Chapter Text
Life was a real bitch. Miranda Priestly knew that well. On top of her not-so-perfect experience with it so far, life had apparently decided to mess with her again. The last few weeks after the car accident had been crazy. Doctor appointments, online meetings with Runway staff, and therapist sessions twice a week. The latter was scheduled by her ex-assistant Andréa Sachs. The same girl - no, woman - who was now living in the townhouse with Miranda and the twins, who seemed to have quite a strong bond with her Bobseys, who seemed hell-bent on spending every possible minute with Miranda, telling her stories and showing her photos of a life that seemed impossible to the older woman. Sure, she quickly remembered having two wonderful daughters who had red hair just like hers when she was younger. She had only needed to read a few Runway issues to get back into her role of ruthless editor-in-chief of the magazine. But grasping the concept of being in a romantic relationship with a woman, who was her ex-assistant and was also closer in age to her daughters than to Miranda herself, remained mission impossible for the fashion mogul. Sure, Andréa had some great stories about tearful apologies, slowly built friendship and the undeniable spark of a relationship that had grown into so much more. As a journalist of over six years already, Andréa had a way with words. This didn’t mean Miranda had to believe a word of it. She had, for some time. With all the things that clearly belonged to Andréa in the townhouse, and her daughters fawning over her all the time, it was almost easy to believe the two of them had fallen into a domestic lifestyle.
She could envision herself coming home to cook a late-night meal with Andréa then enjoy a glass of wine in the den. Or having a lazy Sunday morning with Andréa and the twins. They were making pancakes and Caroline and Cassidy were trying to see who could eat more. She could imagine her little family taking Patricia on long walks all around New York, finding quiet spots where the paparazzi couldn’t possibly track them down. Miranda could not only imagine that life, she yearned for it. Andréa was a delight to the eye, could hold a conversation on multiple topics without getting bored, and after having lasted as Miranda’s assistant for some time she could anticipate some of her needs before Miranda even said anything. These things helped Miranda overlook the fact that Andréa possessed an unhealthy amount of ugly sweaters that she insisted on keeping ‘for comfort’. Andréa clearly had rubbed off onto Miranda because the older woman noticed a few extra pounds of weight on her body. Andréa had went on a rampage trying to convince her she was beautiful no matter how she looked.
Yet now, as she was holding a sonogram with what was clearly Andréa’s handwriting captioning it ‘Our little munchkin’, Miranda’s fears of that perfect life crumbling all around her came to life. Of course it couldn’t have been true. Last time she checked she didn’t have a penis, so it was impossible this sonogram with the cute caption was meant for her. Clearly Andréa wasn’t hers, or not only at least. Miranda couldn’t decide which was worse. The curious part about all this was that the journalist seemed to have everyone even remotely close to Miranda wrapped around her little finger. Her Bobseys, she had probably easily manipulated them. But Nigel, Emily, Roy - they all sang praises of ‘Andy’, constantly reminding her she was blessed to have her in her life. Well, either everyone was in on the joke, or Andréa had skilfully woven her web around them all. Miranda couldn’t care less which was true. She used the time while Andréa was at work (supposedly), and Caroline and Cassidy were at school, to collect every single thing in the house that didn’t look like it belonged there. This plan proved unsuccessful because every damn thing in this house seemed to be exactly where it should be; even Andréa’s disgusting collection of cerulean pieces of couture. So in the end she simply threw everything into bags and set them near the front door. Hopefully, Andréa would get the hint and stop using her for her money and shelter. The thought made her sick.
She closed herself up in her bedroom and ignored the pleas she heard when Andréa came home later that night. She ignored the sobs. Then she heard the front door slam open. Two pairs of feet stormed up the stairs. She heard hushed voices in the hall, just outside her bedroom door. She recognised her Bobseys. When she heard their cries, she wanted to open the door. But they were telling her to let Andréa in, give her a chance, let them show Miranda how happy ‘Andy’ made them. Miranda slumped against the door and listened as the cries of pain turned into yells, then as the yells subsided down the stairs, and finally silence. She had no idea how long she sat there on the lush carpet in front of her bedroom door. She must have dozed off because a soft knock startled her awake.