Chapter 1

The evening light slanted through the tall, arched windows of the Plaza Hotel, casting an amber glow over the room's curated chaos. The event was a spectacle, an exclusive preview for a new fashion campaign rumored to reshape the industry, attended by all the right people and more than a few who thought they were. Andrea Sachs stood off to the side, champagne flute in hand, though she'd barely taken a sip. Her sharp eyes scanned the room for any sign of Miranda Priestly, but the silver-haired editor was nowhere to be seen.

Andrea had grown used to waiting for Miranda, not that the woman ever truly kept anyone waiting without reason. Since the debacle in Paris, things between them had changed—personally and professionally. Andrea had stayed on at Runway not because she was dazzled by Miranda's world anymore, but because she had earned her place in it. She wasn't the wide-eyed assistant she'd once been; now, she knew the game, the players, the stakes.

But then there was Cruella De Vil.

"Miss Sachs," a voice purred from beside her, cutting through the din of the crowd like a well-honed blade. Soft, almost playful, but with an edge of danger that demanded attention. Cruella slid into view like a shadow come to life, her lips painted the same shade of crimson as the cigarette holder she balanced between two sharp fingers. She no longer smoked—not since that unfortunate "incident" that had splashed across headlines years ago—but the holder remained, an accessory as iconic as the woman herself.

Cruella was, in every sense of the word, electric. There was an aura around her, a manic energy barely contained, as if she were forever teetering on the edge between brilliance and chaos. Her hair, a stark contrast of jet black and snow white, was swept back into an impossibly smooth chignon, the colors so distinct they almost seemed painted on. Her eyes—lined in dramatic black that made them seem larger, sharper—glinted with amusement as she took in Andrea's carefully controlled expression.

"You've been standing here for ten minutes, darling, as if waiting for something... or someone," Cruella said, her voice lilting. She raised an eyebrow, the movement almost languid, but there was something deliberate behind it. "I do hope you're not expecting Miranda to make a grand entrance. She tends to disappoint when one wants her to make an entrance."

Andrea's chest tightened slightly, though she masked the reaction with a practiced smile. Cruella had a way of cutting through the niceties of the room, her words half-seduction, half-challenge. The woman was an enigma, notorious for her eccentricity, and equally famous for her fashion empire—one built on risks no one else would take. She leaned into her mythology with an almost gleeful abandon, playing the role of the unpredictable genius to the hilt.

Andrea turned to her, keeping her tone light but confident. "Miranda will be here," she replied smoothly, forcing herself not to flinch under Cruella's unnervingly sharp gaze. "She's just—handling some last-minute details. You know how she is. Thorough."

Cruella's lips curled into a slow smile, the kind that could wither most people with its sheer force of suggestion. "Oh, darling, I know how Miranda is. Perfection is her oxygen." She tilted her head slightly, her white-black hair catching the golden light as her eyes roamed over Andrea. "But surely even you must grow tired of her—precision. After all, you've been by her side for, what is it now, three years?"

Andrea returned the smile, refusing to take the bait. She had learned, through both experience and necessity, to never let her emotions show too easily. Miranda had drilled that into her from day one, and it had become second nature. "I know her habits better than anyone," Andrea replied, her voice measured. "Miranda doesn't waste time making grand entrances. She'll arrive exactly when she needs to, no sooner, no later. She's not the type to linger for effect."

"Isn't she?" Cruella purred, her gaze flicking toward the entrance as though expecting Miranda to materialize, her dramatic timing impeccable. When no such appearance came, she turned back to Andrea, her eyes glittering with something darker, more dangerous. "I find that hard to believe. She's all about control. And control, my dear, is knowing how to keep people waiting just long enough to leave them wanting more."

Andrea's grip on her champagne tightened slightly, though she maintained her calm exterior. Cruella's words were laced with insinuation, digging at something far more personal than she cared to admit. There was a rumor circulating, no doubt started by Christian Thompson—who couldn't resist a bit of malicious gossip—that Andrea had once harbored a "puppy crush" on her boss. It was ludicrous, of course, but the industry loved nothing more than to watch the powerful squirm under the weight of scandal.

"And control," Andrea replied, her tone sharp yet measured, "is knowing when to give people exactly what they need, not what they want."

Cruella's smile widened, her amusement barely veiled. "Oh, darling, you're positively delightful. No wonder they call you Miranda's girl. You have her fire—just enough to stay interesting."

Andrea's cheeks warmed slightly, though she willed herself not to show it. The 'Miranda's girl' title had stuck, despite her best efforts to shake it. Christian's not-so-subtle whispers had seen to that. Ever since Paris, and more so after Miranda's divorce, there had been endless speculation about Andrea's true place in Miranda's life—speculation that Andrea had learned to brush off with a carefully practiced indifference. But it didn't mean the words didn't sting, especially when wielded by someone like Cruella, whose ability to make people squirm was as legendary as her fashion sense.

"I'm here because I earned it," Andrea said, her voice cool, unwavering. "Not because of some ridiculous rumor."

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Cruella replied, her eyes dancing with mischief. "But people do love their stories, don't they? A bright, young assistant, devoted to her demanding, powerful boss—it's practically a fairytale. Who wouldn't want to believe there's more behind the loyalty?"

"There isn't," Andrea replied tersely, though she softened her tone quickly. "Miranda values results. I deliver."

"And what do you value, darling?" Cruella asked, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're very good at delivering everything Miranda asks for."

Andrea opened her mouth to respond, but the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere silenced her. The low hum of conversation had quieted, and heads began to turn toward the grand entrance. There she was—Miranda Priestly, in all her imposing, ice-cold glory. Dressed in an immaculate white Valentino coat with a structured, fitted silhouette, her silver hair glinted under the crystal chandeliers, and her expression was as unreadable as ever.

Andrea felt her pulse quicken at the sight of her, a reaction she wasn't proud of but couldn't quite control. After all these years, after Paris, after staying through the divorce when everyone else had left, Miranda still had a presence that made Andrea's heart beat faster.

Cruella chuckled beside her, the sound low and knowing. "Speak of the devil."

Miranda's eyes scanned the room with surgical precision, landing on Andrea and Cruella. There was the briefest flicker of recognition in her gaze before she made her way toward them, her heels clicking against the marble floor with each perfectly measured step.

"Cruella," Miranda said, her voice as cool and precise as her walk. "I wasn't aware you'd be attending tonight."

"Miranda," Cruella purred in response, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. After all, someone needs to keep your Andrea entertained while you're off making your grand appearance."

Miranda's gaze flicked to Andrea for a split second, something unreadable in her expression, before returning to Cruella.

Miranda's lips curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile, though it barely touched her eyes. Her gaze remained fixed on Cruella, cool and calculating, the weight of her presence pressing down on the moment. "I see you've made yourself comfortable."

Cruella, ever the provocateur, let out a soft laugh, flicking the unlit cigarette holder in her hand with an exaggerated flourish. "Oh, darling, comfort is the least of it. I was just remarking to your dear Andrea how you always manage to keep people on their toes. Even your timing is impeccable."

Andrea felt the tension in the air sharpen. It wasn't the first time she'd been caught in the crossfire between these two titans of the fashion world, but this felt different—charged, somehow. Miranda's subtle dominance clashed with Cruella's manic energy, a silent tug-of-war between control and chaos.

"Is that so?" Miranda's voice was soft, almost bored, but Andrea recognized the undertone. It was the same tone Miranda used before eviscerating someone with a single sentence, and it made Andrea's pulse quicken.

"Oh, yes," Cruella replied, taking a step closer, her eyes gleaming with that familiar glint of mischief. "Your girl here has been quite the loyal little soldier, hasn't she? Standing by you through thick and thin. Paris. The divorce. It's positively heartwarming, really. But I can't help but wonder—what exactly does it take to earn that level of devotion?"

Andrea felt a cold sensation curling in her stomach. The divorce had been all over Page Nine, dissected by gossip columnists who seemed to relish every painful detail. It had been brutal, and not just for Miranda. The strain on her daughters had been palpable, with Cassidy and Caroline caught in the crossfire of whispers and speculation at school, their names constantly dragged into the press circus. And yet, throughout it all, Andrea had worked tirelessly to ensure that Miranda's schedule remained flawless, allowing her the precious moments she needed with her girls—dinner here, breakfast there. Anything that let Miranda be a mother, even as her world outside of Runway seemed to crumble.

"I think you'll find," Miranda said coolly, her tone cutting like ice, "that loyalty, real loyalty, is earned through respect and competence. Two things I value very highly."

Cruella chuckled, seemingly unfazed by Miranda's sharp retort. Her eyes drifted back to Andrea, her smile widening as if she had just uncovered something truly fascinating. "Respect and competence, of course. But I wonder…" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is that all it takes to keep such a devoted assistant? Or is there something more you offer her, Miranda?"

Andrea's throat tightened. Cruella's words hung in the air, dangerously close to crossing a line, but Miranda didn't flinch. Instead, she remained perfectly still, her gaze icy and unyielding, refusing to acknowledge the bait. But Andrea—Andrea felt every inch of her skin burn under Cruella's suggestion.

"I don't think loyalty needs further explanation," Miranda replied, her voice clipped. "Andrea's work speaks for itself."

"Oh, I have no doubt it does," Cruella said, still smiling, though now it seemed more predatory. "But, darling, it's such a shame to waste all that talent—such dedication, such fire—on someone who can only offer you, well…" Cruella paused dramatically, her gaze sweeping Miranda up and down before she locked eyes with Andrea. "Let's just say, I could offer you something a bit more—stimulating."

Andrea's stomach lurched. The insinuation in Cruella's tone was unmistakable, her eyes gleaming with something that made Andrea's skin prickle. There was no subtlety in her words, no veiled implication; it was clear as day, and the brazenness of it sent a wave of heat flooding through her, though she willed herself not to react.

"I beg your pardon?" Andrea managed, her voice tight.

"Oh, come now," Cruella purred, taking another step closer, her presence enveloping Andrea like a cloud of perfume and smoke. "Surely you've thought about expanding your horizons, darling. Miranda's leash must feel so constricting after all these years. Imagine working for someone who appreciates not only your competence but also your passion—someone who knows how to truly reward loyalty."

Her meaning couldn't have been more clear, and Andrea's mouth went dry. She could feel the sweat beginning to form at the nape of her neck, her pulse quickening. It wasn't just the brazenness of Cruella's offer that made her dizzy—it was the nagging truth beneath it. Because as much as Andrea had denied the rumors, the gossip, the whispering voices in the industry about her so-called "puppy crush" on Miranda, there was something there. Something unspoken but undeniable.

Andrea had worked harder than anyone to stay by Miranda's side, and it wasn't just because of professionalism. She had admired Miranda, respected her, yes, but there was more to it—a pull, a fascination with the woman's power, her intelligence, her elegance.

Miranda's eyes flicked to Andrea, a brief, cool glance that seemed to assess the situation in a heartbeat. There was no reaction, no visible shift in her demeanor, but Andrea could feel the tension in the air between them, thickening like fog. Did Miranda suspect? Did she know?

"I'm afraid Andrea is quite content with her position," Miranda said, her voice sharp and final. "I would suggest you turn your attentions elsewhere, Cruella. There are plenty of desperate people in this industry who would leap at the chance to work for you."

Cruella's smile faltered ever so slightly, but she recovered quickly, her laughter ringing out like a bell. "Ah, Miranda, ever the protective one. But don't be too sure. Everyone has their price. Even your precious Andrea."

The fashion designer made to sure to draw out the name, just like Miranda often did. Giving a special lilt to the pronunciation. 

Andrea swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way her body seemed to buzz with anxiety. Her mind raced, trying to find the right words to shut this down, to end this bizarre conversation before it spiraled any further. She forced herself to meet Cruella's gaze, her voice steady as she said, "I'm exactly where I need to be."

Cruella's eyes darkened, her smile fading into something more predatory, more dangerous. "Is that so?" she murmured, stepping even closer now, so close that Andrea could smell the faint trace of her perfume—something dark and intoxicating. "Well, darling, should you ever change your mind, my offer stands. There's always room for someone with your… talents."

Andrea felt a wave of relief as Cruella finally took a step back, her presence no longer suffocating. But the tension in her body didn't fade. It lingered, sharp and oppressive, as Miranda turned to face her fully for the first time since the conversation had begun.

"Andrea," Miranda said, her voice low but commanding, "would you excuse us for a moment?"

Andrea blinked, her heart skipping a beat at the unexpected request. Miranda's eyes were unreadable, as they so often were, but there was something in her tone that made Andrea pause. Without another word, Andrea gave a small nod and stepped back, her hands clammy as she moved toward the other side of the room.

The last thing she saw before turning away was the locked gaze between Miranda and Cruella, a silent battle playing out between two powerful forces. And as much as Andrea wanted to leave the conversation behind, her mind kept drifting back to Cruella's offer, the implication of something more. It stirred something inside her she wasn't ready to confront—not here, not now, not when Miranda was watching her so closely.

But the truth was undeniable, no matter how much she tried to push it down. There was something between her and Miranda. Something dangerous. And now that Cruella had poked at it, Andrea wasn't sure how her boss was going to react.

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Preview of next chapter:

Cruella's eyes flashed with something—surprise, amusement, or perhaps just recognition that she had been outplayed. Still, she tilted her head and offered a slow, deliberate nod. "Yes, darling, perhaps we should. Tomorrow, then? We can discuss… our Miranda's girl."

Miranda's expression didn't falter, but there was a flicker of something darker in her eyes. The implication was clear, the challenge laid bare. But she didn't give Cruella the satisfaction of a response beyond a cool, imperious nod.

"Tomorrow," Miranda said, the word final, dismissive.