Chapter 3

The car moved like a sleek predator through the shadowed streets of Manhattan, its engine humming quietly beneath the murmur of the city. Inside, the silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of papers as Andrea scribbled notes in her notebook, her head lowered in concentration. Miranda sat across from her, illuminated by the occasional glow of passing streetlights, her profile sharp and serene, eyes fixed on her phone as her fingers scrolled with practiced efficiency.

For anyone watching, it would seem like just another car ride, just another night after one of New York's many high-profile events. But the tension between them was palpable, humming in the air like an electric current, as Andrea waited for the inevitable commands.

Miranda had been… quieter than usual. Not outwardly different—she was never anything but composed—but something lingered just beneath the surface. Andrea, attuned to even the smallest changes in Miranda's demeanor after years of working for her, could feel the shift. It was subtle, like the change in the air before a storm, but it was there. And though Andrea had become an expert at masking her own reactions, her curiosity had been gnawing at her ever since the event ended.

Finally, Miranda spoke. Her voice was low, precise, and the calm authority it carried was as familiar to Andrea as her own heartbeat. "Tomorrow, the spring issue layout needs to be completed by ten a.m. I don't want any mistakes. Ensure Nigel has the finalized spread, and get in touch with the team in Milan directly. They've been slow." She paused, glancing briefly out the window as the lights flickered across her face. 

Andrea nodded, her pen gliding across the page as she wrote down the instructions, her hand steady, her mind focused. She had memorized the rhythm of Miranda's demands, the cadence of her expectations. It was a game of precision, and Andrea had learned how to play it well.

But tonight, there was something different about Miranda's tone, something quieter beneath the surface. Andrea glanced up briefly, catching the slightest furrow in Miranda's brow as she stared out the window. She didn't ask. She never asked.

She'd learned early on that Miranda wasn't one to explain herself—not her moods, not her decisions, and certainly not the thoughts that flickered behind those cold, steely eyes. Andrea had mastered the art of reading the smallest cues, the subtle shifts in Miranda's posture or the way her voice would lower just enough to let Andrea know something was off. Yet, she never pressed. That was the unspoken rule.

But tonight, something about that shift in Miranda's demeanor stirred something in Andrea—something that had been there for years, growing quietly, hopelessly, despite her every effort to ignore it. It wasn't just a crush. It hadn't been for a long time. She had tried to tell herself it was—tried to chalk up her late nights, her sacrifices, her silent longing to the awe and admiration of a young assistant in over her head. But that was a lie.

Andrea's heart ached with the weight of it all as she sat in the quiet of the car, her notebook balanced on her lap, her fingers gripping the pen tighter than necessary. She had fallen in love with Miranda—fully, hopelessly, painfully. It was a love that she could never admit to anyone, least of all herself. She had wanted to believe it was a fleeting infatuation, something that would pass with time, with experience, with the countless late nights spent catering to Miranda's every need.

But it hadn't passed. It had grown.

Every shared glance, every clipped command, every rare, fleeting moment when Miranda's eyes softened—those moments were etched into Andrea's mind, playing on a loop in the quiet hours when she was alone. Miranda had become more than just her boss, more than the woman she looked up to. Miranda had become everything. And that was the most dangerous part.

Because for all her longing, for all the dreams that featured Miranda far too heavily, Andrea knew—deep down, she knew—how hopeless it was. Miranda Priestly wasn't the kind of woman who loved in the way Andrea did. She wasn't the kind of woman who offered warmth or comfort or reassurance. She was cold, exacting, a force of nature that carved her way through the world, leaving everything else in her wake.

And yet, Andrea couldn't help but love her. She couldn't stop herself from falling deeper, from wanting things she knew she would never have. It was a kind of torture, the way her heart clenched every time Miranda spoke her name, the way her pulse quickened when she caught Miranda's gaze. It was maddening, this constant pull toward someone who would never truly see her.

Andrea had tried to fight it, tried to reason with herself that she was nothing more than an assistant—replaceable, a cog in the well-oiled machine that Miranda commanded with an iron will. She was just another girl who had gotten caught up in the whirlwind of Miranda Priestly's world. And yet, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that, the feelings remained.

It wasn't a crush anymore, if it ever had been. It wasn't some fleeting fascination with power or beauty. It was love—the kind that settled in your bones and refused to leave, no matter how painful it became. And it was painful. Because Andrea knew she could never have her.

She had spent so long trying to bury those feelings, to tuck them away behind the professionalism she wore like armor. She told herself that Miranda didn't see her that way—that Miranda didn't see anyone that way. But the truth was, it wasn't that Miranda didn't notice her. It was that Miranda noticed everything. Every glance, every shift, every unsaid word.

But Miranda, being Miranda, kept those observations close, wielding them like weapons when it suited her. And that was what made everything so much harder—knowing that Miranda was fully aware of Andrea's devotion, and yet never acknowledging it. Never giving Andrea more than just the scraps of attention that came with being her assistant.

Andrea sat quietly across from her, her notebook still open on her lap, the pen hovering just above the page as she pretended to focus on the next list of tasks. But her mind was elsewhere, spinning around thoughts she had tried for years to keep locked away. It was like trying to keep water in her hands, the emotions spilling through her fingers no matter how tightly she held on. Miranda's cool detachment should have helped, should have been a reminder that Andrea's feelings were one-sided, hopeless. But it only made the ache worse.

The car turned another corner, the streetlights casting soft, flickering shadows across Miranda's face as she stared out of the window. The light caught the edges of her features—sharp, perfect, untouchable. To Andrea, she was like a painting, something that could be admired from afar but never truly touched. And it was agony to know she could never be more than what she was now—a loyal assistant, invisible in the ways that mattered most.

And still, despite everything, Andrea couldn't stop loving her. She had stopped pretending it was a crush long ago. This thing between them—whatever it was, whatever it wasn't—had deepened into something far more dangerous. Something that had taken root in Andrea's heart and refused to let go, no matter how hopeless it felt.

For so long, she had convinced herself that the late nights, the constant sacrifices, were all just part of the job, part of the price of being so close to someone like Miranda Priestly. But now, as they sat in silence, Andrea felt the weight of it pressing down on her. The love she carried for Miranda was like a wound, raw and aching, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was a burden she would carry alone.

Miranda's voice cut through her thoughts, as she could tell Andrea's full attention was no longer on her words. "Also," she continued, her tone cool and professional, "follow up with the accessories team—they've been taking too long with the samples."

Andrea quickly jotted down the notes, the rhythm of Miranda's commands steadying her, pulling her back to the present. "Yes, Miranda," she replied, her voice quiet but efficient.

There was a pause, and for a moment, Andrea thought that might be the end of the conversation. But then Miranda glanced away from the window, her eyes flicking toward Andrea with that familiar, unreadable gaze. "I won't be working late tomorrow evening."

Andrea's pen hesitated over the page, the pause barely noticeable, but her mind raced for a split second. Miranda always worked late when her daughters were with their father, using the extra time to bury herself in Runway and the countless demands of her empire. That was the pattern. The routine. But, of course, Miranda never explained herself—never offered more than what she deemed necessary.

Andrea nodded quickly, jotting the note down as if it was just another task, though her heart was still unsettled. She would never ask, never press for an explanation. That was another unspoken rule with Miranda. You don't question her decisions. You simply execute them.

"Yes, Miranda," Andrea said quietly, closing her notebook with a practiced efficiency that she had perfected over the years. But the weight of Miranda's words lingered in the air, hanging between them like a question that would never be answered.

The car began to slow as it approached Miranda's townhouse, and Andrea could feel the tension growing in her chest, a familiar mix of admiration and longing that always surfaced when the day came to an end. It wasn't just the work, it wasn't just the late nights, the grueling demands. It was this—the moments between, the silences, the glances that said more than Miranda ever would.

Andrea watched as Miranda straightened her posture, her hand already reaching for the door handle with her usual grace and precision. She was always so composed, so poised, and yet Andrea couldn't help but feel the shift in her demeanor. Something had been off since the event, since the moment Miranda had exchanged words with Cruella, but Andrea had no way of knowing what it was. And Miranda would never tell her. Not directly.

As the car came to a complete stop, Miranda turned slightly, her eyes finding Andrea's in the dim light of the street lamps that filtered through the windows. For a moment, there was silence, the hum of the engine barely noticeable beneath the quiet tension between them.

"Andrea," Miranda said, her voice softer now, almost a murmur.

Andrea's heart skipped, her eyes widening just slightly as she waited for whatever was coming next. Miranda's gaze was sharp, but there was something else beneath it—something Andrea couldn't place. And then the words came, cutting through the stillness with a sharpness that made Andrea's breath catch.

"Stay away from Cruella."

Andrea blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in Miranda's voice. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a warning. And it sent a chill down Andrea's spine, the weight of those words sinking into her chest like a stone.

"I—of course, Miranda," Andrea replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Miranda's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, her expression unreadable as always, and then, with a subtle nod, she opened the door and stepped out of the car. The sound of the door clicking shut was soft but final, leaving Andrea alone in the backseat with the words echoing in her mind.

Stay away from Cruella.

Andrea sat there for a few moments longer, her thoughts spinning in circles as the car pulled away from Miranda's townhouse. Miranda never explained herself, never elaborated. But there was something about the way she had said it, the way her eyes had locked onto Andrea's, that made the warning feel more personal. More serious.

Cruella had unsettled Miranda tonight, that much was clear. But why? And why had Miranda felt the need to warn her to stay away?

She was standing in the shadowy expanse of Miranda's townhouse, the lights dim, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. Everything felt off-kilter, hazy, like she was watching the world through a fogged-up lens.

And then Miranda was there—standing in front of her, all sharp edges and cold beauty, looking at Andrea with an intensity that made her breath hitch. Miranda's eyes were darker in the dream, more dangerous, and Andrea felt a sudden, overwhelming pull toward her, like gravity itself had shifted.

"You belong to me, Andrea," Miranda's voice was low, commanding, as she stepped closer, her presence filling the space around them.

Andrea's pulse quickened, her skin tingling with the heat of Miranda's proximity. There was no room for doubt, no room for resistance. She wanted to belong to her. She had always wanted that.

But before she could respond, a shadow moved behind Miranda, and Cruella appeared, her black-and-white hair gleaming in the low light. She moved like a predator, circling Miranda, her eyes flicking toward Andrea with something dark and gleeful in them.

"I see you've been busy," Cruella said, her voice dripping with amusement. She stepped up behind Miranda, her movements fluid and predatory, slipping her hand possessively across Miranda's waist, pulling her close. There was an ease to the gesture, as if this wasn't the first time she'd held Miranda like this—like they had done this dance before, many times. "But I wonder, darling…" Cruella's voice dropped to a purr, her lips dangerously close to Miranda's ear, "…just how much does she really belong to you?"

Andrea's heart pounded, the rhythm erratic as she stood frozen, caught between the pull of Miranda's piercing gaze and the unsettling presence of Cruella looming behind her. Miranda didn't flinch, her face calm, though her eyes gleamed with something sharp, something dangerous. The two women shared a moment of silent, electric tension, Cruella's hand resting firmly on Miranda's hip, her body pressing against Miranda's back in a way that was possessive, almost territorial.

But then Miranda's gaze shifted, snapping back to Andrea with a focus so intense that it felt like the room itself shifted around them. Her eyes were sharp, unyielding, the kind of gaze that demanded surrender without question. "She belongs to me," Miranda said, her voice low and steely, carrying a weight of finality that sent a shiver down Andrea's spine.

In one swift, decisive motion, Miranda reached forward, her hand gripping Andrea's wrist, yanking her into the space between them with a force that left no room for hesitation. Andrea stumbled, her breath hitching as she was pulled into Miranda's orbit, her pulse pounding in her ears. Before she could even register the movement, Miranda's lips crashed against hers.

The kiss was overwhelming, all-consuming, like being swallowed whole by a force of nature. Miranda's lips were demanding, her grip on Andrea unrelenting, as if to prove a point—not just to Cruella, but to Andrea herself. That she was Miranda's. That there was no escaping it.

But even as Miranda kissed her, Andrea was hyper-aware of Cruella standing behind them, her presence lingering like a shadow, watching. Waiting. She could feel Cruella's body pressed against Miranda's back, the way her arms were still wrapped around Miranda's waist, holding her close as if she had no intention of letting go. It was as if Cruella was watching this unfold with amusement, her lips curling into that wicked smile Andrea had always found unsettling.

Then, Cruella's voice cut through the room like a blade, low and commanding, dripping with amusement. "Good," she purred, her hand sliding possessively up Miranda's side, her grip firm on Miranda's waist as if controlling her, guiding her. "Now, darling… remove her clothes."

Andrea's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it might drown out everything else. She didn't move, her body frozen between the intoxicating pull of Miranda's lips and the electrifying force of Cruella's words.

Miranda paused for a fraction of a second, her breath hot against Andrea's lips, and then she pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Andrea's wide eyes. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze steady and unwavering. But there was something in the way she looked at Andrea—something possessive, almost primal—that sent a shiver down Andrea's spine.

Without a word, Miranda's hands moved with precision, sliding down the sides of Andrea's body, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of Andrea's blouse with practiced ease. Andrea's heart raced, her breath coming in shallow gasps as Miranda's cool fingers brushed against her skin, sending waves of heat and anticipation coursing through her.

This work is in large part thanks to a writing group I am part of that keeps me to a calendar of posting and betas my work. Please feel free to check out their website and learn more about them. I post chapters a day early there/two chapters ahead - https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/blog

Otherwise updated weekly here.

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For Andrea, this moment—the sight of Miranda kissing Cruella, the realization that she had been kept at arm's length all this time—felt like the ground had given way beneath her. Everything she had held onto, everything she had convinced herself of—Miranda's professionalism, her detachment, her distance—it was all unraveling.

"I think I should go," Andrea said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling in the air. She bent down, picking up the book, her hands shaking as she clutched it to her chest like a shield.

Miranda stepped forward, but her movements were slower, more hesitant than usual. "Andrea, wait," she said, her voice firm but lacking the usual icy command. There was something else in her tone now, something closer to desperation. "This isn't what you think."