Chapter Text
Andy sat at the desk in her hotel room, pale morning light spilling across the stationery and the remnants of room service: an untouched croissant and a half-finished cup of coffee. The duvet on the bed behind her was still perfectly tucked, a clear sign she hadn’t lain down at all. The faint hum of the city filtered through the window, but inside, everything was still.
She hadn’t slept. Her body had rested—eyes closed, breath even—but her mind kept looping the moment: Miranda turning, their eyes locking, the silent acknowledgment that she had been seen.
She could still feel the force of that stare.
Her phone buzzed against the wooden surface, jolting her. She blinked and closed her fingers around the phone before she registered the name.
Nigel.
She answered on the second ring. “She saw me.”
Nigel exhaled slowly. “Yes. She did.”
The quiet stretched between them.
“She didn’t look surprised.”
“She rarely does,” Nigel replied. “You should come in today.”
Andy glanced at the untouched glass of water on the desk and frowned.
“She’s already seen you, Six. The question now is what you’ll do about it.”
She didn’t answer.
“Come in,” he urged. “Let me handle the rest.”
Andy looked at her reflection in the dark screen of her laptop, hair falling loose around her face. Her jaw was set and her eyes steady, masking the unease churning in her stomach. “Alright,” she said at last. “Give me an hour.”
---
The elevator doors slid open, and Andy stepped out into the morning energy of Runway—phones ringing, assistants rushing, voices low and clipped behind glass doors. Andy squared her shoulders, the rhythm of the place settling back into her body. Her reflection flickered in the glass as she passed: a charcoal-gray blazer moving fluidly around her frame, cinched just slightly at the waist above high-waisted pinstripe trousers, paired with a black ruched top and a low neckline. The sunglasses hid the wear in her eyes, but her stride carried confidence.
Heads turned. Some faces she recognized, while others were new. Near the fashion closet, someone whispered behind a hand. The whole floor seemed to recalibrate around her presence, curiosity moving quietly from desk to desk.
Nigel stood outside his office, leaning casually against the frame with two coffees in hand.
He looked her up and down. “Well. You certainly know how to make an entrance.”
Andy raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”
He passed her the coffee. “Just enough.” He leaned in closer. “You look incredible, Six.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Guess all those years of reading Runway paid off.”
Nigel’s brows shot up. “You’ve been reading Runway all this time?”
“Reading?” She took a sip of coffee. “Please. I have a subscription.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Attagirl.”
She followed him inside. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the noise of the floor.
“She’s not back yet,” he said, setting his cup on the edge of his desk. “We’ll talk first.”
Andy nodded, wrapping both hands around her coffee to ground herself. “Did she say anything?”
“No.”
Andy looked down. “Of course not.”
Nigel crossed his arms, his face giving nothing away. “But she’s been different since yesterday.”
Andy blinked, meeting his eyes. “Different how?”
“Restless. Icy, even for her. She took two meetings and canceled the rest.” He paused, his eyes sharpening. “And she’s never here before eight-thirty. This morning she was at her desk by six.”
Her grip tightened around the cardboard sleeve. She didn’t know what to do with that information, whether it meant anything or if she was reading too much into the habits of a woman she hadn’t spoken to in nearly two decades.
A knock on the glass made Nigel look up. “She’s here.”
Her spine straightened on instinct, the old reflex snapping into place before she could stop it.
He gave her one last glance. “You’re ready. Let’s go.”
Andy set her cup on the edge of his desk and followed him out. They walked down the corridor together, footsteps syncing. The closer they got to Miranda’s office, the heavier the air felt, charged and pressurized. Every assistant they passed lowered their voice another notch. Just as Nigel lifted his hand to knock, the door opened.
Miranda’s assistant stood there, young and sharp-eyed. Her gaze flicked over Andy, lingering on her face before smoothing into a polite mask.
“She wants to see Ms. Sachs,” the assistant said, her tone neutral. “Alone.”
Andy froze.
Nigel frowned. “Are you sure—”
“She was clear.”
Andy looked at Nigel, then stepped forward before he could argue. “It’s fine.” She smoothed her blazer over her hips and crossed the threshold.
Sunlight poured through the windows, bathing the space in light, with Manhattan’s skyline laid out beyond. There were subtle changes: a different arrangement of framed photographs on the credenza, a new sculpture on the side table, sleek and abstract. But the room still felt unmistakably Miranda’s, the same exacting quiet pressing in from the walls.
She had barely stepped into the room when the scent hit her. It slipped under everything else: bergamot first, then the warmer, deeper notes she’d carried in her memory for eighteen years. Her throat closed around the inhale she hadn’t finished, and her tongue moved instinctively across her canine tooth.
Still dull. Still human.
Good.
Exhaling slowly through her nose, she willed the dangerous quickening in her chest to slow. Control was becoming second nature. Most days were effortless: mundane interactions, crowded streets, even close quarters with strangers on the subway. But this was Miranda. A different category of temptation. A different scale of risk. Andy had managed solitude, isolation, and carefully calculated distance, but she wasn’t fully prepared for this particular test.
Behind her, the office door closed.
Miranda sat at her desk, pen poised above a folder, her eyes already fixed on Andy as if she’d been waiting for her. Her hair, shorter now, was styled with the same meticulous precision as always, its stark white brilliance undiminished by the years. There were changes, though: faint shadows beneath her eyes, a sharper set to her jaw, small signs of time catching up with her.
Still, she was breathtaking.
Andy swallowed discreetly, tasting the air, rich and laced with Miranda’s presence, nearly intoxicating. Their eyes met, and the old scrutiny found her at once: cool and unblinking, the kind that could quiet a boardroom and strip a person down to their bones. Only then did Andy lift a hand and slide her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head.
“You’re really here.” Miranda’s voice was low and composed, though a tense edge tightened the syllables.
“I am.” Andy kept her voice even, hands folding loosely in front of her. “I’d like to help you. If you’ll let me.”
Miranda tilted her head slightly, the gesture subtle but calculated.
The quiet between them thickened, charged, pressing into the corners of the room. Andy took a careful step forward. The scent deepened, catching in her throat like smoke pulled too deep. Her tongue brushed against her tooth again.
Control it.
Miranda’s attention drifted toward the chair across from her. “Sit down, Andrea.”
The cadence of her name in Miranda’s voice hadn’t changed: sharp, precise, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with familiarity and everything to do with possession. Andy crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair.
“I’ve been briefed on what’s happening with Runway,” she began. “The press, the board, the shifts in strategy, or lack of one. I know you didn’t ask for me, but I think I can help.”
Miranda remained still, her expression guarded. Waiting.
Despite her thundering pulse, Andy’s voice held steady. “I’ve already started research. I’ve seen the names being floated to replace you. Some have impressive reach and massive followings. But none of them understand the brand. And none of them understand you.”
Miranda’s pen stilled, but her eyes hadn’t wavered.
“I’ve spent the last decade telling stories, shaping them. I know how to recalibrate a narrative before it’s rewritten by someone else. I know how to hold public attention long enough to shift it.” Leaning forward slightly, she lowered her voice. “You don’t need reinvention, Miranda. You need reassertion. Let me help you tell the story they’ve forgotten. The one only you could write.”
Miranda didn’t look away. Her fingers tapped once, twice, against the desk, a rhythm Andy remembered, though she couldn’t place from where.
Neither of them moved.
Miranda set her pen down. “You presume a great deal,” she said, her voice smooth and razor-sharp.
“I do,” Andy agreed without hesitation. Her tone stayed calm, but a thread of steel slipped in beneath it. “But you didn’t stop me, and you could have. That tells me something.”
Miranda regarded her for a moment longer, and just as Andy began to brace for a shift back to business—
“Why did you leave?”
The question landed somewhere under her sternum. A tight pull seized her ribs. She hadn’t thought Miranda would ask. Not now. Not ever.
“I had my reasons.”
Miranda’s stare was unwavering. “I’m sure you did. I’m asking what they were.”
Andy held the stare as heat climbed the back of her neck. The urge to deflect, to brush past the question with something vague and diplomatic, was strong. But this was Miranda. She’d know. She always knew.
“You want me to justify the last eighteen years?”
“I want to know. You left a career and the city where you were building your name. You disappeared.”
“I didn’t disappear,” Andy said, quieter now. “I left.”
“Same thing.”
Inhaling slowly through her nose, Andy centered herself before speaking. “I left because there was nothing keeping me here. The name followed me. The rest… didn’t.”
Miranda tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “And what made you so certain there was nothing left for you here?”
Andy’s fingers curled in her lap, nails pressing into her palm. “People move on.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “Sometimes you walk into a room and realize the part you played in someone’s life has already been recast. Or maybe it was never really yours to begin with.”
Miranda said nothing. Her hand, resting lightly on the desk, moved: just a flick of her fingers, a small restless gesture that defied interpretation. Miranda studied her for a long moment. Then, quieter than before: “You were very young.”
“I was,” Andy agreed, sounding steadier than she felt. “But I knew what I was doing.”
Miranda’s jaw tensed, then eased. “Did you?”
The question hung between them, loaded with implications she wasn’t ready to unpack here, now, or maybe ever.
“Do you still have it? The book.”
Miranda’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, her mask slipping just enough for Andy to catch it before it snapped back into place. “Of course.”
The words were simple, matter-of-fact, but they landed like a physical blow. Andy swallowed hard, her pulse roaring in her ears. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Some part of her had always assumed Miranda would open the book, read what she wrote inside, close it again without a word, toss it in a fire, or hand it to an assistant and forget about it within the week.
Certainly not keep it...
Miranda reached for a file on her desk, her movements crisp and efficient, signaling a return to business. “We’ll start with the board,” she said. “You’ll need access to the last six months of internal reports and all press coverage, favorable and otherwise. My assistant will coordinate with you. Anything else, bother Nigel.”
Andy nodded, grateful for the shift even as her chest still felt tight. “Understood.”
Miranda didn’t look up from the file. “You’ll have full clearance. I expect updates twice a week, more if necessary.”
“Of course.”
“And Andrea,” Miranda added.
Halfway to standing, Andy paused.
Miranda’s eyes lifted, locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Don’t waste my time.”
Andy met the unspoken expectation in Miranda’s eyes. Her lips curved, barely. “I won’t.”
She stood and turned toward the door. Her hand was on the brass handle when Miranda spoke again.
“Andrea.”
She stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“Welcome back.”
Her grip tightened on the handle. She didn’t trust herself to respond, so she opened the door and stepped through, closing it behind her. She made it halfway down the hall before her lungs remembered how to work. Only then, safely out of sight of Miranda’s office, did she let herself breathe.