fatigue slipping past her guard. “Remind me never to let Jacqueline schedule another editorial summit. It was like listening to a flock of parrots debate the color of the sky.”

Andy laughed softly, a nervous sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She perched on the opposite end of the sofa, pretending to be casual but sitting too stiffly for it to seem natural. Miranda’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp and knowing. “You’re unusually quiet tonight,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “And yet, somehow, far too fidgety to be hiding nothing. What did you do?”

Andy nearly choked on air. “What? Nothing! I mean—what makes you think I did something?”

Miranda gave her that look—the one that could strip a person of every pretense they’d ever tried to hold. “Because, my dear, you have the same expression you wore the night you accidentally deleted my contact list.”

Andy groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “That was one time.”

“Yes. And a traumatic one,” Miranda murmured dryly. Then, after a moment, softer: “Whatever it is you’re attempting to hide, I do hope it’s not another culinary problem waiting to happen.”

Andy’s throat tightened as her gaze flicked, involuntarily, to the drawer. She forced a laugh and shook her head. “No problems. Promise.”

But Miranda didn’t miss the glance. Her eyes followed it, faint amusement curling in their depths. “Hm.” She leaned back, studying Andy with feline curiosity. “You’ve brought something home, haven’t you?”

Andy swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

Miranda’s lips curved. “Well, Andrea. I suppose we’ll find out what it is, won’t we?”

And just like that, Andy’s carefully composed nerves splintered. Her heart pounded, her palms were clammy, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to crawl under the couch or kiss the woman sitting across from her. The handcuffs suddenly felt like a living secret—one heartbeat away from discovery.

Miranda regarded her for a moment longer, chin resting delicately in her hand, eyes narrowed in quiet speculation. Then that familiar glint—the one that meant she was amused but far too proud to admit it—appeared. “You’re being very suspicious,” she said at last, the words drawn out in that crisp, knowing tone that always made Andy’s pulse jump. “I might have to resort to that game people your age seem so fond of. What is it called? Twenty Questions?”

Andy’s breath caught, and she gave a shaky laugh, trying to play it off. “You’d play Twenty Questions?”

“I would indulge you in it,” Miranda corrected smoothly, arching a brow. “Though, I suspect I won’t need twenty. Five, perhaps. Three if you continue looking at me like you’ve committed a crime.”

“I’m not—” Andy started, then sighed, her face heating. “Okay, fine, maybe a little.”

Miranda leaned back against the sofa, folding one arm across her torso as if settling in for an interrogation she fully intended to win. “Very well. Question one.” Her eyes flicked toward the drawer, a subtle but deliberate motion. “Is whatever you’re hiding breakable?”

Andy hesitated. Technically, no. “Uh, no. Not really.”

Miranda nodded thoughtfully, her expression giving nothing away. “Question two—did you bring it from work?”

Andy bit her lip. “Kind of. I borrowed it from…someone at work.”

Miranda’s head tilted slightly. “Borrowed, or stole?”

Andy sputtered, “Borrowed! I’m going to return it!”

“Mmh.” Miranda’s tone suggested deep skepticism, but her amusement was unmistakable. “Question three. Is it something I would approve of?”

Andy’s silence stretched too long, and Miranda’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Ah. That’s quite telling.”

Andy tried to look anywhere but at her, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “You might,” she said finally. “Depending on the context.”

“Oh, dear,” Miranda murmured, leaning forward, her voice dropping into something low and velvety. “Now you’re really intriguing me. Question four: is it clothing?”

Andy shook her head quickly. “Nope.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed slightly as her gaze drifted once more to the drawer. “Then it must be something you intend to use on me.” The way she said it was effortless, a soft blade of suggestion slipping beneath Andy’s composure.

Andy froze. “What—why would you think that?”

Miranda smiled, that slow, predatory curl of her lips that both thrilled and terrified. “Because, Andrea, I know you. You have that look in your eyes again—the same one you get before you decide to be inventive.” She paused, then added almost teasingly, “One question left, I believe. Should I be concerned?”

Andy’s mouth went dry. She tried to answer, but her voice betrayed her, coming out soft and uncertain. “Maybe just a little curious instead.”

For a long moment, Miranda said nothing. The air between them thickened with tension—anticipation, amusement, and something darker just beneath. Then, with deliberate calm, Miranda extended a manicured hand toward the drawer. “Then, by all means, Andrea,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “Show me.”

Andy hesitated for a beat, frozen under the weight of Miranda’s expectant stare. The older woman’s hand was still poised toward the drawer, fingers elegant and deliberate, her eyes cool but faintly alight with curiosity. Andy swallowed hard and managed to whisper, “Maybe not here.”

Miranda’s brow arched, her interest clearly piqued. “No?”

Andy shook her head, her nerves tightening like a coiled spring. “I—it’s better if I show you upstairs. Just trust me?”

Miranda studied her for a long, assessing moment, then let out a faint sigh—half exasperation, half amusement. “Very well. Lead the way, Andrea. But if you’re about to unveil a surprise redecorating project, I’m calling security.”

Andy huffed a nervous laugh, rubbing her palms on her thighs as she rose. “No redecorating. Promise.”

As they climbed the stairs, Andy’s heart was hammering so loudly she was sure Miranda could hear it echoing off the walls. She could feel Miranda’s gaze at her back—steady, unrelenting, like a hand between her shoulder blades urging her onward. The air in the townhouse was quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside. Normally, the sound of Miranda’s daughters’ laughter might’ve filled the halls, but tonight, it was still. “The girls are at a sleepover,” Andy said softly as they reached the landing, her voice trembling slightly. “So we won’t…you know. Be overheard.”

Miranda’s steps slowed as they reached the bedroom door. “I see,” she murmured, tone unreadable. “You’ve certainly put thought into this endeavor of yours.”

Andy turned, clutching the handle of the door before pushing it open. “Yeah. I just…I don’t want you to be mad,” she blurted out, her words tumbling over one another. “Please don’t be mad, Miranda. It’s not what it looks like—or, maybe it is what it looks like—but I swear it’s not disrespectful or anything. I just—”

Miranda stopped her with a raised hand, her expression shifting from curiosity to calm command. “Andrea.” Her voice was low, perfectly steady. “If I had any intention of being angry, I would’ve already sent you home. Breathe.”

Andy nodded quickly, though her throat felt tight. She stepped aside, gesturing toward the nightstand beside the bed where she’d hidden the handcuffs earlier that day. “I wanted to try something,” she said quietly. “Something different. But I didn’t want you to think I was…crossing a line.”

Miranda regarded her in silence for a long moment, eyes flicking from Andy’s flushed face to the nightstand drawer. Then, slowly, she walked forward, her heels clicking against the hardwood in that steady, unhurried rhythm. “You’ve been nervous all evening,” she murmured, stopping beside the bed. “And all this over one little secret.”

Andy bit her lip, her breath coming shallowly. “I just don’t want to ruin this. You mean too much to me for it to be a stupid mistake.”

Miranda’s gaze softened, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at her lips. “Andrea, I find it highly unlikely that you could ‘ruin’ anything. Now,” she said, extending her hand with quiet finality, “let’s see what has you trembling like a schoolgirl.”

Andy reached for the drawer, her fingers brushing the cool metal inside. Her stomach flipped, her heart pounding so hard it almost hurt. This was the moment—the one she’d been replaying in her head since she’d first tucked the handcuffs away.

When she finally turned back to Miranda, silver glinting faintly in her hand, she took a shaky breath and whispered, “Please don’t be mad.”

Miranda’s eyes fell on the glint of silver in Andy’s trembling hands. For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, the air taut with uncertainty. Then—unexpectedly—Miranda let out the softest laugh. It wasn’t mocking or cold; it was rich, warm, and tinged with genuine amusement. Andy blinked, her nerves short-circuiting at the sound. Miranda tilted her head, a faint smile curving her lips as she regarded the handcuffs with cool, appraising eyes—like she might a pair of particularly daring heels on a runway.

“Oh, Andrea,” she said finally, the words low and almost affectionate. “Is this what they call… BDSM?”

Andy’s jaw nearly dropped. “You—you know what that is?”

Miranda’s eyes snapped up to hers, that familiar, sharp glint of superiority flashing in them. “Please. I do not live under a rock. One of my editors once tried to pitch a feature on it for the February issue, though it was far too tasteless for print.” She paused, her smile deepening just enough to make Andy’s pulse quicken. “Though, apparently, not too tasteless for my personal life.”

Andy stood frozen, completely disarmed by how calmly—how lightly—Miranda was taking this. “I thought you’d be… I don’t know, furious? Or offended?” she managed, still clutching the cuffs like they might burn her.

Miranda raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Offended? Because my partner has an imagination?” She stepped closer, her perfume wrapping around them both—cool iris and faint leather. “Darling, if I were easily scandalized, I would’ve retired from fashion decades ago.”

Andy blinked, still trying to process the surreal turn of events. “So you’re… not mad?”

Miranda’s eyes softened, her voice dipping into something that made Andy’s stomach twist pleasantly. “No, Andrea. Not mad. Mildly surprised, perhaps—but mostly intrigued. You’ve spent the entire evening shaking like a leaf over a pair of handcuffs. That, in itself, is rather adorable.”

Andy’s face flushed crimson, her mind spinning. She’d imagined so many outcomes—lectures, icy disapproval, maybe even a dismissive laugh—but never this: Miranda standing there, calm, elegant, and faintly amused, as if Andy had just confessed to something as harmless as a guilty pleasure.

Miranda reached out, brushing her fingertips lightly against Andy’s hand, where the cuffs glinted between her fingers. “You should know by now, Andrea,” she murmured, her tone slipping into something dangerously soft, “that I am not as easily shocked as you think. If this is something you wish to explore…” Her lips curved. “You need only ask.”

Andy could barely breathe, caught between awe and disbelief. “You’re taking this way too well,” she said, half-laughing, half-gasping.

Miranda’s chuckle was quiet, silken, utterly composed. “My dear, I’m taking it exactly as it deserves to be taken.”

Andy hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as Miranda continued to study her, calm as ever. The handcuffs gleamed faintly in the soft bedroom light, heavy in her palms, their cold metal contrasting sharply with the warmth creeping up her neck. “So,” Andy began carefully, voice low, almost uncertain, “if you’re not mad, um—can I show you what I had in mind?”

Miranda regarded her for a moment, lips pressing together as if she were hiding a smile. “That depends, Andrea. Is it going to involve me ending up arrested?”

Andy let out a nervous laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, nothing like that. I just—” She hesitated again, her courage wavering under Miranda’s sharp gaze. “I wanted to…maybe attach them. To, uh—” She gestured vaguely toward the bedpost, her face burning. “Just to see how it looks.”

For a beat, Miranda said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed softly—an elegant, restrained sound that filled the room. “You’re asking to handcuff me to the bed, Andrea?” she said, her tone so smooth that Andy couldn’t tell if she was teasing or testing.

Andy swallowed hard. “Only if you’re okay with it. You can say no. I just thought it might be something different. You’re always in control of everything, and I thought maybe—” She cut herself off, realizing how much she’d said.

Miranda tilted her head, her expression softening, though her eyes stayed sharp and curious. “You thought perhaps I might enjoy the illusion of surrender?”

Andy’s breath caught, but she nodded. “Yeah. I guess that’s it.”

Miranda stepped closer then, her perfume surrounding them again, subtle and familiar. “Andrea,” she said gently, “you are shaking.”

“I know,” Andy whispered. “Because this could go really wrong.”

“Or,” Miranda countered, her voice softer now, “it could go beautifully right.”

Her gaze flicked toward the bed, then back to Andy. For a long, quiet moment, neither of them moved. Then Miranda extended her wrist—graceful, deliberate, not hesitant at all. “Show me, then,” she said simply.

Andy blinked, stunned by how calmly she’d agreed. “Really?”

Miranda’s lips curved just slightly. “You asked permission. You were respectful. I see no harm in curiosity, provided you remain gentle.” She nodded toward the bedpost. “Go on, Andrea. Let’s see this idea of yours.”

Andy’s heart hammered in her chest as she moved carefully, her hands trembling as she fastened one cuff around Miranda’s wrist. The faint click echoed in the quiet room. Miranda didn’t flinch—she only watched her with that calm, assessing expression, as though she were both participant and observer in her own experiment.

When Andy stepped back, her breath uneven, Miranda glanced toward the cuff, testing it slightly, then looked back at her. “Well,” she said softly, “I must admit, it’s quite evocative.”

Andy managed a small, nervous smile. “You’re not mad?”

Miranda shook her head, the faintest hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. “No, Andrea. I’m curious. Which, as you’ll learn, is far more dangerous.”

Andy stepped back, admiring her handiwork. Miranda's chest heaved slightly, her breasts straining against her clothes. Andy's eyes lingered on the sight, her mouth watering. She reached out, her fingers tracing the edge of Miranda's outline before slowly pulling taking it off, exposing her breasts. Miranda's nipples were already hard, begging for attention.

She leaned down, her tongue flicking out to tease one of Miranda's nipples. Miranda gasped, her body arching slightly. Andy took her time, sucking and licking, her hands roaming over Miranda's body. Miranda's breaths came in ragged gasps, her body responding to Andy's touch despite her stern demeanor.

She moved lower, her hands trailing down Miranda's stomach, slipping under the waistband of her panties. Miranda's pussy was already wet, her body ready for more. Andy's fingers slipped inside, Miranda's hips bucking against her hand. Andy's fingers moved in and out, her thumb circling Miranda's clit. Miranda's moans filled the room, her body writhing against the restraints.

Andy's mouth moved lower, her tongue replacing her fingers. She licked and sucked, her tongue delving deep into Miranda's pussy. Miranda's body trembled, her moans growing louder. Andy's fingers slipped back inside, her mouth focusing on Miranda's clit. Miranda's body tensed, her orgasm building.

Her fingers moved faster, her mouth sucking harder. Miranda's body convulsed, her orgasm crashing over her. Andy's fingers slipped out, her mouth moving back to Miranda's pussy, lapping up the juices that spilled out. Miranda's body trembled, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Andy moved back up, her mouth capturing Miranda's in a deep kiss. Miranda's tongue met hers, the taste of her own juices on Andy's lips. Andy's hands roamed over Miranda's body, her fingers teasing her nipples. Miranda's body responded, her hips bucking against Andy's.

Her hand slipped between her own legs, her fingers rubbing her clit. Miranda's eyes watched, her body responding to the sight. Andy's fingers moved faster, her body tensing as her own orgasm built. Miranda's eyes never left Andy's, her body responding to the sight.

Andy's body convulsed, her orgasm crashing over her. She collapsed on top of Miranda, her body trembling. Miranda's hands, still cuffed, stroked Andy's back, her body responding to the touch. Andy's fingers slipped inside Miranda's pussy, her mouth capturing Miranda's in a deep kiss. Miranda's body responded, her hips bucking against Andy's hand.

Andy's fingers moved faster, her mouth sucking on Miranda's nipple. Miranda's body tensed, her orgasm building. Andy's fingers slipped out, her mouth moving back to Miranda's pussy, lapping up the juices that spilled out. Miranda's body convulsed, her orgasm crashing over her. Andy's fingers slipped back inside, her mouth focusing on Miranda's clit. Miranda's body trembled, her moans filling the room.

The room had gone utterly still except for the sound of their breathing—uneven, shallow, filling the space like the remnants of a storm. The lamp on the nightstand cast a soft amber glow, catching in Miranda’s silver hair and the faint sheen of perspiration on her temple. Andy lay beside her, chest rising and falling, every muscle humming with adrenaline and disbelief. She hadn’t expected it to go that far, hadn’t expected Miranda to meet her halfway, to surrender so gracefully and yet never once seem less than herself.

Miranda’s wrists rested above her on the pillow, the cuffs glinting faintly against the sheets. For a long, suspended moment, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, she turned her head toward Andy, her expression a mix of calm composure and something more fragile—something human. “Andrea,” she murmured, her voice low, a touch breathless, “I believe that’s quite enough for tonight.”

Andy blinked, still catching her breath, her heart pounding so loudly it nearly drowned out the words. “Oh—oh, right.” She scrambled up slightly, fumbling for the small key she’d left on the nightstand. Her fingers were clumsy with nerves, and she nearly dropped it twice before managing to fit it into the lock. The soft click of the mechanism releasing seemed impossibly loud.

Miranda exhaled quietly as her wrist came free, flexing it once before Andy hurried to undo the other. The second cuff fell away, and Miranda lowered her arms, rubbing faint red marks where the metal had pressed against her skin. Andy froze at the sight, guilt flashing across her face.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, voice cracking slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

Miranda looked at her then—really looked at her—and shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “You were careful.” Her tone was calm again, but her gaze lingered on Andy with a kind of quiet fondness that caught her off guard. “And, I must admit, surprisingly thoughtful.”

Andy gave a shaky laugh, sitting back on her heels. “You’re taking this way better than I thought you would.”

“Hm.” Miranda lay back against the pillows, her usual composure slowly returning. “Well, I imagine I’m full of surprises when properly motivated.” A small smile ghosted across her lips. “Though next time, perhaps, a touch less metal.”

Andy nodded quickly, still dazed, still half expecting a reprimand that never came. “Got it. No metal. Lesson learned.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them softened, no longer charged but tender, familiar. Andy reached out, tentatively brushing a strand of hair from Miranda’s face. “You okay?” she whispered.

Miranda’s eyes fluttered closed briefly under the touch. “Perfectly,” she murmured. Then, after a beat: “Now, if you’re quite finished trying to give me a heart attack, turn off the light and come here.”

Andy smiled faintly, her heart still racing as she leaned over and clicked off the lamp. The room fell into darkness, save for the faint glow from the city outside the window. As she settled beside Miranda, feeling her warmth, her mind buzzed with disbelief. She’d actually done it—crossed that impossible line between daring and disaster—and Miranda Priestly hadn’t just tolerated it. She’d trusted her.

When Miranda’s hand found hers beneath the sheets, fingers intertwining softly, Andy let herself breathe again. Neither of them spoke another word. The only sound that remained was the quiet, steady rhythm of their hearts, finally slowing to match.

Chapter Text

In the heart of the city, nestled among a picturesque row of stately townhouses, Miranda’s residence stood as a quiet monument to elegance and control. The building itself exuded a timeless sophistication—its pale stone façade illuminated by the soft glow of wrought-iron lanterns, ivy climbing neatly up the sides as though even nature obeyed her command. Inside, the living room reflected Miranda’s meticulous taste.

Every detail was deliberate: the deep mahogany bookshelves lined with first editions, the delicate vases from Murano catching the light just so, the Persian rugs so fine they seemed to silence footsteps. The plush cream sofas formed a perfect semicircle before a grand marble fireplace, where flames danced lazily, filling the room with a soft amber glow and the faint scent of woodsmoke mingled with Miranda’s signature perfume—something expensive and dangerously understated.

The twins were long gone to their father’s estate for spring break, leaving the townhouse unusually still. Without the chatter and chaos of children, an almost reverent quiet settled over the space, magnifying every small sound—the ticking of the antique clock, the crackle of the fire, the soft rustle of fabric when someone moved.

As the evening sun bled into the skyline, streaking the city with burnished gold and crimson, Andy found herself standing in that immaculate living room. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing against her chest, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Miranda stood across from her, framed by the firelight, her posture regal, her expression unreadable. The flicker of the flames caught in her silver hair, turning it to molten light. Her gaze was sharp enough to cut through the tension that hung between them, a silent current of authority and something far more dangerous.

When Miranda finally spoke, her voice was low but commanding, laced with velvet and steel. “Kneel,” she said.

The word carried through the room like a spell—firm, deliberate, and undeniably seductive.

Andy’s breath hitched as her pulse thrummed in her ears, each beat echoing like a drum against her ribs. Slowly, she lowered herself onto her knees, the silk of her blouse brushing against her skin as she moved. The rug beneath her was soft, luxurious, and warm from the fire’s glow—but none of that warmth compared to the heat in Miranda’s gaze. Their eyes locked, an invisible thread pulling taut between them, and Andy felt as though the very air had been stolen from the room.

“Now, beg,” Miranda murmured, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk—controlled, knowing, and impossibly alluring.

Andy hesitated, the word catching in her throat before tumbling out in a trembling whisper. “Please, Miranda,” she said, her voice barely audible yet charged with need. “I want…I need your touch.” The confession hung in the air, fragile and electric.

Miranda’s answering laugh was low and throaty, the kind of sound that seemed to vibrate through the walls and settle deep beneath Andy’s skin. She began to move, the sharp, deliberate click of her heels echoing across the hardwood floor—a rhythm of dominance that made Andy’s breath quicken with every step. Miranda stopped just inches away, the hem of her perfectly tailored trousers brushing the edge of the rug. The scent of her perfume—amber and jasmine—wrapped around Andy like smoke.

Tilting her head slightly, Miranda looked down at her, her expression one of cool amusement. “You want my touch, huh?” she said softly, her tone slipping lower, roughened by desire yet restrained by iron control. Her fingers ghosted along Andy’s chin, barely a whisper of contact, sending a tremor through her body. “Then show me,” Miranda murmured, her gaze unwavering. “Show me how much you want it.”

Andy didn't need to be told twice. She reached out, her hands trembling slightly as they brushed against Miranda's thighs. She slowly inched her way up, her fingers tracing the curve of Miranda's hips. She looked up, her eyes pleading, as she reached for the zipper of Miranda's dress.

The older woman nodded, her eyes filled with desire. Andy pulled down the zipper, her heart pounding in her chest. She pushed the dress off Miranda's shoulders, revealing her lacy black lingerie. Andy's breath hitched in her throat as she took in the sight of Miranda's body. She was perfect, her curves accentuated by the soft glow of the fireplace.

She smirked, enjoying the look of pure desire on Andy's face. "You like what you see?" she asked, her voice filled with amusement. Andy nodded, her eyes never leaving Miranda's body. "Then touch me," she commanded.

Andy didn't need to be told twice. She reached out, her fingers tracing the outline of Miranda's lacy black bra. She could feel her nipples harden under her touch, a soft moan escaping Miranda's lips. Andy felt a surge of desire rush through her, her pussy aching for Miranda's touch.

Miranda, sensing Andy's desire, smirked. She reached down, her fingers brushing against Andy's wet pussy. Andy gasped, her body arching towards Miranda's touch. Miranda chuckled, her fingers slowly inching their way inside her pussy.

She moaned, her body trembling with pleasure. She reached out, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of Miranda's bra. She managed to unhook it, her eyes widening as Miranda's breasts spilled out. Andy leaned forward, her tongue flicking against Miranda's nipple.

Miranda moaned, her fingers moving faster inside Andy's pussy. She could feel Andy's wetness coating her fingers, her own pussy aching for release. She pulled her fingers out, her eyes filled with desire as she looked at Andy. "I want to taste you," she said, her voice husky.

Andy nodded, her body trembling with anticipation. Miranda pushed her down, her fingers tracing the curve of Andy's body. She pulled off Andy's pants, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of Andy's wet pussy. She leaned forward, her tongue flicking against Andy's clit.

She moaned, her body arching towards Miranda's touch. Miranda's tongue moved faster, her fingers inching their way inside Andy's pussy. Andy could feel herself getting closer to the edge, her body trembling with desire.

The older woman pulled away, her eyes filled with desire. She stood up, her fingers tracing the curve of her own body. She slowly pulled off her lacy black panties, her eyes never leaving Andy's. "Your turn," she said, her voice filled with amusement.

Time had softened the edges of the night. The fire had burned low, its glow dim and lazy, casting long, molten shadows across the room. The air still shimmered faintly with heat, scented faintly of smoke and perfume, of something spent but lingering. The tension that had once hung sharp and electric between them had mellowed into a quiet hum—still powerful, but gentler now, threaded through with something unspoken.

Andy lay half-draped across the couch, her head resting against Miranda’s lap. The woman’s hand moved idly through her hair, fingers tracing absent-minded circles along her scalp, a touch both possessive and unexpectedly tender. The rest of the world felt impossibly far away—just the two of them, the dying fire, and the faint patter of rain beginning to fall against the tall windows.

Miranda’s gaze was soft but assessing, as if even in her rare moments of warmth, she refused to let go of control. “You did well tonight,” she murmured finally, her voice quiet, cool, but carrying a rare note of approval. “Better than I expected, actually.”

Andy smiled faintly, her eyes fluttering open to meet Miranda’s. “That’s your way of saying you’re proud, isn’t it?”

Miranda’s lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners. “Don’t push your luck, Andrea,” she said, but her tone lacked its usual bite. Her hand stilled in Andy’s hair for a moment, then brushed a stray strand from her cheek. “Though,” she added, her words softer now, almost affectionate, “you may consider it a compliment.”

Andy let out a quiet laugh, content to sink further into the warmth of the moment. Miranda, for all her frost and composure, didn’t move away. She simply sat there, fingers threading gently through Andy’s hair, the firelight flickering against her pale features like a halo of molten gold.

And for the first time that night, Miranda allowed herself a small exhale—half sigh, half confession—as she whispered, just loud enough for Andy to hear, “You’re learning.”