Chapter 4

By: NictesWrath

The dim glow of the chandeliers cast long shadows across the grand stairwell of Miranda Priestly's townhouse, the opulence of the space muted by the late hour. It was quiet, save for the low murmur of voices that floated through the stillness, the tension between the two women almost palpable. Cruella de Vil stood with her back against the railing, her black-and-white hair glinting under the soft light, her sharp eyes fixed on Miranda with that familiar, predatory gleam.

Miranda stood a few steps below, her posture as flawless as ever, the weight of years etched into the lines of her face, though they did nothing to diminish her beauty. She had her arms crossed, her chin slightly lifted, that signature air of control firmly in place. But there was something else beneath the surface—something Cruella knew all too well.

"Ah, darling," Cruella purred, her voice low and smooth, dripping with the satisfaction of having pressed the right button. "You and I both know what you want." She took a step down, closer to Miranda, her hand grazing lightly along the railing. "Andrea, hmm?" she said, her smile curling in that dangerous, knowing way. "You've been dancing around it for years. She's right there, always so devoted, so eager to please."

Miranda's eyes flashed with irritation, her lips tightening into a thin line, but she said nothing. She wouldn't give Cruella the satisfaction of a response—not yet. But the way her fingers clenched, just slightly, against her arms, gave her away. She knew it. And, worse, Cruella knew it too.

"Why fight it, Miranda?" Cruella continued, her tone now dripping with mock concern. "You've always taken what you wanted. You're the Miranda Priestly, after all. And you've trained Andrea so well, haven't you? She's practically begging for it. She belongs to you, doesn't she?"

Cruella moved even closer, her voice dipping lower, more intimate. "If you'd just take her, she'd be yours."

Miranda exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the still air like a knife. "I don't need your insights, 'Ella," she said, her tone icy, each word clipped and deliberate. "Whatever you think you know is irrelevant."

Cruella's smile widened, as if she had been waiting for that exact response. "Oh, darling, but I do know," she said, her voice thick with nostalgia. "I knew you long before you became this polished, untouchable creature the world bows down to. I remember who you were when you weren't Miranda Priestly, the legend. I remember the woman who took what she wanted without hesitation."

Miranda's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening, but Cruella pressed on, leaning in as if sharing a secret, her breath warm against Miranda's ear. "You were ruthless back then, love. And you loved it."

Miranda's pulse quickened, the memories of their past surfacing despite her best efforts to push them down. She didn't want to think about those days—about the way she had been before she had built herself into the empire she was now. Before she had learned how to control everything, everyone, including herself.

But Cruella had always known how to unearth those buried parts of her. That was their history. Cruella had been there in the early days, when Miranda was still learning how to navigate the ruthless waters of the fashion world. She had shown Miranda the ropes, in more ways than one, and Miranda had taken everything she could from her.

Now, Cruella was back, stirring up the very desires Miranda had spent so long suppressing.

"You haven't changed, Miranda," Cruella whispered, her hand reaching out to brush against Miranda's arm. "You still want control. You still crave it. And Andrea… she's the one thing you haven't let yourself have."

Miranda stiffened, but she didn't pull away. She wouldn't give Cruella the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. But Cruella could see through the mask. She always had.

"You don't have to say it," Cruella said softly, her lips curving into a sly smile as she watched the conflict play out on Miranda's face. "I can see it. You want her. You've wanted her for a long time." Her voice dropped even lower, more seductive. "And you should take her, darling. Before someone else does."

The words hung in the air, heavy and intimate, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft creak of the stair beneath Cruella's heel as she moved closer. Miranda's breath caught in her throat, her body betraying her for just a moment, a moment that Cruella seized upon.

Without warning, Cruella leaned in, her lips brushing against Miranda's in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and filled with the weight of their history. It was a claiming, a reminder of everything they had once been, and Miranda, for the briefest second, didn't pull away.

But just as Cruella deepened the kiss, a sound—a soft gasp—broke through the silence.

Miranda's eyes snapped open, her gaze flicking past Cruella, and her heart stopped.

Standing at the base of the stairs, wide-eyed and frozen in place, was Andrea.

The book she had been carrying slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the townhouse, shattering the fragile moment.

Andrea's face was pale, her eyes wide with shock, betrayal, and something else—something Miranda couldn't bear to see. For a moment, the three of them were locked in that stillness, the air heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

Cruella, with her back to Andrea, hadn't moved. She still held Miranda's waist, her lips curling into a wicked smile as she pulled back from the kiss, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Well, darling," she purred, her voice low and dangerous, "it seems we've been caught."

Miranda's pulse thundered in her ears, but her face remained impassive, her mask of cold composure firmly in place. Her gaze was locked on Andrea, and for the first time in a very long while, she felt something akin to panic stir beneath the surface. Andrea stood frozen, her wide eyes betraying the confusion and hurt she was trying to keep hidden.

The thud of the book hitting the floor reverberated in the silence, and Andrea's face—normally so poised, so controlled—was a portrait of shock. She hadn't moved since the book fell from her hands, and the tension in the air was suffocating, unbearable.

Miranda straightened, slowly disentangling herself from Cruella's grasp, the deliberate movement an act of control she could cling to in a moment that felt far too chaotic. Cruella, however, didn't seem the least bit concerned. If anything, the satisfaction on her face grew, her eyes gleaming as she watched Miranda carefully pull away.

"Oh, how delicious," Cruella purred, stepping back just slightly, her eyes flicking between Miranda and Andrea with clear amusement. "The girl finally sees what she's been begging for all this time." She turned her head to glance over her shoulder at Andrea, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You poor thing. Did you think you were the only one Miranda played with? Please. This is what she does."

Andrea's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts as she tried to process what she had just witnessed. Miranda and Cruella, so close, so intimate—it had shaken something deep within her. Cruella's words echoed in her mind, cutting through the fog of disbelief.

Miranda, with her gaze still fixed on Andrea, opened her mouth as if to say something, but the words didn't come. For a brief moment, she felt the world tilt, felt the iron grip of control slip from her fingers. She had faced down boardrooms, designers, and the relentless demands of the fashion world, but this—this raw, vulnerable moment between her and Andrea—was different.

Cruella, noticing Miranda's hesitation, smirked. "Oh, darling, don't be shy now." Her tone was playful, but the sharp edge beneath it was unmistakable. "You were always good at pretending you were above it all, but we both know that's not true, don't we? You've always loved control—this kind of control."

She turned fully toward Andrea now, her expression twisting into something more wicked, more mocking. "Tell me, Andrea, what do you think? Does seeing Miranda like this change the way you look at her? Or maybe this is exactly what you wanted."

Andrea's throat was dry, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She couldn't look away from Miranda—couldn't reconcile the woman she had admired, loved, with what she had just seen. The kiss, the way Miranda hadn't pulled away immediately, the way she had been in Cruella's arms—it was all too much.

Miranda, regaining her composure, finally spoke, her voice low and steady, though the tension beneath it was palpable. "Andrea," she began, but her usual icy control faltered ever so slightly. "This… isn't what it looks like."

Andrea's eyes flashed with something—anger, hurt, maybe even disbelief. She swallowed hard, her voice tight when she finally spoke. "Isn't it?"

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and accusatory, and Miranda felt them like a blow. She had never seen Andrea like this—never seen her so openly affected, her emotions so raw and on display.

Cruella, always one to revel in the chaos she created, smiled wider, clearly enjoying the spectacle unfolding before her. "Oh, darling, she's right. This is exactly what it looks like," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "But don't worry, Miranda. You can have her. I've seen the way you look at her." She glanced back at Andrea, her smile wicked. "The way you want her."

Miranda shot Cruella a sharp, warning look, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Andrea's face flushed with a mixture of confusion and betrayal, her eyes wide with emotions she was struggling to contain.

"I—" Andrea's voice wavered, and she took a step back, her hand trembling as it hovered over the book she had dropped. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to make sense of the mess she had walked into.

Miranda, for once, had no response ready. No carefully crafted retort, no biting command to reassert control. All she could do was watch as the foundation of their unspoken relationship shifted beneath her feet, crumbling in the wake of Cruella's cruel games.

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."

Andrea shook her head, taking another step back, the weight of her emotions crashing over her. "I don't know what to think anymore," she whispered, her voice strained with the effort of holding herself together. "I thought I knew, but…is this why you said to stay away from her? Because you two are…"

She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she turned and made her way toward the door, her footsteps heavy as she left the stairwell behind, leaving Miranda standing there, silent and still.

As the door clicked shut behind Andrea, Cruella's laughter echoed through the townhouse, low and satisfied. "Oh, Miranda," she said, her voice laced with amusement. "You've really done it now."

Miranda stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had lost control. And for the first time in a very long time, she wasn't sure how to get it back.