Chapter 2

By: NictesWrath

The room seemed to dim around them as Andrea retreated, leaving Miranda Priestly and Cruella De Vil standing face to face in the center of the Plaza Hotel's grand ballroom. The faint hum of conversation carried on around them, but to anyone observing closely, it was clear that the real event was unfolding in this small pocket of space, between two of fashion's most powerful women. The air crackled with a tension that was palpable, charged with unspoken words, old rivalries, and the bitter edge of unacknowledged truths.

Miranda, with her icy composure perfectly intact, stood with her chin slightly lifted, surveying Cruella with that signature detached gaze. Her pristine white Valentino coat hung flawlessly off her slim frame, the crispness of the fabric mirroring the sharpness in her eyes. The coat was tailored with razor-sharp precision, the high collar framing her porcelain neck and the long, structured lines falling elegantly down to her knees, barely grazing the hem of her silver satin gown. The gown, visible beneath the coat in a subtle but striking contrast, clung to her figure, its fabric shimmering like liquid mercury as it caught the soft light of the chandeliers. Every stitch, every detail was calculated, as though the very threads wove power and control into the fabric itself.

Miranda was an immovable force, unflinching, as though every word Cruella had uttered mere moments ago had rolled off her like water on glass. Her pale, manicured hands were folded neatly in front of her, not a single movement betraying the tension simmering between the two women. The glint of platinum at her wrist—an understated watch, of course—was the only accessory she allowed, a testament to her restraint and control. She was dressed for war, though she would never admit to being on the battlefield.

Cruella, by contrast, was a storm barely held in check, her manic energy simmering just beneath the surface. Her half-black, half-white hair gleamed under the chandeliers like some twisted halo, the loose tendrils framing her sharp cheekbones and wild eyes. The dark velvet of her gown, trimmed with fur, clung to her body in dramatic waves, exuding the kind of untamed power she wore so proudly. Her presence was unpredictable, chaotic, a stark contrast to Miranda's icy, controlled elegance.

"I see your tastes haven't changed," Cruella murmured, her voice low and dangerous, laced with a certain venom. She took a slow step closer, her red lips curving into a smile that held no warmth. "Always choosing the ones who burn so brightly under your watchful eye. It's fascinating to me, Miranda, how you collect people, shape them, and then discard them when they no longer amuse you."

Miranda's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the only hint of emotion breaking through her otherwise serene facade. "I don't have time for your games, 'Ella. If you're here to stir up trouble, I suggest you do it somewhere else. There's nothing for you here."

Cruella let out a soft, delighted chuckle, the sound as dark and unpredictable as the woman herself. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, darling. There's always something for me when you're around. Or should I say—someone."

She let the last word hang in the air, her eyes flicking briefly toward the corner of the room where Andrea had disappeared, before locking back onto Miranda with a glint of amusement. "Your little soldier. So loyal, so obedient. Tell me, Miranda, does she even know what she's fighting for? Or is she just another pawn in your endless game?"

Miranda's lips pressed into a thin line, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You overestimate your importance in this room, Cruella. Andrea is none of your concern."

Cruella's smile widened, taking another slow, deliberate step closer, her eyes never leaving Miranda's. "Oh, but she could be. I offered her something better, you know. Something more stimulating than what you could ever give her."

The subtle twitch of Miranda's jaw was the only indication that Cruella's words had hit their mark. But her expression remained impassive, the weight of her gaze holding steady. "Andrea is more than capable of making her own choices. If you think you can sway her with promises of chaos, you'll find she is far more discerning than you give her credit for."

Cruella's smile widened, but this time, it was slower, darker, as if she had been waiting for that exact response. She took a step forward, closing the remaining space between them with a deliberate, almost predatory ease. Her fingers, clad in black leather gloves tipped with metal claws that looked as though they had been sculpted onto her hands, lifted slowly, her gaze never breaking from Miranda's. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Miranda's arm.

The touch was barely there, just a whisper of contact against the sleeve of that flawless white Valentino coat, but it was enough to shift the energy between them. One does not simply touch Miranda Priestly. And yet, Cruella did, with the kind of familiarity that hinted at an unspoken history—chaos meeting control in a moment that teetered on the edge of something dangerous.

"More discerning, is she?" Cruella's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, as her fingers traced the length of Miranda's forearm. "More discerning than who? More discerning than you used to be?"

Miranda's lips tightened, the ice in her eyes burning into Cruella, but she didn't pull away. She stood still, immovable, as if willing herself not to react, not to give Cruella the satisfaction of a response.

Cruella's fingers continued their slow, teasing journey up Miranda's arm, the leather brushing like a ghost over the fabric, barely touching but present enough to unsettle. Her voice dipped even lower, conspiratorial, intimate. "Oh, darling… do you remember when you weren't so in control? When there was fire beneath all that ice?"

"Enough," Miranda said, her voice clipped, a warning barely held in check.

But Cruella only leaned in closer, her lips curving into a smile that was both mocking and suggestive. "What's the matter, Miranda? Afraid I'll remind you of what we used to be? How things were… back then?" Her thumb grazed the edge of Miranda's coat collar, a deliberate, invasive motion that hinted at something far deeper than a rivalry in the fashion world. "Before you locked yourself behind all that cold professionalism."

"I said enough," Miranda repeated, her voice an icy whisper. Had that tone been used on any Runway employee, they would have known to run.

Cruella wasn't quite so phase. Her gloved hand drifted up to the side of Miranda's neck, her touch featherlight but purposeful, as if testing how far she could go before Miranda snapped. Her eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something more beneath it—something dangerous. "Oh, darling, I'm just reminiscing," she whispered, her tone dripping with false innocence. "You and I… we were something, weren't we? Once upon a time."

"Oh, darling, I'm just reminiscing," she whispered, her tone dripping with false innocence. "You and I… we were something, weren't we? Once upon a time."

Miranda's gaze sharpened, her blue eyes narrowing like ice crystals reflecting harsh light. The slightest curl of her lips appeared—cold, cutting, and calculated. This wasn't just annoyance, it was the prelude to something far more vicious, far more controlled. The energy between them shifted, as though Miranda had decided to stop tolerating Cruella's little game and take the reins back into her own hands.

Her voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, slicing through Cruella's words like a blade. "Reminiscing? How quaint. But, darling…" Miranda's fingers moved like a viper, snapping up to seize Cruella's wrist, pulling the woman's hand from her neck with just enough force to make her point clear. "You were never anything more than a fleeting distraction. Amusing, yes, but ultimately disposable."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and final, and Cruella's eyes flared with the faintest spark of surprise. Miranda didn't release her grip immediately, instead holding Cruella's wrist in place, her expression set in that familiar mask of detached disdain.

"You see, 'Ella," Miranda continued, her voice steady but venomous, "I don't have the luxury of dwelling in the past. What we were—what you imagine we were—was nothing more than an insignificant dalliance." She tilted her head ever so slightly, her tone dropping to a lethal whisper. "One I've long since forgotten."

The corner of Cruella's mouth twitched, her smirk faltering as Miranda's words landed like the cracks of a whip. Still, her bravado was as resilient as ever, her eyes flashing with amusement, even as Miranda's grip on her wrist tightened just slightly. "Oh, darling, you wound me," she purred, though the teasing edge in her voice had softened, replaced with something closer to acknowledgment. "But it's hardly a surprise. You always did like to pretend you weren't affected by… feelings."

Miranda's lips curved into something that resembled a smile but held no warmth. "Feelings are for those who lack control," she said smoothly, releasing Cruella's wrist with a deliberate flick of her hand, as if dismissing her entirely. "I don't need them. And I certainly don't need you to remind me of what you think you meant to me."

Cruella's eyes gleamed with something darker now, a flicker of recognition passing through them. She let Miranda's words linger for a moment, the dismissiveness, the icy detachment, all too familiar. But beneath the surface of her amusement, there was something else—a reminder of who had once shaped that control. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face as she stepped back, though her gaze never wavered from Miranda's.

"Oh, darling," she murmured, her voice dripping with condescension, but there was a nostalgic edge creeping in, subtle and sharp. "You forget so easily. But I suppose you always were so eager to prove that you didn't need anyone. Not even me."

Miranda's eyes narrowed, but she didn't respond immediately. The tension between them thickened, not just from the confrontation of the present but from the weight of something older—something they both had long since buried beneath years of ambition and survival.

"You really have convinced yourself, haven't you?" Cruella continued, taking a leisurely step forward again, her presence less playful now, more deliberate. Her leather-clad hand reached out, not to touch this time, but to gesture toward Miranda as if presenting her as some kind of artwork on display. "That you did it all on your own. That you rose to the top of this empire without any help. But we both know the truth, don't we, Miranda? You didn't just walk into Runway fully formed, fully in control. No, someone had to teach you."

Miranda's expression hardened, her eyes sharp as glass, but Cruella's words were cutting too close to old truths, truths Miranda had kept locked away, never spoken of in her world of immaculate power. She wasn't rattled, not exactly, but the flicker of anger in her gaze betrayed something deeper—a history she refused to acknowledge.

"And you think that was you?" Miranda's voice was low, quiet, but every syllable was razor-sharp. "You think I owe my success to you?"

Cruella's smile widened, the amusement in her eyes laced with something more intimate, more dangerous. "Oh, darling, I don't think. I know. Who was it that gave you your first shot in Paris? Who introduced you to the people who could turn your little dreams into reality? Who took you under their wing when no one else even knew your name?"

Miranda's breath remained steady, her posture unchanged, but the history was undeniable. Cruella had been there, in those early years—when Miranda was still trying to navigate the volatile waters of the fashion industry, when she hadn't yet become the force that Runway would one day fear. Cruella, older, established, had seen something in her, something raw and powerful, and had offered her a way in. A path. A means to rise.

But that was then. Miranda had outgrown the need for mentorship, outgrown whatever connection had once existed between them. She had ascended beyond all of it—beyond Cruella, beyond sentimentality. She had shaped herself into what she was now, and no one could lay claim to that.

"You gave me an introduction, nothing more," Miranda said, her tone icy. "I did the rest on my own. Don't mistake your influence for anything more than an insignificant footnote in my story."

Cruella's laughter rang out, a low, dangerous sound, but the edge of it carried something deeper—something that suggested the wounds they had inflicted on each other were older than either of them would admit. "Oh, my dear Miranda," she said, her tone softening to something more intimate, almost pitying. "You can lie to everyone else, but you can't lie to me. I know what you were back then. I know what I had to shape. And it wasn't just an introduction. You needed a mentor. And for a time, you needed me."

Miranda's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. The coldness in her eyes only deepened as she stared Cruella down, refusing to allow the past to gain any ground in the present. "And look where that led you," Miranda said, her voice low but filled with venomous precision. "You gave me a start, yes. And now, look at where we stand. You're clinging to relevance, and I—"

"You are relevant because of me," Cruella interrupted, her voice rising slightly, the mask of amusement cracking just for a moment. "I made you, darling. And no amount of your cold, brittle ambition will ever change that. But…" She took a breath, her tone returning to something darker, calmer. "You're right. Look where we are now. You've built your empire, your walls, your fortress of control. But you forget, Miranda—I know how to get inside."

Cruella's smirk deepened, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in slightly, the space between them charged with old wounds and unspoken truths. "I know how to get inside," she repeated, her voice softening but not losing its edge. "Just like I did before, when you were… so eager to learn. So hungry for approval. You may act above it now, darling, but we both know you were desperate to prove yourself back then."

Cruella's smirk deepened, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in slightly, the space between them charged with old wounds and unspoken truths. "I know how to get inside," she repeated, her voice softening but not losing its edge. "Just like I did before, when you were… so eager to learn. So hungry for approval. You may act above it now, darling, but we both know you were desperate to prove yourself back then."

Miranda didn't flinch. Her posture remained perfectly poised, every inch of her exuding the cold, untouchable confidence she had built around herself like a fortress. She didn't blink, didn't shift. It was as though Cruella's words had bounced off her, leaving no trace, no mark.

Her ice-blue eyes locked onto Cruella's with an intensity that was sharper than any retort, more cutting than any reaction Cruella could hope for. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable—not for Miranda. She let Cruella's barbs hang in the air, suspended, as if daring them to have weight.

But they didn't. Not here. Not now.

Cruella's expression faltered for the briefest moment, the silence clearly not what she had anticipated. She thrived on reactions, on getting under people's skin, but Miranda had long since mastered the art of giving nothing away.

"Ah," Cruella said, her smile tightening as she stepped back slightly, as if reassessing her approach. "There it is. The famous Priestly composure. Not a crack, not a flicker." Her eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was an edge to it now, sharper, almost desperate. "I wonder if you're even capable of feeling anything anymore, Miranda."

Miranda's lips barely moved, the faintest suggestion of a smile forming. "I don't need to feel anything to see when someone is grasping for relevance." The words were delivered with clinical precision, each syllable perfectly measured, sharp and cold. "And I've grown very accustomed to the desperate need for attention from people who think they know me."

Cruella's eyes flickered, but Miranda continued, unrelenting.

"You say you know how to get inside, but you've mistaken your own delusions for truth. The past, whatever it was, is inconsequential. I built what I am without you. And now, the only person you're trying to convince is yourself."

The quiet sting of those words landed harder than any raised voice ever could, and Miranda knew it. She didn't need to raise her voice, didn't need to stoop to Cruella's level. She had already won the moment she chose not to engage, the moment she stood still in the face of Cruella's desperation. Control had always been her greatest asset, and she wielded it like a weapon.

Cruella's smile wavered, just for a second, and she tilted her head, studying Miranda with that same predatory curiosity. But something had shifted. It wasn't in her favor, and they both knew it.

"You think you've got it all locked away," Cruella said, her voice soft but with a bitter edge creeping in. "But I know what's under that ice. I've seen it before, and I see it now. You may have built your empire, Miranda, but you can't shut it all out forever. One day, that control will crack. It always does."

Miranda's gaze didn't waver, not for a second. "Perhaps," she said smoothly, her voice a quiet force of certainty, "but when it does, it won't be because of you."

The silence between them thickened, and Miranda could feel the weight of the onlookers in the room growing bolder, moving closer, their curiosity piqued by the exchange between two legends. The crowd had noticed, and now, more than ever, Miranda was acutely aware of the eyes on them.

But still, she didn't flinch. She didn't react. Cruella could try to drag the past into the present, but Miranda had long since learned how to control the narrative.

Cruella's smile returned, but this time, it was smaller, colder. "Oh, darling," she purred, stepping back just enough to regain her composure. "We'll see."

Miranda remained perfectly still, not giving an inch. "Perhaps we should schedule a meeting," she said, her voice dropping to that smooth, chilling tone she used when dismissing someone. "Without so many ears listening in. I think you'd prefer fewer witnesses when you realize how… insignificant your words truly are."

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.

With a sweeping turn of her fur-lined coat, Cruella disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind only the faintest echo of her presence. But the crowd that had gathered—the curious onlookers who had dared to edge closer—remained, their whispered conversations and furtive glances doing little to mask their intrigue.

Miranda took a slow, steady breath, her gaze sweeping the room, reminding everyone with just a glance that this was her world. Her kingdom.

And she would always be in control.

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.