Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

MONDAY 

Andrea Sachs is sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet of Emily Charlton’s aggressively curated walk-in closet, holding a pair of strappy beige heels like they’re weapons of war. The room smells like fresh hydrangeas, expensive leather, and thinly veiled tension.

Outside, the New York sky pretends it’s spring. Inside, it’s full-blown combat season.

Years have passed since their Runway days, since they were Miranda Priestly’s assistants with too-thin wrists and too-little sleep. Now? They were almost unrecognizable.

Andy had left journalism, but never storytelling. She'd traded headlines for campaigns, breaking news for global branding. Now, she runs Ampersand Studio , one of Europe’s most in-demand creative firms, spearheading everything from editorial visuals to film fashion campaigns. Milan was home, so was her calendar, and so were her tightly tucked-away memories.

Emily, meanwhile, had done what Emily always did—clawed her way to the top with pointed heels and PR strategy sharper than scalpels. She ran the biggest PR firm in New York now, booked two years in advance, terrifying every junior assistant with a flick of her perfectly manicured hand. And somewhere along the way, in between Cannes trips and crisis control, she’d fallen for Serena.

Yes, that Serena. The blonde, unsettlingly intelligent, art-world darling, model-turned-beautician Serena. Against all odds, they had forged a relationship that worked well enough, in fact, to orchestrate a wedding. In Lake Como, no less.

And that, ultimately, was what led them to this moment. Packing. Prepping. Suffering through it all.

“What’s wrong with them?” Andy frowns, wiggling the shoe for emphasis.

“They’re beige,” Emily snaps, emerging from the other side of the closet with a garment bag slung over one arm and vengeance in her eyes. “You cannot wear beige to a lesbian wedding in Lake Como. You’ll look like a forgotten breadstick.”

Andy rolls her eyes. “Pretty sure you’re contractually obligated to be nicer to your maid of honor.”

Emily drops the bag with a thud. “You’re lucky I didn’t ask Serena’s sister to do it. That woman made us hand-stamped napkin rings.”

“Ah yes, the true measure of bridal loyalty, stationery arts .” Andy said with spite in her voice. 

Emily flops down beside her, sighing heavily, her eyeliner still perfect despite the hour. "I’m getting married in five days."

Andy looks at her. "I know."

"To a woman. Me. Emily Charlton. In Vera Wang couture. With guests. Who knows me." Emily said, sounding like she can't quite believe herself.

"You love her," Andy offered, her tone gentle and reassuring.

"I do," Emily affirms, quiet and certain. "I just never anticipated it would feel like... being on top of a very tall building in heels, fervently hoping the wind doesn't start flinging tabloid headlines at you."

Andy smiles. "That, my dear, sounds precisely like your version of love."

Emily slumps a little, resting her head against a clothing rack. "What if I ruin it?"

"You won’t."

"You’re sure?"

Andy nudges her shoulder gently. "I've witnessed you navigate a broken zipper, talk your way out of a full-blown PR scandal, and even survive an influencer feud that somehow involved ketamine and a pug. You will be fine."

Emily exhales, a long, shaky breath, the sound echoing slightly in the luxurious, silent room filled with her quiet panic.

After a moment, Emily speaks, her gaze fixed on something distant. "You know she’s coming, don't you?"

Andy stiffens. "Who?"

Emily merely raises a brow. "Serena extended the invitation," she adds, her tone gentle. "And Miranda RSVP’d. Naturally. She has a perfect attendance record for power unions."

Andy becomes unnervingly still. "Cool," she manages, her voice devoid of inflection. "Fantastic. Just the kind of fun little ghost one enjoys packing for."

Emily turns, her voice softening further. "Are you alright?"

Andy shrugs dismissively. "It happened years ago. I've moved past it."

Andy didn’t move and looked up instead. The ceiling, a meditative shade of eggshell white, offered zero answers. She’d take existential clarity, or even just a warning. A crack in the drywall that said: Danger ahead. Turn back now.

Emily knelt in front of her, rifled through a storage drawer, and pulled out a garment bag. She didn’t hand it over. She just looked at Andy and said, “You’re wearing this.”

Andy narrowed her eyes. “What is that?”

“You already know,” Emily said, unzipping it slowly.

Inside was the dress. This dress was something else.

A dark teal silk slip with sculpted seams and a dangerously low back. They’d found it two years ago, in Paris, when Emily visited Marco and Andy for a long weekend of wine, shopping, and pretending they weren’t all high-functioning workaholics.

They hadn’t planned to buy anything. Then Andy tried this on. Marco had stared at her like she’d invented seduction. Emily declared it illegal not to purchase it.

Andy had forgotten it existed. “You’re not serious.”

Emily raised a brow. “Do you really think I’d let you show up in linen and denial?”

Andy groaned. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your best friend. How I wish Marco was here to hear that,” Emily corrected. “Anyhow, you’re going to wear this dress, drink too much prosecco, and make her sweat.”

Andy didn’t answer right away. The dress gleamed faintly in the light, draped over Emily’s arm like a promise and a threat.

She looked away, focused on the ceiling.

The silence settled over them, heavy and unyielding.

Seven days.

Andy could do seven days. She could do seven days. 

Seven days of speeches, alcohol, seating charts, strategically avoiding the woman who once touched her like she meant forever and disappeared before morning.

Just survive the wedding week.

She stood, slowly. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if she says one condescending thing about what I’m wearing, I’m pushing her to the lake.”

Emily smiled, victorious. “Atta girl.”

TUESDAY NIGHT

The thing about destination weddings is that they demand a particular kind of surrender—of time, of dignity, of the illusion that you can emotionally prepare for what’s waiting on the other side of the ocean. Andy was not prepared. 

She was, however, dressed in an oversized blazer, white tee, jeans, sunglasses big enough to disguise a hangover and half of her emotional range. Boarding pass in hand, passport ready. Luggage already tagged with “Milan.” She stared down the boarding gate like it was a portal to hell.

"Deep breaths," Marco murmured beside her, sipping his green juice with an air of irritating serenity. "You're not being sacrificed. It's a wedding, Andy, not a mortal duel."

Andy's glare cut over the top of her sunglasses. Had Marco not been so relentlessly charming and brilliant, she might have seriously considered tossing him out the nearest window. But he was, in fact, genuinely great, and Andy simply couldn't afford to lose him.

Marco De Luca had been a columnist in Florence when Andy met him. Brilliant, too sharp for his own good, fired for being “too political” and “too queer” in the same week. Andy had offered him a writing job. He’d said no and asked for creative control instead.

Now, years later, Marco was Ampersand’s Creative Associate Director and Andy’s closest thing to family—aside from Emily, of course. He designed campaigns, torched bad copy, mixed negronis with terrifying efficiency, and was probably the only person on earth who could tell Andrea Sachs she was spiraling without getting throat-punched.

Most assumed they were dating. Some thought they were married. Others shipped it loudly.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not about to be locked in a villa with a ghost.” Andy said with an obvious sting in her voice. 

Marco arched his brow. “Still calling her that? Dramatic.”

Andy rolls her eyes before saying, “I’m not calling her anything. I haven’t seen her in years.” 

Marco leaned in, conspiratorial. “That’s what makes it delicious.”

Andy turned away. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You pay me very well and secretly value my friendship.”

“You’re lucky I didn't throw you in the cargo hold.”

Their boarding group was called. Marco stood, looping his bag over his shoulder. “Come on, Sachs. To Italy, to lesbians, and to the impending collapse of your emotional neutrality.”

Andy groaned. “I should’ve just sent a gift and a poem.”

“You are the maid of honor, cara. That ship sailed when you planned the menu tasting and threatened the florist.”

She boarded in silence. Took her seat by the window in first class. Tried not to think about what lay ahead.

But thoughts—like ghosts—have a habit of ignoring boarding instructions.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

The cabin was quiet, dimmed to simulate sleep. Marco had his eye mask on, listening to a podcast about 1960s Italian film scores because of course he was.

Andy, however, remained semi-upright, her laptop open but untouched, the blank Word document a stark contrast to her racing mind.

She could already conjure the lake in her thoughts. Not the actual Lake Como just yet, but its essence. Rolling vineyards. Elegant villas. The whisper of soft jazz across sparkling water. A guest list meticulously chosen. Emily’s inevitable pre-wedding meltdown. Serena’s steady hands, gracefully resolving it.

And undeniably, somewhere amidst this entire tableau… Miranda Priestly.

The woman who had vanished from a hotel bed five years prior, without a call, a text, or an explanation.

Simply gone. Simply Miranda.

Andy let out a sharp exhale. She snapped her laptop shut and turned to face the window.

Years had passed. She was now older, sharper. She had made something of herself, built something for herself that could match Miranda's lifestyle.

Yet, the undeniable truth lingered: she was mere hours from being in the same location, within the same villa, perhaps even inhaling the same air as the woman she had once loved.

Loved boundlessly. Loved entirely.

And she didn’t know if she wanted to punch her, kiss her, or throw her in the lake. 

Maybe all three.

The moment they arrived at the Milan airport, the sun was high and golden. The private shuttle waited with white ribbon tied around the mirrors. The wedding planner was already there, barking into a phone.

Andy stepped onto Italian ground with a deep breath and a well-practiced expression.

Behind her, Marco yawned. “God, the light here makes you look like a cinema goddess. No wonder if she’ll combust.”

Andy turned. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, slinging his bag into the shuttle, “if she so much as blinks at you wrong, I’m dragging her into the vineyard and telling her everything.”

Andy followed him in, sunglasses back on. “Fine. Just let me film it.”

After almost two hours, they arrived at Lake Como. The gates opened. The villa rose before them like a dream. The air smelled like cypress and old money.

Andy stepped from the car, her heels clicking on the warm gravel. She exhaled, a mix of anticipation and regret, and took in the estate: soft stone, perfectly manicured hedges, and floral arrangements so elaborate they could only scream, "Emily Charlton invested five figures in this vibe ."

Before she could truly absorb the scene, another car, sleek and silent, glided to a stop across the drive. A black one. 

And then she emerged.

Miranda Priestly.

Hair silver and sleek, as though she'd aged by design. Sunglasses like armor. A silk wrap cinched around her waist, shifting gently with the breeze as if even the wind understood not to disrespect the silhouette of custom Dior.

She didn’t walk. She glided.

Andy became still. The twenty feet, perhaps less, separating them stretched into what felt like an entire decade.

Miranda lifted her head, precisely on cue, as if she'd detected the atmospheric shift her presence had caused. Her head tilted, a barely perceptible movement. There was no surprise, no hint of curiosity.

Recognition and something unreadable behind those shades.

Andy didn’t blink.

Her stomach dropped through the limestone driveway like a stone into water, sending ripples of old, unwanted memories outward. Ones she’d buried under creative briefs, long-haul flights, dresses, and impossible timelines.

Across the gravel, Miranda stood still. Poised, regal, and absolutely untouchable.

Behind Andy, Marco stepped out of the car and moved to her side. He circled casually, brushing invisible lint from her shoulder with a practiced hand which was far too casual to be unintentional.

Andy leaned slightly toward him, voice low and steady. “Remind me why I came?”

Marco grinned like the smug little bastard he was. “To ruin her entire week.”

Andy’s mouth curled at the corner. Just barely. “Right.”

Because if Miranda Priestly was here to haunt her… Then Andrea Sachs had shown up to haunt her right back.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

By the time Andy finished unpacking, the villa had transformed.

Florists had colonized the entrance, winding peonies and wild jasmine around arched doorways like a fairytale in progress. Champagne popped somewhere down the hall. A harpist floated by, looking half-dazed and fully overdressed.

Andy stood in front of her mirror, fighting with a stubborn earring and trying to forget what it felt like to see her again.

Miranda hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t even gestured. Just looked. Like she'd expected Andy to be there. Like nothing had ever been broken.

Andy slipped the earring into place, drew a slow breath, and stepped into the dress.

The dress. Dark teal silk, cut on the bias. Bought in Paris with Emily and Marco during a weekend that still smelled like espresso and cobblestones. Serena had once called it her weapon dress.

Andy didn’t believe in fashion as armor, funny coming from an almost ex-lover of the Fashion Queen, right? But tonight, Andy made an exception.

She opened the door to find Marco waiting in the hallway, dressed in cream linen, espresso in hand, looking offensively relaxed.

He glanced up. And blinked once. Then again.

“Are you trying to kill her,” he asked, voice low, “or just make her regret everything she’s ever done?”

Andy smoothed the front of the dress and smiled. No teeth. Just war. “Yes.”

Marco offered her his arm with a dramatic sigh. “God, I love when you get like this.”

They headed down the staircase together, the soft clink of silverware and distant laughter drawing them toward the garden where the welcome dinner had already begun.

Just as they reached the patio doors, Marco leaned in. “I saw the place cards.”

Andy narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“You’re seated next to her.”

Andy stopped in her tracks. “You’re lying.”

“Would I lie about social terrorism?”

She turned toward the garden with all the serenity of a lit fuse and said, “Goddammit, Emily.”

The welcome dinner was already in full swing. String lights glowing overhead, candlelight flickering off crystal, guests swanning in shades of ivory and champagne (exception for the maid of honor, of course). Emily had gone full old money lesbian editorial spread with the aesthetic, down to the live jazz quartet.

Andy took her place at the long table. Looked down.

Andrea Sachs — Miranda Priestly

Of course. 

She didn’t even have time to swear before the murmurs shifted.

Marco leaned in. “Don’t turn around.”

“Why not?”

“She’s here.”

Andy turned anyway. And there she was.

Miranda. In black silk. High collar. Hair coiled like a weapon. She moved like gravity bent to her. A glass of white wine in her hand, posture that hadn’t softened in twenty years.

Her eyes scanned the table. Landed and held on Andy. Then she walked forward like the world was holding its breath.

Andy gripped the edge of the table. “Act normal,” she hissed to Marco.

Marco sipped his drink. “This is my normal.”

Miranda reached their place. She didn’t sit. Not yet.

“Andrea,” she said.

Not Andy. Not Ms. Sachs. Just—Andrea. Like the echo of a door that had once slammed shut and was now… slightly ajar.

The sound of it, the sound of her name in that voice hit like memory and thunder.

Andy almost felt her heart leap. Almost.

She rose. Because of manners. Because somehow, this was about survival.

“Miranda.”

And there it was.

The first word exchanged since London. Since that night. Since that goddamn morning in a five-star hotel suite, when Andy had woken to an empty bed and the silence of what could’ve been .

Miranda’s eyes flicked to Marco. Cool, assessing. “You must be the infamous Marco.”

Marco smiled like a shark in tailored linen. “Guilty. And you’re the ghost.”

Andy nearly choked on air.

Miranda, perfectly unbothered, took her seat beside Andy.

Andy sat too, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drink herself into unconsciousness.

The dinner carried on without them. Forks scraped. Glasses clinked. The jazz band played something moody behind the hydrangeas. Conversation bubbled around them like champagne.

But Miranda was right there now. Too close. Her perfume is unmistakable, something expensive and deliberate. Something Andy had once inhaled, pressed into pillowcases and skin.

Andy stared forward. She did not look. Did not remember. Did not feel the weight of every word they’d left unsaid.

Marco kicked her under the table. Hard. 

She kicked him back. Harder.

Then, Miranda leaned in, her voice low, meant for no one but her. “You look well.”

Andy didn’t turn. Just smiled, sharp as cut glass. “I do well. I look expensive. Get it right.”

A pause. Then, Miranda’s lips curved into almost a smile.

And Andy hated the way her heart reacted. Like it remembered softness. Like it had forgiven the woman without her permission.

The sky was navy velvet, scattered with stars. The long table stretched across the garden like a set piece from a dream. Serena had gone full modern Renaissance lesbian , and it was working.

Andrea Sachs sat in the center of it all, flanked by a man who would gladly commit crimes for her and a woman who had already broken her.

She tried to focus on the food. The silver plate before her held handmade agnolotti in sage butter, garnished with microgreens too delicate to be real. She took a bite.

It tasted like regret and basil.

“Still a picky eater?” Miranda’s voice was low, smooth, utterly uncalled for. It slipped in like smoke.

Andy didn’t look up. “Still policing dinner conversations?”

Marco choked into his wine.

Miranda, of course, didn’t flinch. “I was making conversation.”

“You never just make conversation.”

“I never waste it. No.”

Andy turned then. Met those pale, perfectly blank eyes. “How’s the risotto, Miranda? Taste like control issues?”

Across the table, Emily cleared her throat in warning. Serena reached over, gently squeezed her fiancée’s hand.

Miranda offered the faintest smile. “I’d say it tastes like taste . But by all means, keep seasoning yours with passive aggression.”

Andy stabbed another piece of pasta. “Didn’t know you liked spice.”

“Oh, Andrea,” Miranda said, almost purring. “You used to know exactly what I liked.”

The fork clattered from Marco’s hand.

Emily dropped her linen napkin.

Andy didn’t blink. She chewed. Swallowed. Took a long sip of wine and said, evenly, “I must’ve blocked it out.”

Silence fell and Miranda blinked once.

Marco shot her a look: Holy shit, are we doing this?

Andy tilted her head, syrupy sweet. “I think you’re sitting on my napkin.”

Miranda leaned in, didn’t move an inch. “You’re welcome to take it back.”

Andy didn’t flinch. “I’m not touching anything that belongs to you anymore.”

They stared at each other, heat and history simmering beneath chandeliers and candlelight. Tension wound tight enough to snap.

Then Miranda—because of course—sat back. Lifted her glass and took a delicate sip.

“Pity,” she murmured. “You always had good hands.”

Marco squeaked. Emily downed the rest of her spritz in one long, desperate gulp.

Serena leaned over and whispered something. Emily nodded furiously and whisper-shouted, “I told you this would happen!”

Andy turned away, face hot, bones buzzing. She could feel Miranda beside her like a live wire. Every breath, every shift of silk, every unspoken sentence crackling between them like dry leaves.

The second course arrived: roasted sea bass with charred fennel and grilled lemon.

Andy didn’t taste a damn thing.

Dessert was limoncello tiramisu. Espresso appeared. Cigarettes flickered to life, summoned like magic. The string quartet shifted into Ella Fitzgerald, smooth and unhurried beneath the night sky.

Laughter drifted down the long table. Someone popped another bottle. Then someone yelled. 

“Sachs!” Emily yelled across the linen. “Don’t forget you promised a toast!”

Andy blinked, mid-sip. “I did what now?”

Marco smirked, slow and merciless. “She did. Right after her fourth Prosecco at the planning dinner. I have the audio recording.”

Traitor.

Andy stood, reluctant, glass in hand. She could feel Miranda beside her, not looking at her wasn’t the same as not feeling her. That quiet weight. That presence like a second skin.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve known Emily for longer than she’d like to admit. We started out hating each other. She thought I was weak. I thought she was terrifying.”

Emily nodded, smug. “Both correct.”

A ripple of laughter.

“But somewhere between yelling about Hermes samples and nearly dying under… someone’s watch, she became one of the fiercest, most loyal people in my life.” A pause, then Andy’s gaze shifted.

“And Serena—” her smile softened at the glowing woman beside Emily, “—is the only person I’ve ever seen make Emily Charlton blush and shut up in the same breath. Which, let’s be honest, deserves a Nobel.”

Laughter broke like champagne foam across the table. 

Andy raised her glass. “To love that makes you brave. To women who always knew better. And to the absolute audacity of planning a destination wedding with assigned seats.”

More laughter, a few toasts echoing back, the clinking of crystal.

Andy sat. She didn’t look at Miranda. She didn’t need to.

But Miranda leaned in anyway, voice low, silken and undeniable. “Still a writer, I see.”

Andy kept her eyes forward. Sipped her wine. “I just know how to finish what I start.”

And for once, Miranda had no reply.

Somewhere between the tiramisu and the digestifs, the wedding guests had migrated.

The long table now sat abandoned. Heels kicked off beneath it, jackets flung over chairs, half-empty glasses glinting in candlelight. The party had spilled toward the villa’s glowing pool terrace, where string lights shimmered like stardust on the water.

Someone had queued up a playlist titled ‘Eternal Gay Wedding’ —Fleetwood Mac, Robyn, Florence. Emily’s taste, obviously.

Andy found herself barefoot, a wine glass in one hand, the other slung around Serena’s shoulders as the bride-to-be guided her toward a lounge chair like a lifeguard shepherding a drunk dolphin.

“You,” Serena said, laughing, “are the only person I’ve ever seen sass Miranda Priestly and walk away without a casualty.”

“I didn’t walk away,” Andy muttered, eyes a little glassy. “I’m still emotionally bleeding out.”

Serena snorted. “Not even a little subtle.”

From the daybeds, Emily groaned. “Stop talking about her. For one night, can’t it just be about me ?”

“It’s always about you,” Andy called back, flopping onto the chair.

Emily sat up dramatically, champagne in hand, her hair slightly windblown and eyes full of wicked delight. “As it should be. I’m getting married in seventy-two hours to a woman who knows what serum I use and still loves me.”

“That is brave,” Serena muttered.

Emily beamed. “I know.”

Marco reappeared like a ghost with a bottle of wine and three undone buttons. “I heard lesbian slander. What did I miss?”

“You missed Andy trying to process five years of abandonment over a pool chair,” Serena quipped, kicking off her shoes.

“Oh, perfect , ” Marco said, settling beside Andy. “Let’s unpack that like it’s carry-on luggage.”

Andy flipped him off without looking.

Emily, ever the queen of chaos, raised her glass. “To exes at weddings. May their mouths stay shut and their dresses too tight.”

They all drank. And for a fleeting moment, laughter drowned out the history.

The playlist was now in full millennial queer mode—Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” echoing over the water, wine bottles half-drained, and the air warm with laughter.

Emily was sitting cross-legged in the grass, Serena behind her, braiding her hair with alarming skill. Andy had migrated to a low stone bench, sipping something she didn’t recognize and didn’t question.

Marco had taken to performing dramatic reenactments of their most unhinged work presentations, complete with fake client voices and imaginary slides. “And then she said,” he bellowed, deep-voiced, “I don’t think Gen Z wants fashion that talks about feminism.”

Emily hurled a throw pillow (or a rock) at him without looking.

Andy laughed so hard her eyes watered. She wiped at them quickly, hoping no one noticed.

This. This was why she came. This was why she stayed. The people who knew all her sharp edges and never flinched.

Serena wandered over, glass in hand, and passed Andy a refill without asking. “You okay?”

Andy blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Serena gave her that look. Kind, sure, but devastating in its precision.

Andy sighed, slow and uneven. “Yeah. No. I’m fine. It’s just…” She looked down into her glass. “We’ve all changed. And then you see someone you used to know—used to love —and it’s like the old parts of you come back. They knock on the door and ask if they’re still welcome.”

Serena sat beside her, tucking her legs up under herself. “You don’t have to let them in.”

Andy swirled the wine. Watching it catch the light like a memory. “I already did once.”

Somewhere across the villa, Miranda Priestly stood alone on the second-floor balcony, watching the party unfold below.

She saw Andrea. Glowing, beautiful, and unburdened in a way Miranda had never known how to allow. Surrounded by people who knew her. Who touched her freely. Who made her laugh like that.

Something twisted low in Miranda’s chest, familiar and uninvited. It had lived there for years. Dormant. Waiting.

It had been years. It felt like yesterday.

She turned from the window, the hem of her silk robe whispering against the floor. It wasn’t time yet. But soon.

Chapter Text

THURSDAY MORNING

Andy was already two espresso shots into the morning when she heard Emily scream from the hallway. 

Not a bad scream. A fashion scream.

Andy stepped into the sunlit courtyard with sunglasses on, head still heavy from the previous night’s alcohol and emotion. Her linen robe fluttered in the breeze like a hangover flag.

And there he was. Nigel.

Flawless in wide-legged white trousers, a soft coral button-down, and suede loafers, wheeling his tiny Rimowa like it contained the cure to every queer heartbreak ever written.

“Nigel?” Andy blinked.

“Six , ” he greeted, opening his arms like a benevolent god. “Don’t just stand there, darling.”

She practically tackled him into a hug. “You’re here?!”

“Of course I am. Serena invited me weeks ago. But I let you all sweat a little before gracing you with my presence.”

Emily flew in seconds later, barefoot, curlers in, nearly tearing a vintage robe in the process. “Nigel. You elegant bastard!”

“Emily,” he drawled, accepting her hug like a duchess greeting a less interesting cousin. “You look appropriately unhinged. A good sign.”

Serena followed behind, amused. “He said he’s here to keep the chaos beautiful.”

“I’m here,” Nigel corrected, “to make sure no one ends up crying on the cake table. Again.”

Emily scowled. “That was one time . ”

Nigel turned to Andy and tapped his sunglasses. “So… word on the terrace is you’ve already had your first round with the Ice Queen.”

Andy grimaced. “Does that include spiritual warfare disguised as dinner conversation?”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “So you have seen her.”

Andy flopped into a chair. “She was sitting next to me. We sparred over risotto.”

He clicked his tongue. “Romantic.”

“Traumatic,” Andy muttered, correcting her friend. “Still close to her?”

Nigel’s face shifted, still dry but softer now. “I know her better than most. But not enough to excuse her.”

Emily crossed her arms. “Do you think she came for the wedding?”

Nigel smirked. “I think she came for the open bar and a second chance.”

“There’s no second chance.” Andy flushed.

Nigel tilted his head. “Funny. She hasn’t looked at anyone else since the moment she got here.”

Andy stood abruptly. “I’m going to go soak my head in the pool.”

Emily handed her a mimosa. “Do it gracefully, at least.”

Andy stalked off, robe billowing behind her, legs long and furious.

Nigel watched her go, then turned to Emily. “How bad was…?”

Emily sipped her coffee and sighed. “If you’re talking about London, just know the girl didn’t speak for two weeks. Then proceeded to build her own studio from scratch out of spite.”

Nigel winced. “Oof.”

Serena sat beside her, rubbing Emily’s shoulders. “We’re gonna need backup.”

Nigel raised a brow, pleased. “Oh, darling. I am the backup.”

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

It should’ve been relaxing.

The villa had been transformed into a wellness temple overnight. White robes, citrus water, and slippers that probably cost more than Andy’s monthly rent in New York years ago.

But instead of relaxing, Andy was currently pinned under a weighted lavender eye mask, eavesdropping on Emily’s half-muffled panic over how her custom corset gown might not zip tomorrow unless she ‘skips tonight’s dinner and also maybe the concept of breathing.’

“I told the tailor I retain water under stress!” Emily barked from somewhere in the adjacent massage room.

“Querida,” Serena replied calmly, “we had fried artichokes at midnight. Don’t blame sodium for being Italian.”

Andy let her head fall deeper into the massage table. “I thought today was about peace.”

Marco, nearby in a chair with his feet soaking in what looked like liquid gold and mint, lifted a cucumber slice off one eye. “You’re the one vibrating like a chihuahua.”

“I am not—” Andy lifted her head, then winced as a spa tech applied another layer of volcanic body wrap to her shoulders. “—vibrating.”

“You are,” Serena said. “And I know because I saw you go full statue when Miranda passed by the hot tub area an hour ago.”

“I wasn’t a statue. I was trying not to drown myself in steam.”

“Same thing.”

Andy groaned into her towel. “Can we not talk about her for ten minutes?”

The silence that followed wasn’t comforting.

Emily’s voice floated back in from her facial room, slightly tinny and way too smug. “We could talk about the fact that you flinched when she touched your back last night to say goodnight.”

Andy sat up so fast she nearly threw off her eye mask. “She did not— ”

“She did,” Serena said, far too pleased. “Briefly. When my cousin was also saying goodnight to you.”

Marco sipped his citrus water like it was tea. “I think she was trying to confirm that your nervous system still worked. Or,” he added, too casually, “she was just marking what’s hers.”

Andy let out a strangled sound. “She doesn’t get to mark anything.”

Serena hummed. “Yet you didn’t stop her.”

Andy dragged her hands down her face. “Can I request a new friend group?”

“No,” all three replied at once.

After the spa, the four of them retreated to the bridal suite.

It used to be a chapel. Because of course it did. Vaulted ceilings, golden light slanting through arched windows, and now racks of silk and satin instead of saints. Sacred in its own, more fabulous way.

Andy had barely zipped halfway into the jade-green bridesmaid dress when Emily swept in a blur of chiffon, stress, and dangerously precise eyeliner.

“I need honest opinions. Brutal ones. I want tears, if necessary” she snapped, halfway to a meltdown.

“Your vows or your gown?” Andy deadpanned, tugging the neckline into place.

Emily narrowed her eyes. “If I didn’t need you, I’d kill you.”

Andy turned fully and took in her best friend. And bloody hell. 

“You’re going to cause actual whiplash at the altar,” she said, breathless.

Emily’s lip curled in a self-satisfied smirk. “That good?”

“Em, it’s criminal.”

Just then, Serena appeared at the doorway, barefoot, hair undone, carrying a tray of prosecco flutes like a domestic lesbian deity. “Everyone drink. If one more vendor asks me about escort cards, I’m eloping.”

She stepped through the threshold then Marco sprang up like he’d just been activated by MI6.

“Nope,” he barked, blocking Serena with one dramatic arm. “You can’t see her yet. It’s the sacred lesbian bridal code. Or regular bridal code. I don’t know, I don’t make the rules.”

Serena blinked. “Marco.”

“She’s in the dress,” he hissed, backing her out of the doorway like a bouncer guarding the sanctity of love. “Back it up. Shoo. Go flirt with your future wife from the hallway.”

Serena rolled her eyes but stepped back, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously correct,” Marco shot back, then leaned into the doorway. “One of you, take this tray before I spill it in the name of superstition.”

Andy grabbed the prosecco and handed him a fresh spritz in return like they’d done it a thousand times before.

The rest of the bridal suite settled into a warm hum of laughter, the soft brush of silk, music from someone’s phone. The calm before the vows.

Andy watched as Emily smoothed a hand down her gown, cheeks faintly pink, eyes gleaming with something rare: joy, unguarded and pure.

Serena lingered just outside, still smiling like the sun rose for this.

And Andy... Andy felt something ache. Not jealousy. Not envy.

Just… longing.

Not for the dress. Not for the altar. Not even for the kind of love that glittered in public.

But for certainty. The kind that didn’t come with escape plans.

THURSDAY NIGHT

Andy was finally alone.

Feet propped on the balcony railing. Slippers still on. Her dress unzipped halfway down her back like a sigh. A bottle of unopened wine resting against her thigh.

She tilted her head back against the wicker chair, letting the breeze slip down her collarbone, soft as breath.

Somewhere below, faint music drifted up. Jazz, slow and low, like a half-forgotten thought.

And somewhere behind one of these ancient stone walls… Miranda Priestly existed. In a room far too near. A presence too loud. A wound too quiet.

Andy exhaled, eyes still closed.

Tomorrow was the rehearsal dinner.

And she’d have to survive a night of white tablecloths, polite smiles, too many glasses of alcohol, and one woman who used to undo her with just a look.

God help her.

FRIDAY 

The sun was setting in soft gold over the hills. Light poured through cypress trees and painted the courtyard in warm, expensive amber. It was picturesque. It was dreamlike.

It was terrifying.

Andy stood in heels too high and a linen suit too tailored, holding a champagne flute like a shield.

Every detail of the rehearsal dinner had been meticulously orchestrated by Emily and the Maid of Honor. There were hand-painted menus, escort cards in exquisite calligraphy, and custom cocktails named after the couple.

And there was an empty chair beside her name.

Andy didn’t have to ask. She already knew.

“Drink this,” Marco said, appearing at her side like clockwork, handing her something citrusy and pink.

“What is it?”

“Something I bribed the bartender to double-shot. Don’t question.”

Andy sipped. Winced. “Strong.”

“You’ll need it.”

And then—she arrived.

Miranda Priestly descended the stone steps of the courtyard like the ghost of every bad decision Andy had ever made. Hair too silver, skin incandescent, dressed in a floor-length ivory ensemble with gold details that made her look like wrath dressed in luxury.

Conversations faltered, chairs shifted, and even the wind paused.

Andy looked away too quickly. Marco saw it and muttered, “Don’t let her see you flinch.”

Too late. 

Miranda approached the table and with barely a pause, took her seat beside Andy. “Good evening,” she said smoothly, as if they hadn’t spent the past few days weaponizing every glance.

Andy didn’t look at her. “You’re late.”

Miranda smiled faintly. “Fashionably.”

Marco leaned in from across the table and said under his breath, “How many drinks until you start yelling?”

Andy smiled tightly. “I’m still deciding.”

Dinner started. The first course was something Emily called ‘elevated rustic.’ 

Andy didn’t taste a bite of it.

Because Miranda kept doing things.

Like brushing her hand against the tablecloth too close to Andy’s wrist. Or leaning in during the toast from Serena’s father, her perfume leaving actual damage in its wake.

“Do you ever just exist without dominating an entire room?” Andy hissed under her breath.

Miranda sipped her wine, unfazed. “Do you ever stop pretending it bothers you?”

Andy gripped her fork like a weapon. “You’re infuriating.”

“I know,” Miranda said, calm as silk. “You used to like that about me.”

Andy turned slowly, met her eyes, her voice like flint. “I also liked believing I was more than disposable.”

And that, finally, silenced Miranda. But only for a moment.

After a beat, she quietly said, “You were never disposable, Andrea. You were dangerous. To me.”

Andy looked away first. Her heart beating too fast for her liking. 

Dessert arrived like an afterthought. Delicate ramekins of honey panna cotta and candied lemon zest that no one would remember. Not when the air was this thick. Not when the woman sitting next to Andy still smelled like memory and ruin.

Miranda did not speak again. Did not need to. She sat with that maddening stillness, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, the picture of composure.

Andy had forgotten how quiet Miranda could be. Not cold, never that. Just… deliberate. Every movement is like a strategy and every silence is a decision.

She spooned at her dessert, trying not to notice the way Miranda’s ring glinted in the candlelight. Noticed anyway.

“You’re not eating,” Miranda murmured, low and casual.

Andy didn’t look up. “Neither are you.”

“I’m enjoying the company.”

That earned a sharp laugh from Andy. She tossed back the last of her drink and muttered, “Bullshit.”

Miranda tilted her head slightly, like she was studying a painting. “You always flinch before you retreat. Has no one ever pointed that out?”

Andy turned to face her, eyes dark, lips parted in disbelief. “Do you want me to leave?”

Miranda blinked. Slowly. “Not this time.”

The silence returned, hotter now. Stickier. The candles flickered in the center of the table, the flames dancing like they knew a storm was coming.

Across from them, Marco tried very hard to look fascinated by a discussion about Tuscan olive oil.

Andy pressed her napkin to her lips. “I thought you weren’t capable of not running first.”

“And yet,” Miranda replied softly, “here I am.”

A beat. Then another. A hush stretched between them, thin as glass. 

Andy leaned in slightly, voice low and cutting. “You left.”

Miranda’s gaze dropped for a second. “I did.”

“Do you even know what that did to me?”

“I’ve read every word you’ve published since,” Miranda said. “Every visual campaign. Every launch. I saw what it did to you. You built an empire from the ache.”

Andy froze. Her breath caught in her throat like broken glass. Like the confession made her physically ill. 

Miranda met her eyes again, calm and brutal. “I never stopped watching. I just stopped deserving.”

Andy opened her mouth, then closed it again. She loathed how that voice still managed to weave itself through her ribcage with such an unnerving sense of belonging.

Whatever it was happening around them, none of it mattered now.

“You think this is you making amends?” Andy whispered. “Sitting next to me and telling me you read my press releases?”

“No,” Miranda said. “This is me asking for time I can’t get back. And hoping you’ll look at me long enough to realize I never stopped being yours.”

Andy went completely still.

And that’s when Emily’s voice cut across the table like divine intervention: “Okay! Bridal party headcount. Everyone who has fallen into emotional ruin, stand up. We’re practicing the procession!”

Marco exhaled like a prisoner getting a stay of execution. He shot Andy a look. You okay?

Andy, somehow, smiled. It was thin and fragile. But it held. “Saved by the lesbians,” she murmured.

Miranda didn’t stop her as she stood. 

Andy stood on shaky legs, the echo of I never stopped being yours still ringing in her ears like a bell no one asked to ring. Her napkin slipped off her lap and fluttered to the ground. She didn’t pick it up.

Across the table, Marco raised his brows. You sure? She gave a tight nod. Not sure at all but moving anyway.

The courtyard had exploded into motion. Chairs scraped. Champagne flutes jostled. Guests slowly gathered around the stone path where Emily—now barefoot, veil-less, and holding a clipboard like a war general—was shouting about aisle spacing and symmetrical arches.

Andy slipped into position between Marco and Serena, her pulse still tap-dancing under her skin.

“Processional run-through!” Emily called, waving her arms as the quartet began a tentative string intro. “Sachs and De Luca, you’re leading the bridal party. Do not walk like you’re late to brunch. This is a moment.”

Marco offered his arm with a conspiratorial smile. “Shall we? Before our bride murders us?”

Andy took it. Steadied herself. “If I throw up, you’re catching it.”

“You’re glowing,” he said instead, pulling her forward. “Like…terrifyingly. Like someone just confessed lifelong devotion.”

She elbowed him lightly as they walked. “Shut up before I cry in Italian linen.”

Behind them, Serena winked. “You do look flustered, Andy. It’s kind of iconic.”

Andy didn’t respond. Or couldn’t. At least not yet. Because somewhere behind her, Miranda Priestly was still seated. Still watching.

And Andrea Sachs was trying, desperately, to keep walking like her heart hadn’t just stuttered its way out of her chest and landed in the middle of a candlelit courtyard.

Just a rehearsal. Only four days now.

She could survive it. She had to. Right?

They made it through the aisle walk without casualties.

Mostly because Andy locked her focus on Emily’s hand signals and not on the woman watching her like an unsolved riddle from the end of the courtyard.

The music faded, laughter returned, and someone called for drinks. Most probably one of the brides. 

Andy didn’t wait for permission, she peeled herself from Marco’s arm and beelined for the bar. Something citrusy and cold. Something that wouldn’t remind her of that look Miranda gave her when she thought no one was watching.

But it followed her. That look. Like heat trailing the back of her neck.

The courtyard had shifted by the time she made it back.

Twilight had arrived, wrapping the villa in velvet blue. A waiter passed with oysters and prosecco. Emily had vanished only to reappear, now in a silk dress and a spritz in hand, announcing it was time for toasts. Andy couldn't even remember how many ensembles they'd packed, but she shouldn't have been surprised by her best friend.

Andy sat in her assigned seat, the same one as before, right next to her personal ghost, and tried not to slide into a full-blown spiral.

Miranda hadn’t said a word since the aisle rehearsal. But she didn’t have to. Her silence was loud. Her presence even louder.

Marco leaned in and murmured, “Blink if you’re about to start screaming.”

Andy didn’t blink. Too perfect, she thought bitterly, sipping her wine like it might help her forget everything about this table. This woman.

And then Emily stood.

Slightly tipsy, extremely radiant, and fully in her chaotic bridal element, she raised her glass with the grace of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with a microphone.

“As you all know,” she began, and the room fell into amused, anticipatory silence, “I used to hate Andrea Sachs.”

Andy groaned. Marco snorted.

“She was hopeless. Stumbling, earnest, and worst of all… annoyingly principled.”

Laughter rippled through the tables. Andy shook her head, smiling, already mouthing I hate you across the table.

Emily pressed on, her voice softening. “I remember her asking me once if I was doing anything over the weekend. We were still at Runway. I said yes. And refused to elaborate.”

That earned a sharp, loud laugh from Marco, which made Andy roll her eyes dramatically.

“She wouldn’t have to ask now,” Emily said, turning toward Serena, her expression warming. “Because this weekend… I’m marrying the love of my life.”

A pause. A heartbeat. “I couldn’t be more proud. Or more blessed. Or—if I’m being honest—more drunk.”

The room burst into laughter again. Serena kissed her on the cheek, and the crowd melted into a collective aww.

Andy clinked her glass against Marco’s, eyes a little suspiciously shiny. 

And because the universe had no mercy, Nigel stood next.

“Oh no,” Andy muttered.

“Oh yes,” Nigel said, flashing his Negroni and grinning wide. “I’ve known both brides for what feels like several decades and several wardrobe overhauls. They are brilliant, terrifying, impossible to manage and deeply in love. It’s disgusting.”

More laughter. Miranda even smiled.

“But tonight,” Nigel continued, “isn’t just about them. It’s also about all of you who flew across the world to be part of it. Who carry history. And mistakes. And maybe even the courage to fix things before it’s too late.”

Andy felt it before she saw it, Nigel’s eyes on her. And then, slowly, on Miranda.

Andy glared at him. Miranda raised a brow, unreadable.

Marco leaned over. “Did he just narratively assault you?”

“Yes.”

“I support it.”

Emily cleared her throat loudly. “Okay! Back to joy before someone breaks into a ballad.” She gestured toward Serena. “You first.”

Serena stood, accepting her moment like a goddess summoned, launching into an impromptu roast of Emily’s skincare routine and proposal tactics. The tension shifted. 

But Miranda hadn’t moved. Her glass still in hand. Her eyes still fixed, not on the brides, but on Andy.

Andy refused to look again.

And still. Still. Some part of her that had stayed raw for years curled like a fist.

The kind of part that wanted to say, I see you too.

But not tonight… or ever.

She just raised her glass in time with the room and toasted to love, to madness, and to timing that never quite learned how to behave.

Later that night, the lights had dimmed. The music had begun. Guests drifted toward the dance floor like champagne bubbles. All dizzy, golden, and happy.

Andy had made it two steps from the long table when she felt it. A hand on her arm. Cool, steady, and achingly familiar.

Miranda’s voice was a whisper behind her ear. “You still run, Andrea?”

Andy turned, her spine locked. “You still expect people to stay when you give them nothing?”

Miranda didn’t flinch. “I gave you everything.”

Andy laughed. The low and unkind one. “You gave me one night. Then vanished.”

“And yet,” Miranda said, almost cruel in her softness, “you’re still looking at me like you remember the taste of it.”

Andy’s breath caught. Her heart stuttered. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass.

Then—from across the courtyard—Emily’s voice rang out, half-exasperated, half-bridezilla: “Andy! I need you to hold Serena’s bouquet while I scream at the planner!”

Andy stepped back. “Duty calls,” she said.

She didn’t look back as she walked away.

But she knew Miranda was watching. She always was.

FRIDAY NIGHT - AFTER DINNER

It was well past midnight. The air smelled of lavender oil and candle wax. The chaos had dimmed and the guests had long retreated to their suites. Even Serena, radiant and exhausted, had finally given in to sleep in the adjoining room.

Andy was curled up on the oversized velvet chair by the balcony, one leg tucked under her, dressed in an oversized Ampersand Studio hoodie.

Emily paced the room in her bridal robe, silk and pale ivory, hair pinned in loose waves. She looked like a Runway editorial titled "War Bride: Ready for Battle."

Andy watched her silently, sipping the last of their shared bottle of red. “You’re going to wear a hole in the rug.”

Emily didn’t stop. “I can’t find my earrings.”

Andy pointed to the glass tray. “They’re by the mirror.”

Emily spun. “Those are my backup earrings. The real ones are—oh. Shit. Never mind.”

Andy grinned. “Bridal dementia.”

Emily exhaled hard and dropped onto the bed dramatically. “I can’t sleep.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m terrified . ”

Andy’s smile faltered. “Cold feet?”

Emily shot her a look. “Not about Serena. God, no. She’s perfect. I’m terrified of the moment. The attention. The dress tearing. The wind ruining my hair. My father speaking.”

Andy set her wine down and walked over, sitting beside her on the bed. “You’ve handled red carpets, fashion weeks, and some A-list celebrity during a nicotine withdrawal. You’ll survive this.”

Emily gave a weak laugh, sitting up. “Do you remember the story of when I first met Serena?”

“You said she was too pretty to be smart.” Andy said with a smirk. 

“She asked me what moon sign I was within five minutes.”

“And now you’re marrying her.” 

Emily rested her head on Andy’s shoulder, soft and quiet. “It’s different. It’s not work. It’s not survival. It’s…real.”

Andy nodded. “That’s what scares you.”

Emily closed her eyes. “You used to scare me too, you know.”

Andy turned slightly, startled. “What?”

“You were everything I hated at first. Clumsy, earnest, w arm."  Emily made a face. “Like a labrador in designer knockoffs.”

Andy laughed. “I remember you threatening to kill me.”

Emily smiled. “I meant it.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Emily added, quieter: “But you stayed. Even after everything.”

Andy looked down at their hands, brushing gently. “You made it impossible not to.”

Emily lifted her head and looked at her for a long time. “So what about her ?”

Andy stiffened.

Emily didn’t blink. “Are you really going to pretend she doesn’t still get under your skin like a splinter dipped in Chanel?”

“She left me.”

“She’s looking at you like you’re a second chance,” Emily whispered.

Andy's tone sharpened, cutting through the air. "She’s looking at me like I'm an emotional risk she can now, finally, afford. Or someone who could, at last, truly match her."

Emily’s expression softened, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. "She’s looking at you like she still carries pain. And honestly, you both do."

Andy exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what we were. I don’t even know who I am around her anymore.”

“You were the girl who walked into Runway and took every punch,” Emily said gently. “But now you’re the woman who doesn’t flinch.”

Andy blinked. “Was that a compliment?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “God, don’t make it weird.”

A few minutes later, Andy stood alone again, staring out at the lake.

She could hear Serena’s quiet breathing through the open suite door. Emily’s earrings were finally resting on the nightstand. Peace had settled in like fog over the vineyard.

Her phone buzzed once.

A message from Marco: “If you sneak out to cry, take water. You get puffy.”

Andy smiled. She didn’t cry.

But her chest did ache.

Tomorrow, her best friend is getting married.

And somewhere in the crowd...
So was the woman who once made her believe in forever.
And ran.

Chapter Text

SATURDAY MORNING

Andy had barely slept.

She blinked up at the high ceiling, wrapped in linen sheets, unsure if the ache in her chest was nerves, regret, or the fourth glass of whatever wine that was she definitely shouldn’t have accepted.

From across the suite, she heard rustling. Then the telltale sound of Emily spiraling with paper rustling, glass clinking, something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a whispered, “No, no, no, absolutely not.”

Andy peeled herself from bed and padded barefoot to where she heard Emily. “Is there a fire?” she mumbled.

Emily stood in a white silk robe, holding two identical ivory heels like they’d betrayed her in a PR crisis. Her hair was half-pinned, her face fresh and bare but already radiating anxiety. 

“There might as well be,” Emily hissed. “They delivered the wrong pair. These have a silver buckle. I specifically said matte gold. My vows are in the wrong folder. Serena is hiding in the other suite because she thinks it’s bad luck to see me before I’ve had caffeine. Also, the photographer has food poisoning and the backup is still on a train.”

Andy blinked. “Good morning to you, too.”

Emily flung herself into a velvet chair. “I’m going to die.”

Andy yawned and walked over to the espresso machine. “You’re not. I won’t let you. You’ll be a married corpse and that’s just as messy.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You asked me to be your maid of honor. I’m legally obligated to insult you while saving your life.”

Within minutes, the suite was in chaos. Hair and makeup started. Hair dryers roared, steamers hissed, makeup brushes blurred. Stylists zipped in and out with garment bags and headpieces and far too many opinions.

Andy sat in a robe on a tall chair, sipping her second coffee, face tilted as someone curled her hair.

Marco strolled in with a green smoothie and sunglasses, completely untouched by the madness.

“I brought emotional support juice,” he said, handing it to Andy. “And a Xanax for your bride, if necessary.”

“You’re an angel.”

He surveyed the suite. “Is it weird I’m turned on by the stress?”

“Deeply,” Andy muttered, then added, “Thank you.”

Emily, somewhere in the back room with two stylists fixing her second dress’s train, barked, “ANDREA, WHERE IS MY RING BOX?!”

Andy didn’t even flinch. She pointed to a small velvet square on the windowsill. “Right there.”

“You’re my favorite woman alive,” Emily yelled.

“I know, but don’t let Serena hear that.” Andy said, smirking into her coffee.

For a moment, the noise had lulled. Emily was mid-eyeliner. Serena’s voice could be heard laughing in the other room. The sun filtered in golden over the vineyards. 

For one breath, everything was still.

Andy stood by the balcony, half-dressed, holding her jade green bridesmaid gown in one hand and staring out over the hills.

Emily appeared beside her, quiet. Andy didn’t turn.

“Are you alright?” Emily asked.

Andy hesitated. “I should be the one asking you that but yeah.”

Emily looked at her, really looked. “You’re lying.”

Andy smiled. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t have to fix anything today, you know,” Emily said gently. “Not for me. Not for her. You just have to be here.”

Andy let her eyes close. “It’s harder than I thought.”

Emily squeezed her arm. “You love too hard. It’s exhausting.”

Andy exhaled a small laugh. “Yeah.”

“And you look hot as hell, by the way.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

“I mean, like, stop-the-wedding level hot. Like someone’s going to catch feelings all over again.”

Andy blinked. “Emily.”

“What?” The Brit asked, feigning innocence. 

Andy shook her head. “Don’t start.”

Emily walked off, shouting for her bouquet. Andy stayed a little longer by the window, staring at the horizon.

She didn’t know if Miranda was already there. She didn’t know if she’d look at her. She didn’t know if she could look back.

But she would try.

For Emily. And for herself.

SATURDAY LATE AFTERNOON

If God ever designed a queer wedding with precision and divine lighting, this was it. 

Rows of guests were seated under the shade of aged trees, golden light filtering through the leaves. Soft music played from a quartet tucked in a corner. White chairs, blush flowers. A curved stone aisle wrapped in petals that led straight toward the altar.

Andy stood at the far end of it, clutching her bouquet a little too tight. And as Emily had promised, she looked absolutely radiant.

Marco leaned in beside her. “I swear to God, if you pass out mid-walk—”

“I won’t.”

“Okay, but like... blink more. You’re starting to look haunted.”

Andy rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispered. “Also—don’t look left when you start walking.”

“Why?”

“She’s sitting second row. Aisle seat. In emerald silk.”

Andy’s stomach dropped.

Marco gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You’re gonna look like a painting. Let her suffer.”

Andy didn’t respond. She couldn't respond, her body suddenly still, as if re-plugged into a current that had hummed beneath the surface of her consciousness for years. She realized this was a recurring behavior since entering the villa.

Before she could overthink and bring herself to a spiral the music shifted. Soft, romantic, and beautifully haunting.

The first pair of bridesmaids walked. Then another. Followed by Marco.

And then, Andy stepped out into the sun.

Her jade green dress hugged her like it had been made for that exact moment. Her hair was pinned back loosely, catching glints of gold in the light. 

Her smile wasn't wide, but a quiet testament to her pride in the brides. She walked, graceful, composed, and powerful. Her eyes never flickered.

But she felt it. The burn. Like heat along her collarbone. Like being touched without permission.

She knew Miranda was watching. She knew, because her skin tightened under it. She made it to the altar. Took her place beside Serena’s sister. Didn’t trip. Didn’t waver.

Didn’t look back. Not even once.

A few moments later, Serena walked first. Absolutely glowing and effortlessly beautiful in her gown. 

Then came Emily.

And Andy, watching her best friend’s face transform into something sacred, felt her heart swell.

It was now time for the vows before the officiant pronounced them as married.

Serena took a breath, turned toward Emily, and began to speak. Her voice was calm, low, steady. The kind of voice you trust in the dark. The kind of voice that never leaves.

“Emily Charlton,” she began, “you’re the sharpest, fiercest, most beautifully chaotic person I have ever known. You walk into every room like a fire and leave it warmer, brighter, and slightly more terrified.”

Laughter rang through the air. And Andy’s hand tightened on her bouquet.

“I spent so long thinking love had to be soft,” Serena continued. “That it had to be gentle. But then you stormed in like thunder and taught me that love could be loud. That it could push me to grow, to speak up, to stand still. You are my safe place and my hurricane. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Andy swallowed hard. Her throat felt raw and her eyes burned.

Emily blinked fast, already glassy-eyed. Then she took Serena’s hands and began, voice shaky, proud, “Serena, you are the only person who has ever looked at me— really looked—and stayed. You saw through all the sharp edges and career obsession and fear. You made me feel like I was enough, exactly as I am, without fixing or shrinking or explaining.”

Serena smiled through tears.

Emily’s voice caught. “I used to think I had to choose between being who I wanted to be and being loved. But you made it easy to be both. You are my home.”

The crowd sniffled as one.

Andy stared down at the grass. Her heart was thudding too loud in her ears. Something fragile coiled in her chest like it wanted to break open.

It should’ve been sweet. It was sweet.

But it was also a mirror. Held up too close. Too honest. Too loud.

Because Andy remembered what it felt like to be looked at like that, just once.

One night. One city. One heartbeat.
Miranda’s breath against her neck, whispering things in the dark that she forgot by morning. A vanishing act wrapped in thousand-thread-count sheets.

Andy blinked up again and then there she was. Miranda. 

Standing still and composed in all of her glory. Watching her , not the brides. Again. Just like what she did during the rehearsal dinner.

Watching Andy like she already knew. Like she'd known the entire time.

Andy tore her gaze away. She pressed her fingertips into her palm until it hurt.

She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t.

Not here. Not now. Not when two people were proving that forever could be real.

She forced a smile, even as her chest cracked quietly under the weight of everything unsaid.

SATURDAY NIGHT

It was a night carved out of myth. Lanterns strung between stone columns. Long tables draped in linen and overflowing with flowers and candles. The string quartet in the corner had been replaced by a live band, playing a jazz cover of Beyoncé’s “XO.”

And at the heart of it all: chaos.

Andy had barely had time to breathe between seating charts and toasts and making sure Emily didn’t trip in heels taller than her will to live. She was now halfway through her second glass of wine and contemplating a third.

Marco appeared at her elbow like an angel in Tom Ford. And too much smug. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, pointing to the empty chair beside her.

Andy side-eyed him. “You’ve been standing for an hour.”

“Yes, but now I wish to lounge and judge . ”

He dropped into the chair with a dramatic sigh and plucked a cherry from her cocktail.

Across the table, Nigel sat with a crystal glass of something dangerously pink. “He’s been waiting to talk about Miranda all night.”

Andy nearly choked. “Jesus.”

Marco grinned. “She looks criminally expensive tonight.”

“Like heartbreak dipped in Dior,” Nigel added helpfully.

“Can we not?” Andy hissed.

Marco ignored her. “Also, she hasn’t looked away from you once. It’s either very romantic or she’s planning your assassination.”

Andy groaned and drained her glass. “God, I need a cigarette.”

"You don't smoke," Marco observed dryly, one eyebrow perfectly arched.

“You two keep this up and I might start,” she said with an eye roll.

Emily and Serena were glowing, tipsy, dancing barefoot in the middle of the courtyard while guests clinked glasses and swooned. The toasts were done. The cake had been cut. The string lights above flickered like stars.

Andy slipped away to the edge of the party, finding brief peace beside the rose hedges, just long enough to breathe.

Marco followed like a shadow. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“It’s Italy in June.”

Andy turned to him, eyes flashing. “I’m not talking about her.”

Marco raised his hands. “Okay, fine. Then let’s talk about how Nigel just tried to bribe the DJ into playing ‘Vogue’ three times.”

Andy gave a sharp exhale, something like a laugh. “That I can handle.”

Marco’s voice softened, taking a step closer and wrapping his hands on her friend’s shoulder. “How are you really, cara? I haven’t seen you like this…”

“Like what, Marco?” Her voice trembled on the edge of something fragile.

“Like a woman not trapped in the past, but in a future she never asked for. One that keeps knocking anyway.” He paused. “If that’s what it looks like, I can’t imagine how it must feel.”

Andy didn’t answer. For what felt like a millionth time that week, she couldn’t. Not because it wasn’t true—partly, yes—but because saying it aloud might make it real.

They stood in silence.

And then, a flicker of silver. Andy tensed before she even heard her. 

“Mr. De Luca,” came that cool, devastatingly calm voice of Miranda, “would you mind giving us a moment?”

Marco blinked at Andy, his hand tightening around her shoulders. She gave him a reluctant nod. He left without a word. Miranda stepped forward, into the low light.

Music from the reception blurred in the background.

Andy didn’t look at her. Miranda didn’t move closer.

“You look…” the editor began.

“Don’t.”

Miranda tilted her head. “Andrea—”

“I said don’t,” Andy snapped, voice tight. “Don’t try and make this your moment. This is their night.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Andy turned now, sharp-edged. “Because you’ve been looking at me like you forgot how to breathe and I—” Her voice caught. “I can’t afford to fall again.”

Miranda’s face cracked, just slightly. “I never stopped.”

Andy didn’t flinch. But she didn’t step closer either.

“I’m not yours to watch anymore,” she whispered.

Miranda parted her lips to speak—

But then, Nigel’s unmistakable voice rang out, “Marco, stop waltzing with the caterer, you’re blocking the cake!”

Andy blinked, laughed, and almost cried.

She turned to go. Miranda let her.

For now.

The party had reached that perfect, dangerous tipping point. Half the guests had abandoned their shoes, ties were undone, champagne flowed like water, and the band had seamlessly transitioned into a DJ who knew exactly how to soundtrack sexual tension.

Andy had been avoiding the center of it all for hours. But now—dragged out by Marco, clutching her flute of prosecco and laughing harder than she had in days—she let herself give in.

He spun her once, dramatically, then caught her waist as she wobbled.

“You’re out of practice,” he said with a mock-wounded look.

“I’m a producer. I sit and tell people where to put production fixtures."

“Tragic.”

He twirled her again, faster this time, and she shrieked, tripping into his chest.

“Stop trying to Dirty Dancing me!” she gasped, breathless.

Marco grinned. “I will catch you, cara. And then never let you forget it.”

Their laughter echoed between bass beats.

Nigel passed them once, drink in hand, muttering, “You’re both a menace to rhythm,” before disappearing into the crowd.

Andy didn’t care. For one shimmering moment, she wasn’t thinking about the woman in emerald seated in the shadows, or the way her name felt like a bruise under Andy’s ribs. 

She just danced. Wild, carefree, and stupid with alcohol. Which she knew she would regret once again in the morning.

“May I cut in?”

Andy turned, blinking. It was one of the guests. Someone from Serena’s side of the guest list, her cousin who said goodnight to Andy after the arrival dinner. Tall, handsome, and his suit perfectly tailored.

Marco raised a teasing brow, “You’re popular tonight.”

Andy snorted. “Don’t start.”

The man stepped closer. “It’s just one dance.”

Andy hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.”

Marco relinquished her hand with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But if he dips you wrong, I will intervene.”

She laughed and let herself be pulled back into the music.

Her new dance partner was smooth, easy. He smelled good. Said something about being a landscape architect. Asked her where she was based.

Andy smiled politely. Played along.

But her mind? Not here.

Her skin? Electric.

Because she could feel it.

From across the floor, like a magnet beneath her skin.

She turned her head and locked eyes with Miranda. Standing just past the bar. Still and composed with her eyes burning and her jaws tight.

Andy’s smile faltered.

Her partner didn’t notice. “So what do you—?”

“Excuse me,” came another voice.

Low, cold, and lethal in its subtlety. Andy turned and Miranda was already there. Not asking. Just extending a hand.

“Dance with me,” she said, barely audible over the music.

Andy stared at her. “Miranda—”

“I won’t ask twice.”

The man looked between them, confused and wisely excusing himself.

Andy hesitated, one second too long.

Miranda stepped in.

Her hand found Andy’s waist with terrifying familiarity.

And they danced. Slow. Unbothered by tempo. Unbothered by rhythm. Unbothered by the people around them. 

Miranda didn’t move the way others did. She led—of course she led. With the kind of quiet certainty that said, ‘I’ve done this before and I’ll do it again.’

She led like she owned the floor. Like none of them had ever left. Like there’d never been an empty bed in London. A wound disguised as silence. A broken heart.

Their bodies were too close. Their mouths didn’t move.

Only breath and history. Only that terrible, impossible ache neither of them had figured out how to kill.

Andy didn’t speak, because if she did, she wasn’t sure what would break first: the moment, or herself.

The music faded behind them like fog.

Andy excused herself almost immediately, barely mumbling something that resembled a goodbye. She didn’t care if anyone noticed. Let them.

She moved fast, heels clicking, pulse louder than the bass.

The hallway was dim, lit only by flickering sconces and the soft echo of a party still alive behind heavy doors. 

But here, it was just her. Or so she thought.

Andy exhaled sharply, tried to steady her hands. Then—

A breath behind her. A presence.

She turned too late. Miranda was already there.

Andy stumbled back, breath catching as her spine met the cool stone wall. Her dress twisted at her thighs, heels skidding slightly on the tile.

Miranda didn’t speak. She only stepped forward. 

Like the moment had been hunting them both for days. Ever since they step foot inside the villa. 

And now, there was nowhere left to run.

Andy slammed herself into the wall. Harder than she meant to. But it felt right. Stone against her spine. Heat rising in her chest like a scream. Her breath ragged, vision smudged, hands shaking from the aftershock of Miranda’s fingers ghosting her waist in front of everyone.

Miranda stood just inches away. Too calm. Too composed. Like she hadn’t just torn Andy’s world wide open with a single goddamn dance.

Her eyes—impossibly blue, infuriatingly steady—flicked to Andy’s face.

“You’re angry,” she said.

Andy let out a bitter laugh. “No shit.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t you dare.”

Then Andy kissed her. Hard. A kiss fueled by pure fury, a punishment disguised as desperate hunger. Teeth clashed, heat surged, and five years of suffocating silence detonated between their mouths.

Miranda didn’t recoil. Instead, she gasped against Andy’s lips, her hands pulling Andy even closer.

Her hands gripped Andy’s waist, fingers bunching the silk of her dress. She kissed back like she had something to prove, like she’d waited years for this moment and wasn’t going to let it slip away again.

Andy broke away, panting. “You don’t get to act like you didn’t rip me open.”

Miranda’s voice was low, breathless. “I never stopped wanting you.”

“Then where the hell were you?” Andy shoved her again, pinned her back to the opposite wall, teeth bared. “I woke up alone, Miranda. In bed. In your goddamn hotel room. No note. No call. Nothing.”

“I panicked.”

“You left. ”

Andy kissed her again, this time with biting anger. She nipped at Miranda's bottom lip, her hand raking through Miranda's hair. Miranda moaned, a sound that coursed through Andy's spine like a jolt of lightning.

“You broke me,” Andy growled.

“I know,” Miranda whispered, mouth brushing hers. “I hated myself for it.”

Andy kissed her again. Slower now, but no less desperate. Her hands cupped Miranda’s face like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hold her or push her away.

When she finally pulled back, her voice was a raw, broken whisper. “You don’t get to want me now, simply because I’m no longer a risk. Because I’m safe, successful, and don't need you.”

Miranda’s breath caught. Her chest rose and fell like she was drowning. “I wanted you then.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did. I just didn’t know how to keep you without breaking every rule I’ve ever lived by.”

Andy blinked, hard. Her throat ached. Her fingers trembled on Miranda’s jaw. “You were a coward,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“And I still want you.” Andy said, her voice breaking. 

Miranda closed her eyes like the confession physically hurt.

Andy leaned in once more, not quite making contact, just existing breath to breath.

“But I swear to God,” she whispered, voice sharp and shaking, “if you kiss me again and disappear… if you let me fall for you one more time and leave, I won’t survive it.”

Miranda’s hands slid slowly up her arms. Steady and unforgivingly tender. And this time, Miranda kissed her. 

It was soft. Damaged. Devoid of any cleverness or pretense. The kind of kiss that had no absolution, only a raw and undeniable truth.

And Andy let her.

Because hating her was exhausting. And loving her never stopped.

Andy’s breath trembled as she pulled back. Her lips were swollen, and her fingers still tangled in Miranda’s hair. Miranda’s mouth hung open slightly, as if she might speak, or ask her to stay, or kiss her again, or say something that could rewind the last five years and undo everything.

But it was too quiet now. Too clear.

Andy blinked. Once. Twice.

And then the world came rushing back in…

The music. The wedding. The fact that she was pressed up against her almost ex-lover, the woman who left her, in a hallway not twenty feet from a reception where love had just been made holy.

Andy’s stomach dropped. She stepped back. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no…"

Miranda’s brows drew in. "Andrea—"

“No.” Andy shook her head, untangling herself from Miranda’s touch. “I can’t—God, I can’t do this. Not again.”

Her voice cracked, “This was a mistake.”

Miranda went still. Like a statue. A perfect sculpture of restraint and devastation.

Andy reached for the wall, breathing hard. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes burning now, not with lust, but shame, memory, and self-preservation.

“I’m not her anymore,” she whispered.

Miranda’s voice was quieter. “I know.”

“You can’t just kiss me and make it make sense.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Well, it didn’t work,” Andy snapped, and then winced at her own sharpness. She swallowed. “It didn’t work.”

Andy said, not sure if it was Miranda or herself she's trying to convince. 

They stared at each other. All heat gone now. Just the aftermath of shame with regret. 

Andy turned, she took a step, then two. Then walked away, fast, heels echoing on stone as she moved through the corridor like she might drown if she stayed a second longer.

Back toward the golden light, the music and laughter, the party where people were still dancing. Where love was still whole and where Miranda Priestly hadn’t just kissed her and ripped her open again.

Andy didn’t look back. Not even once.

The hallway was empty now and only Miranda remained.

Stillness wrapped itself around her like silk pulled too tight, suffocating and immaculate. She stood exactly where Andrea had left her, as if moving would make it worse. As if breathing too deeply would draw in the scent of her and unravel something Miranda had spent years pretending she no longer needed.

The kiss still lingered on her mouth, soft and aching. It hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t even been logical. 

But then, nothing about Andrea Sachs had ever bowed to logic.

Miranda closed her eyes. One moment. That was all she’d taken. And it had cost her everything. Again.

The lights buzzed overhead, casting their flickering glow against the stone. Her shadow stretched long on the floor, elegant and solitary. She looked down at her hands. Perfect and composed. The same hands that had built careers, destroyed empires, signed contracts with ruthless clarity.

But they had shaken in the aftermath of Andrea’s touch.

She didn’t reach for her lips. Didn’t let herself. Not even to wipe away the ghost of what had just passed between them. That would make it too real. And if there was one thing Miranda Priestly did not allow herself, it was indulgence in the real.

Her heels clicked as she turned, the sound sharp and precise. She moved with grace, as always. Chin lifted, spine straight, and each step a studied return to form.

And yet, as she passed the narrow glass-paneled door, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Something in it faltered.

Not power. Not control.

But a woman who had loved once. Twice.

And lost both times.

This time, though, she hadn’t begged. Hadn’t chased. She had only stood still and watched Andrea walk away, like the first time. But now stripped of denial, stripped of illusion, stripped of the fantasy that time could fix what silence had ruined.

The ballroom doors loomed ahead, golden and wide, spilling laughter and light into the corridor. She didn’t enter.

Instead, Miranda turned down a quieter hallway, toward her suite, her shadow trailing behind her like regret wearing heels.

She would not sleep tonight. And she would not, under any circumstance, cry. She might call the twins, but that would entail telling them how everything went. 

She was Miranda Priestly. And even now, especially now, there was a price for softness. And she had just remembered it far too late.

Andy returned to the party like nothing had happened. Not a kiss, a breakdown or even five minutes against cold stone and five years unraveling like a hem in a storm.

She stepped back onto the reception terrace with her shoulders squared, her smile perfect, her lipstick retouched.

“Maid of honor!” someone cheered.

Andy grinned and lifted her fresh glass. “To the brides!”

More cheers and laughter. Serena was dancing barefoot on a table. Emily was crying into her third champagne flute.

It should’ve been enough to distract her. But Miranda’s presence burned behind her like a sun she couldn’t bear to face again. So she didn’t.

She slipped into the crowd. She laughed at half-heard jokes. She kissed elderly cheeks and danced with someone’s cousin. She made it all look easy.

She always made it look easy.

But inside—God, inside—it was all spiraling. She was spiraling.

Across the courtyard by the bar, Marco watched her with narrowed eyes, sipping an espresso martini like it held answers. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

Nigel, beside him, smirked without looking. “She’s glowing like a woman who just kissed her past and regretted it.”

Marco blinked. “How—?”

“Oh, please.” Nigel rolled his eyes. “I may be old, but I’m not blind.”

They both watched Andy glide across the dance floor, twirling a flower girl, laughing like she hadn’t just fled something vital.

Marco frowned, concern washing over his features. "She’s faking it."

"Yes," Nigel agreed, his tone dry. "And quite beautifully."

At the brides’ table, Emily was mid-toast, slightly tipsy, and fully in her chaotic joy era.

“And to Andrea,” she slurred, raising her glass, “who has somehow wrangled me, this wedding, and all my breakdowns without murdering anyone. Yet . ”

The crowd laughed while Andy lifted her own glass. “There’s still time.”

Another wave of laughter and Andy smiled wider but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Emily caught the flicker, that half-second crack in Andy’s otherwise bulletproof poise. She didn’t say anything. Not yet. But she filed it away.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the guests were fewer… When the wine had dried and the makeup faded… She’d ask.

For now? Andy danced and pretended she hadn’t left her heart in a dark hallway with Miranda Priestly’s hands on her waist.

Chapter Text

SATURDAY NIGHT 

The villa had finally gone still.

The party had ended with everyone’s dignity intact. No one threw up or made a scene at the reception which is a small miracle, considering it had been a gay wedding in Italy. Anything could have happened.

Andy liked to think she hadn’t lost herself, not during the dance, and not in what happened after, in the hallway with a certain silver-haired editor.

It was only technically late, three in the morning when the newlyweds finally called it a night. Another two hours and they’d have been up for a full day.

Andy padded barefoot through the corridor, heels dangling from her fingers. Her hair had long since begun to fall, makeup faded into softness. She’d said her goodnights to Emily and Serena with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And now, somehow, she stood in front of a door she had no business standing in front of.

Miranda’s suite.

Maybe it was the absence of music. Maybe the way the lake shimmered under moonlight. Or maybe it was drink number five… the one she had sipped slowly, too slowly, until the line between brave and reckless blurred completely.

Still, she knocked.

One soft, almost guilty knock. Then another.

A long pause followed, like maybe Miranda had fallen asleep, or wasn’t alone, or had already left in some elegant fashion she hadn’t announced.

But then the door opened.

Miranda appeared in the doorway, hair loose, face bare of makeup, wrapped in a robe that looked somehow more regal than formalwear ever could. There was something wary in her eyes. Not cold. Not guarded. Just… tired.

“Andrea,” she said softly. “You should be asleep.”

Andy managed a breath. “So should you.”

Miranda tilted her head, searching her face. “Is something wrong?”

Andy shook her head. “I just…” Her breath hitched. “I didn’t want the night to end without saying it.”

Miranda hesitated. “Would you like to come in?”

But Andy didn’t move. “No. I don’t want to talk in your room. Not with walls between us.”

Miranda didn’t speak. She only nodded once then stepped out, slowly, letting the door fall shut behind her.

The hallway was quiet. Dim sconces cast a warm golden wash across the stone floor. Somewhere below them, the lake stirred.

They stood side by side in the silence.

Andy broke it.

“I kissed you,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. “And I said it was a mistake. But I didn’t mean that.”

Miranda didn’t look at her, but she listened. She heard her.

“It wasn’t a mistake. It was impulsive and stupid, maybe. But it wasn’t wrong.” Andy shifted, hugging her arms around herself. “What was wrong was what you did. Years ago.”

Miranda’s jaw tensed.

“You left,” Andy said. “You disappeared. And I never got a goddamn explanation. One day we were—” She cut herself off, voice cracking. “One day we were something. The next, you were gone. And I had to figure out how to live with that.”

Miranda finally turned to her, eyes unreadable. “Andrea…”

“No. Let me finish.” Her voice wavered, but she kept going. “You get to have the last word all the time. You get to leave when you want, on your terms. But not this time.”

Miranda didn’t interrupt.

“I was so angry,” Andy said, quieter now. “And then I saw you again this week, and it was like someone ripped off every stitch I thought had healed. I couldn’t breathe around you. I hated how much I still cared.”

“I never stopped caring,” Miranda whispered.

Andy looked at her. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why now, after all this time?”

“I was afraid,” Miranda admitted. “I was selfish. And cruel. And I told myself it was better for you if I disappeared.”

“That’s bullshit,” Andy said. “You don’t get to decide what’s better for me.”

A pause.

“I know,” Miranda whispered.

They stood there, the weight of it all between them.

Finally, Andy let out a breath. “I just needed to say it. I needed you to hear it because I don’t know what happens next, but I couldn’t leave it unsaid.”

Miranda looked at her, something cracked open in her eyes. “Thank you for saying it.”

Andy gave a tired smile. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t run again.”

Miranda nodded, once.

Neither of them moved. They stood there. Not enemies, not lovers. Just two women, shoulder to shoulder in the hush of something unfinished.

Miranda opened her mouth. “Andrea, about London—”

Andy stopped her with a glance. “Not tonight. I didn’t come here for closure. I just came to say what I should’ve said a long time ago.”

Miranda looked away. “You think this is the end?”

“I don’t know,” Andy whispered. “Do you?”

No answer came.

Andy stepped back. “Goodnight, Miranda.”

She turned. And for the second time that night, Miranda didn’t stop her.

Andy had already begun walking away when Miranda’s voice reached her.

“I never stopped wanting you to knock on my door.”

Andy paused.

Without turning around, she said, “I wish you’d left it open.”

And then she was gone.

SUNDAY MORNING

The villa was quiet in the way only the morning after a celebration could be, the kind of quiet that hummed with exhaustion and forgotten wine bottles. 

Andy sat on the sun-drenched terrace, sunglasses shielding her tired eyes, coffee warm in her hands, and Marco across from her, methodically buttering a croissant like the world wasn’t tilted on its axis.

“Don’t say it,” she warned, before he even opened his mouth.

Marco looked up, all too innocent. “Say what?”

She squinted at him. “Whatever smug remark you’re sitting on.”

“I was just going to say you look radiant this morning. Positively hungover-chic.”

Andy groaned and slumped back in her chair, lifting her espresso like a toast to her own suffering. “I hate you.”

“You liar,” Marco said, sipping his orange juice.

It was a slow, lazy Sunday morning kind of quiet or maybe just the stillness that comes after emotional combustion.

Marco set his croissant down, eyeing her from above his cup. “So… you want to talk about it?”

Andy didn’t look at him. Just stirred her coffee a little more aggressively than necessary. “Not especially.”

He waited.

“I went to see her,” she said eventually, quiet. “Last night.”

Marco blinked. “Okay. And?”

“I said what I needed to say. I think.” Andy paused. “It didn’t make me feel better, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, more gently now. “But I’m glad you said something. For your own peace, at least.”

Andy exhaled slowly, watching the steam curl from her mug. “There’s no peace. Just… space. Space where something used to be.”

Marco nodded once, then reached for a grape and popped it into his mouth. “Well, you know what fills space really well?”

“If you say carbs—”

“Carbs and petty gossip.”

Andy cracked a smile. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you insist on having brunch with me.” He leaned back, glancing toward the villa doors. “Think the brides are going to show their faces today?”

“They’re probably busy basking in matrimonial bliss. Or napping.”

“Or both.”

“Same time?”

Marco grinned. “Multitasking queens.”

They were still laughing when the doors creaked open behind them, and Emily shuffled out in a robe, sunglasses nearly the size of her face, hair still in a messy halo of yesterday’s updo.

“Don’t. Speak,” she croaked.

Marco handed her a cup of steaming coffee wordlessly.

Emily took it like a lifeline. “You’re my favorite,” she muttered.

From inside, Serena’s voice floated out  light, amused, and half-awake. “Emily! You promised ten more minutes!”

“Ten more minutes of sleep,” Emily called back. “Not ten more minutes of me holding your hand while you try to find your face serum!”

Andy stood to pour another coffee, hiding her smile in the steam.

For a moment, it was just that. The late morning sun, her friends half-dead from celebration, the promise of a long day with nowhere to be but here.

But for now, she let herself exist in the softness of it. No drama, no heartbreak. Just brunch and the quiet comfort of people who didn’t ask for answers she wasn’t ready to give.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

The sun was high, gilding everything it touched—the turquoise gleaming pool, the canopies and the glasses filled with God-knows-what alcohol scattered around the area. Someone had put on a soft playlist, not to trigger the hungover individuals from last night’s party. 

Andy lay on a lounge chair in her red swimsuit, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, legs stretched out and unmoving in the heat. She’d brought a book but hadn’t turned a single page. The air was too heavy, or maybe her thoughts were.

From beside her, Emily sat in her black one piece while drinking a fresh mimosa.  She let out a sigh before speaking, “You’re doing that thing again.”

Andy didn’t move. “What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you’re not staring at someone when you absolutely are.”

“I’m reading.”

“Sachs, you’re on the same page as you were twenty minutes ago.”

Andy finally turned her head slightly, deadpan. “Maybe I like to savor the prose.”

Emily raised one sharply arched brow above her sunglasses. And before she could grill the woman, the air shifted. Not the wind, no. It was the atmosphere.

Both friends looked up at the same time. 

Miranda was walking past the pool, dressed in something light but unmistakably designer. She wasn’t alone, a polite conversation lingered in the air between her and another guest, perhaps one of the board members Serena had introduced to her at the beginning of the week. But her eyes, cool and blue and unreadable, found Andy.

It was only for a second.

“Good afternoon, Andrea,” Miranda said, her tone precise, even. Barely a touch warmer than usual but enough. Enough that Andy felt it like a pulse beneath her ribs.

Then a pause. A glance to her right.

“Emily,” Miranda added with a slight nod.

Emily sputtered. “Miranda.”

Andy’s throat worked. “Hi,” she said, sounding breathier than she wanted.

Miranda gave the faintest tilt of her head and then she was gone. Continuing past the pool, like it was nothing. Like last night hadn’t happened. Like Andy hadn’t told her she still wanted her in a dim hallway, barefoot and heart-bared and trembling.

But it had happened. And that ‘good afternoon’ was proof Miranda remembered.

Emily turned slowly, removing her sunglasses with theatrical precision. “Okay. What. The. Actual. Hell . ”

Andy just stared at the spot Miranda had occupied seconds before, pulse still thrumming.

“Andrea ? ” Emily pressed, brow furrowed.

“I’m fine,” Andy said quickly. “I just—”

“You just got Miranda Priestly’d,” Emily whispered, scandalized and delighted. “But, like, the flirtation edition.”

Andy didn’t answer. She was still trying to remember how to breathe.

“Well,” Emily huffed, “you’re awfully quiet for someone who just got a very interesting good afternoon from Miranda bloody Priestly.”

Andy kept her head turned toward the water, hiding her smile.

“That was not just a greeting,” Emily continued, winding up fast. “That was loaded. That was ‘I’ve seen you vulnerable and liked it’ coded. So. Spill.”

Andy finally turned her head, arching a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Oh, don’t you dare. You think I don’t recognize that tone? I worked for that woman for three years. I know every cadence in her frosty lexicon. And that?” She pointed emphatically. “That was a softened lilt, Andrea. That was practically flirty.”

Andy sighed, lips twitching. “Okay.”

Emily leaned forward. “ Okay? ”

Andy took a breath, then dropped it: “I knocked on her door last night.”

Emily reeled back. “You what? ”

“After the reception,” Andy said, too casual. “I just… couldn’t sleep. I’d said goodnight to everyone and then somehow, I was outside her door.”

“You knocked on Miranda Priestly’s suite after sharing a dance at her ex-assistant’s gay wedding reception?”

Andy shrugged, a little too eagerly.

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Oh, Sachs. You’re clearly hiding something.”

Andy hesitated.

“We… might’ve shared a kiss or two—no, three. In the hallway. After the dance.”

Emily gaped. “And you’re only telling me this now?!”

“I needed time to process!”

Emily clutched her glass dramatically. “That explains the hot-but-haunted look you had last night after you disappeared for ten entire minutes . Oh my god , Andy!” She reached over and pinched her side.

“Ow! Emily!”

“You kissed her in a hallway like some fever-dream fanfic and then knocked on her door?! I should push you into this pool!”

Andy groaned but nodded.

Emily gawked. “You’re kidding. What happened? Did you go in?”

“No,” Andy said. “She stepped out.”

“… Out? ”

Andy gave her a look. “Into the hallway. Equal ground.”

Emily blinked. “Miranda Priestly stepped into a hallway in bare feet and a silk robe just to talk?”

“She was dressed.”

“That is not the important detail here.”

Andy sighed. “She asked if I really wanted to talk about it right then. I said yes. I told her the kiss wasn’t a mistake. That I meant it.”

Emily paused, the air suddenly more serious.

“I told her I wasn’t drunk or confused. It wasn’t the champagne or the music or the ridiculous air of the villa. I kissed her because… I still wanted to.”

Emily stared at her.

“And?” she finally asked.

“And she listened,” Andy said simply. “She let me say it. That’s it.”

Emily squinted. “You’re lying . There’s no way t hat’s it.”

“I went back to my room, Em.”

“You didn’t even make out a little?” Emily leaned in. “Not even another revenge kiss?”

Andy laughed despite herself. “No.”

Emily collapsed against the lounge chair, dramatically offended. “I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

“You just got married,” Andy said, glancing sideways at Emily.

“Exactly,” Emily replied, taking a slow sip from her drink. “I should be the emotionally grounded one.”

Andy arched a brow. “And yet…”

“And yet,” Emily sighed, removing her sunglasses and placing them on her chest. “You’re the one who spent the night kissing a woman you’ve been in complicated denial for half a decade.”

Andy rolled her eyes. “Okay, thank you for that very grounded assessment.”

Emily turned her head fully now, her expression losing its edge, replaced by something honest. “You don’t think I’m being serious, but I am. Do I think you’re insane? Of course I do. But I also think…” She paused, pressing her lips together like she was choosing her words carefully. “I also think you’ve been carrying this thing. This Miranda thing. For a very long time.”

Andy looked back at the pool, watching the late afternoon light dance across the surface, the ripples catching pinks and golds like some surreal Monet painting.

“And if knocking on her door helped you take even one breath closer to peace or closure, then fine. I support it.”

Andy blinked. “Closure?”

Emily grinned, wicked and sharp. “Or chaos. Either one. I support both equally.”

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled. Just the soft lapping of water, the faint laughter of other guests from inside the villa, the clink of glass from someone getting a refill. Andy leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes briefly, letting the breeze cool her face.

Then Emily leaned in again, voice softer this time, “So… what happens now?”

Andy opened her eyes. The horizon was beginning to blush deeper, her fingers curled over the edge of the chair, grounding herself.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

Emily nodded, not pressing.

“She’s flying back to New York tomorrow,” Andy added after a beat. “The girls are waiting. There’s always something waiting for her.”

Emily gave a quiet hum of understanding.

“And me?” Andy glanced down at her bare feet, the way they rested against warm tiles. “I think I just needed to say it. Just once. Out loud. Without waiting for the perfect moment or the right city or... or courage.”

Emily didn’t say anything at first. She simply reached over and placed her hand gently over Andy’s. “You did good, Ms. Chaos.”

Andy let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks, Mrs. Alves-Charlton.”

Emily smirked and leaned back again. “That sounds good but now I have to text Marco before he spontaneously combusts. For sure he saw Miranda say hi to you earlier.”

“Oh my God,” Andy groaned, covering her face with both hands.

“Oh, honey,” Emily drawled, already fishing for her phone. “The whole pool saw it. You two are officially the post-wedding gossip. It’s between you and that one cousin who attempted to sing Love On Top at the reception and dislocated her ankle.”

Andy peeked through her fingers, mortified. “Fantastic. Maybe Miranda and I can duet at the next event and really seal the scandal.”

“I’m begging you,” Emily said, eyes dancing.

They settled again into a companionable quiet, the kind that only came after a very long day full of revelations and unspoken understandings. Somewhere behind them, Serena’s laugh echoed bouncing off the stone walls and into the lavender air.

Andy leaned back once more, watching the sky darken shade by shade.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Or what both of them leaving would mean. Or whether this feeling in her chest was the beginning or the end.

But she knew she’d said it. And that Miranda had listened.

And for today that was enough.

The sun kept setting, slow and full of promise.

SUNDAY EVENING

The long tables were dressed in soft, flickering candlelight. Golden hour had long slipped into velvet, and the garden hummed with the low chatter of guests savoring their final dinner under the stars.

There were no place cards this time. No designated seats. The last formal event of Emily and Serena’s wedding week was intentionally loose and carefree. A ‘sit wherever you want, drink whatever you can carry’ kind of evening.

Andy arrived with Marco, late enough to avoid the small talk flurry but just in time to keep Emily from scowling across the garden. She was mid-laugh at Marco’s retelling of the cousin-hammock-phone-tragedy when she froze, eyes catching movement near the center of the table.

Miranda. Moving toward her.

Andy blinked once, then again, thinking maybe she’d imagined it. But no. Miranda was gliding around the far side of the long table, glass of red wine already in hand, her gaze steady as she walked with unhurried precision toward the still-empty seat beside Andy.

Marco, mid-sentence, trailed off.

Miranda didn’t ask.

She merely stopped beside the chair, met Andy’s wide eyes with her own unreadable expression, and said with polite ease, “This seat isn’t taken, is it?”

Andy stared. “No,” she managed. “It’s not.”

“Good,” Miranda said softly, and sat.

Marco raised both eyebrows and muttered, “Well. That’s new.”

Andy didn’t answer, she was too busy adjusting to the magnetic warmth that had suddenly taken up residence beside her.

Marco flopped into the seat on Andy’s other side, clearly not letting it go. “Remember when sitting next to Miranda Priestly made you physically ill?”

Andy rolled her eyes. “I was never physically ill.”

“You drank champagne on an empty stomach to avoid conversation.”

“I was being diplomatic.”

“You were being deranged . ”

Miranda, unbothered, took a sip of her wine and murmured, “Some of us simply know when to make the right move.”

Andy’s jaw twitched, lips threatening to smile.

“Oh god,” Marco muttered, reaching for a breadstick. “You deserve each other.”

Across the table, Emily caught Andy’s eye and mouthed something dangerously smug, ‘ I KNEW IT.’ Andy pointedly ignored her.

She turned instead to Miranda, who was watching her in that quiet, undivided way that made everything else around them blur.

No truce was spoken.

But maybe, Andy thought, this was how one began.

The noise was dying down. The lights overhead flickered like fireflies caught in a breeze, and the last bottle of prosecco had made its rounds when Serena stood and tapped a fork gently against her glass.

Emily was already groaning.

“Oh no. No no no. We said no more public declarations, Serena—”

Serena only smiled and tugged her up by the hand.

“We also said we wouldn’t cry during our vows and look what happened,” she teased, kissing her wife’s knuckles before turning to the crowd. “Sorry, everyone. We’ll make this quick. Maybe.”

A few cheers went up, mostly from the drunk guests.

Serena looked around at the garden full of people, her voice a little steadier than expected. “This has been… the week of a lifetime. And we didn’t get to say this earlier, but thank you. For showing up. For dancing like idiots. For letting Emily control your dress codes and your call times and your meal preferences and your seating arrangements.”

Laughter went out. Emily raised a hand before saying, “You’re welcome.”

Serena rolled her eyes. “And thank you for loving us, not just as a couple, but individually. For seeing the things we don’t always see in ourselves.”

She turned slightly, meeting Emily’s gaze. “I fell in love with you during a fight. Do you remember that?”

“Oh god,” Emily muttered. “This again.”

“She was so furious at me. I’d ruined her meeting, her calendar, and possibly her chance at a campaign donor—”

“You made me late,” Emily cut in, deadpan. “By thirteen minutes.”

Serena beamed. “Exactly. And she was red in the face, pacing, calling me things I probably shouldn’t repeat in front of her boss—hi, Miranda—and I thought… This woman terrifies me. I want her to be mine, forever.”

That earned a wave of laughter, even from Miranda, lips twitching behind her wine glass.

Emily sighed dramatically. “And I fell in love with you the day you didn’t run.”

She paused, letting that settle.

“I’ve had people admire me. Fear me or rely on me. But not many stay. You did. You stayed even when I tried to outrun the soft parts. Even when I thought I didn’t need this.” Her voice wavered, eyes full. “You knew better.”

There was a hush.

Emily blinked quickly, then cleared her throat and looked out at the crowd, trying for her usual composed tone. “So thank you. All of you. For giving us this—this ridiculous, over-decorated, champagne-soaked circus of a week. We’re disgustingly happy. We’re exhausted. And we are, without question, so deeply, stupidly lucky.”

She raised her glass. Serena followed.

“To messy beginnings,” Serena said, grinning.

“To unexpected endings,” Emily added.

“And to everything in between.”

The resulting clinking of glasses began tentatively, then grew into a warm, resonant echo that cascaded through the garden. 

It was the kind of sound that affirmed, yes . Yes to all of this. Yes to them. And to the beautiful, undeniable messiness of their journey. Whatever this extraordinary thing was.

Andy raised her glass along with the others, but it took a moment for her hand to stop trembling.

There was something about the way Emily’s voice had caught, that brief crack in a woman who never cracked, and the quiet defiance in Serena’s smile, that unshakable knowing. The kind of knowing that said: I chose her. I’m still choosing her.

Andy swallowed a dry, tight ache in her throat. It wasn't precisely jealousy. It was something more tender. More poignant. A complex braid of longing and awe, an unspoken emotion gathering like warmth behind her eyes.

For when Emily articulated, "You stayed even when I tried to outrun the soft parts," the words resonated within Andy’s own chest. A direct, unerring hit.

She didn’t dare look at Miranda. Not yet.

Instead, she set her glass down and folded her hands in her lap, heart thudding like a slow drum.

Messy beginnings. Unexpected endings. Everything in between.

She was beginning to realize she hadn’t even begun to understand what everything could mean.

And right beside her, Miranda sat very still, but Andy could feel it, the warmth of her shoulder, the quiet presence of a woman who had once run just as hard. Maybe even harder.

And now? Now she was staying.

Maybe. Just maybe.

Andy exhaled, careful and slow. She was almost ready to believe in the in between.

A soft clink of a glass beside her. Then, low and conspiratorial, Nigel leaned in from behind, his voice a velvet dagger just for her ears, “Well, well. If it isn’t the glow of emotional devastation and unresolved sexual tension.”

Andy nearly choked on her prosecco.

She turned slightly, face half-laughing, half-threatening. “Do you mind?”

Nigel looked smug, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Not particularly.”

Then, as his gaze flicked briefly toward Miranda who was still watching the crowd, the corners of her mouth barely curved, he added with a wink, “Just promise me the next time you two blow up your lives, you’ll let me dress you for it. You’d look phenomenal in a scandal.”

Andy bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Noted,” she murmured.

Nigel gave her shoulder a squeeze, his tone gentler now. “I’m glad you’re here, Six.”

Andy nodded once, her voice quieter. “Me too.”

And as the music began again and candles burned lower, she didn’t dare look too far ahead. But for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t looking back, either.

The garden had begun its slow unraveling.

Chairs scraped gently as guests stretched, gathered shawls, and pulled loved ones closer for one final toast. The warm buzz of celebration faded into a softer current. The goodbyes began to echo and the stars started to stretch overhead like an exhale.

Andy rose too, pulled into a blur of hugs and half-finished stories. She smiled on instinct, accepting kisses on her cheek and promises of Milan visits from people she hadn’t seen since Paris. Her wine glass had long been forgotten on some table; now her hands were busy with parting gestures, a shoulder touch here, a whispered thank you there.

She was delaying. She knew that.

But goodbyes, even the temporary ones, took time. Especially after a week like this.

What she didn’t see was Miranda.

Not at the center of any circle. Not interrupting or approaching.

She was waiting.

Just outside the golden glow of the lights, near a low stone wall tangled with flowering vines. One hand slipped into the pocket of dress, the other cradling a glass of something amber and untouched. There was a stillness to her posture, it was not stiff, but deliberate. Her gaze was steady.

Watching. Not pressing.

She stood half-shadowed, half-lit, as if she didn’t want to pull Andy out of her orbit too soon. As if she understood the rhythm of her.

Andy felt it before she saw it, that awareness threading through her ribs like tension on a string instrument.

When she finally turned, her eyes caught on the only one who hadn’t moved all evening.

Still there. Still waiting. Not for her to be done, but ready.

After a few more minutes, Andy was almost free.

She sidestepped Marco, dodged Serena’s latest Instagram Story attempt, and even evaded Emily’s ‘wait, just one more toast for the album ’ trap. Her heels were off, her hair was coming loose, and her brain was screaming ‘ find Miranda’ like a lighthouse calling her home.

But just as she reached the garden path—

“Wait!” Nigel’s voice rang out like a fashion emergency.

Andy groaned dramatically. “No. Nigel, no. I’m out.”

“You’ll never be out,” he said, sweeping into her path like the seasoned stage villain he was. “Not tonight. Not when the last great Runway photo hasn’t been taken.”

There were gasps as familiar faces emerged from every corner. Serena dragging Emily by the wrist. Marco smug as ever, already holding a camera he definitely stole from the photo booth setup. And Nigel, of course, commanding the lawn like it was Fashion Week.

“No. No no no,” Andy was laughing now, backing up. “I don’t even work in fashion anymore.”

“Neither do I, technically,” Emily added, already posing.

“Exactly,” Nigel said, adjusting Serena’s stance by an inch. “This is legacy, darling.”

Marco waved her over. “Come on, cara. This is the moment the interns of the future will hang on their vision boards.”

Andy glanced to the side only to find Miranda standing just beyond them. Still composed, still sharp in her dark wrap and pale silk. Watching.

And then Miranda stepped forward. Without a word, she crossed into the circle of laughter and the crowd parting instinctively like the Red Sea around their queen.

She didn’t speak. She just lifted one hand and Andy moved toward her like it was always the answer.

Marco raised the camera, asking, “Ready?”

“No retakes,” Emily warned.

Andy slipped beside Miranda, her arm brushing gently against hers. Miranda didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. The woman just looked straight ahead, a small smile playing at her lips.

“I was born ready,” Andy muttered, half under her breath.

Click.

Marco grinned, lowering the camera. “And that’s the cover of The Reunion We Pretend We Didn’t Want .”

“Shut up,” Andy groaned, cheeks hot.

Miranda’s voice was dry, just loud enough for Andy to hear, “Though we absolutely wanted it.”

Andy turned her head slowly and Miranda’s unmistakable gaze met hers.

God help her. She was never making it back to her suite without combusting.

But then Miranda stepped forward, slipping between the clusters of friends with her usual, unhurried ease. She didn’t look at anyone else, she just looked at Andy.

“Andrea, would you walk with me?” she asked, her tone deceptively light. “There’s a path through the trees. It shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

Andy blinked, thrown for a moment. Miranda? Requesting time? Outside of a party? In front of their friends? 

She nodded before she could think better of it. “Sure.”

No one tried to follow. Not Marco, not Serena, and especially not Emily. Nigel arched a knowing brow but made no comment, merely took a dramatic sip of his drink as Miranda and Andy slipped away from the glow of the garden and into the hush of the trees.

They walked for a minute in silence, just the sound of gravel underfoot and the chirp of cicadas in the dark.

Then Miranda spoke, “I owe you more than this walk.”

None of them stopped in their tracks. 

They’d wandered farther now, the lights from the villa just a distant shimmer behind them. Andy wasn’t sure who stopped first but suddenly, they were facing each other beneath a willow tree that swayed like it was listening.

Miranda exhaled. “London.”

Andy’s heart thudded once, hard.

“I should have called,” Miranda said, voice low. “I should have written. Or at the very least… said goodbye.”

“You didn’t,” Andy replied. Not bitter, she just stated a fact.

“No,” Miranda said softly. “I didn’t.”

She looked away for a moment, gathering herself.

“That night…” Her eyes flicked up, met Andy’s. “I hadn’t expected to feel anything. I was in the middle of a whirlwind trip. The girls were with their father. I hadn’t felt like myself in months. But then you walked into that ridiculous press dinner, all sharp edges and wide-eyed questions, and I—” she shook her head. “You undid me. Without even trying.”

Andy’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

“I invited you up because I wanted one selfish thing,” Miranda went on. “One night. Just one. Something beautiful and temporary and entirely mine.”

Her voice faltered.

“But the next morning, you were still there. And I realized I hadn’t ruined you.” A pause. “I’d ruined myself.”

Andy’s breath caught.

“I looked at you and saw everything I could wreck if I stayed. Your fire. Your future. Your sense of self. You were so young, so bright. And I thought… God, if she ever lets me, I’ll destroy her. ”

“You wouldn’t have,” Andy whispered.

“But I didn’t know that then,” Miranda said. “I was scared. Of being too much. Of being a phase you’d regret. Of watching myself become the woman people warned you about.”

Andy took a step forward. “So you ran.”

Miranda nodded, pain flaring behind her eyes. “It was easier to disappear. To make it impersonal. To let you hate me, if you needed to. Anything was better than… hoping.”

Silence engulfed them for a good minute. 

“I thought I was protecting you,” Miranda said. “But the truth is, I was protecting myself from wanting more.”

Andy’s hands had curled into fists at her sides and her voice shook. “I waited for days, Miranda. I thought you were in an accident. I thought I did something wrong.”

Andy’s eyes glistened.

“I watched from the car,” Miranda admitted, barely audible. “I saw you come out of the lobby. You looked up at the windows like you were still holding on. And I couldn’t—” her voice cracked. “I couldn’t face you. Not when I’d already decided to break us before we even began.”

There was nothing but the sound of leaves rustling now. A lone night bird in the distance.

Andy swallowed hard. Her voice trembled. “And now?”

Miranda slowly stepped closer.  “Now,” she said, “I think not loving you was the real mistake.”

Andy looked at her now, eyes sharp. “You didn’t just leave me,” she said. “You erased me.”

Miranda flinched.

“I tried to stay in New York,” Andy went on. “I really did. I dove back into work, avoided every part of the city that reminded me of you. Which, it turns out, was all of it. I couldn’t walk through Manhattan without thinking of you. So when the fellowship in Europe came up, I said yes.”

Miranda swallowed. “You left the country.”

“I had to,” Andy said, not unkindly. “And it was the best thing I ever did. That fellowship became Ampersand. I built something from scratch and I learned who I was without you.”

Silence stretched again, thick and aching.

“I don’t regret the kiss,” Andy said suddenly. “At the wedding. I meant it.”

“I know.” Miranda’s voice broke slightly. “That’s why I’m standing here. That’s why I had to say this. Because you were brave enough to say your piece. And now it’s my turn.”

Andy folded her arms, lips twitching like she might cry or laugh or both. “You think this is enough?”

“No,” Miranda said simply. “But I hope it’s a start.”

Andy looked at her. Really looked.

This woman, who’d once left her behind, was finally standing still. And for the first time in five years, Andrea didn’t feel like she was chasing a ghost.

She nodded, just once.

They walked slowly up the stone path, the villa glowing faintly ahead like something from a dream already starting to dissolve. Each footstep was careful, as if moving too fast might break the spell.

The cicadas had quieted and the garden had emptied. But the air still hummed, with wine, memory, and the things they hadn’t said and maybe never would.

When the suites came into view, Miranda slowed. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Careful. “I leave for New York tomorrow.”

Andy stopped. Her pulse lurched. “Right.”

“You’ll be in Milan?” Miranda asked, though she already knew.

Andy nodded. “We’ll leave at noon.”

A beat passed.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Miranda said softly.

Andy studied her, that inscrutable face still touched by the moonlight. “I wasn’t looking for anything. You just... showed up.”

Miranda’s lips parted, but no words came.

Andy offered her a tired, uneven smile. “Goodnight, Miranda.”

Miranda lingered for half a second longer and then nodded. “Goodnight, Andrea.”

She turned and disappeared on the way to her suite. 

Instead of walking, Andy just stood there. Her jaw clenched, heart too full, the quiet pressing in around her.

“Nice of you to return to civilization,” a voice drawled.

Startled, Andy turned toward the low garden wall. Marco sat there, arms crossed, expression somewhere between patient and smug.

“Marco,” she exhaled. “What are you doing?”

He stood, stretching like a cat. “Waiting. In case you came back broken.”

Andy rolled her eyes and brushed past him toward the suite. “I’m not broken.”

“No,” he agreed, following her in, “but you’re definitely cracked open.”

“Go to bed,” she murmured, voice too thick to hide.

Marco gave her a long, quiet look. “She’s still in love with you.”

Andy didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The ache in her chest had already answered. She slipped off her heels with a sigh, leaving them by the door like they weighed too much. Marco trailed behind her, softer than usual.

“Is that why you waited?” she asked, running her hands through her hair.

“Of course I waited,” he said. “You ghosted me, cara.”

“You were with Emily and Serena—”

“I was with their third bottle of wine and an ever-growing list of people trying to get a photo with you.”

Andy groaned, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “It was supposed to be a quiet night.”

Marco dropped into the chair across from her, watching her for a beat. “You okay?”

She picked at a loose thread on the duvet. “I don’t know what I am.”

“She told you?” he asked.

Andy nodded. “She explained.”

“And?”

“And I told her what happened after. That I couldn’t breathe in Manhattan. That I left.”

He let that settle between them. “Do you feel better?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But I think I understand.”

Marco rose, then crossed the room and knelt in front of her, just like he used to before. In Florence cafés, surrounded by espresso notebooks, years ago when they both wanted the world and didn’t yet know what it would cost.

“You don’t owe her anything,” he said gently. “Not even forgiveness.”

Andy’s gaze dropped. “I don’t think it’s about owing.”

He watched her for a beat longer, then smiled, soft and crooked. “You’ve always been reckless with the people you love.”

She huffed a laugh. “And you still pretend you’re not a romantic.”

“I’m not,” he replied, standing. “I’m a sleep-deprived man in wrinkled linen who has to pack before we leave for Milan in the morning.”

Andy sank back into the bed, eyes fluttering closed. “We’re going to crash the second we get home.”

“And you’ll still manage to look annoyingly cinematic doing it.”

She opened one eye. “I do appreciate your loyalty.”

He gave her a two-fingered salute. “Always. Even if she breaks your heart again, I’ll be there. Telling you I told you so. Probably holding a tub of ice cream and yelling at Emily.”

Andy smiled. “I know.”

Marco turned toward his room, but paused in the doorway. “You said you weren’t looking for anything,” he said. “But maybe you are now.”

Andy didn’t answer. He left her in silence. The heavy and alive kind.

Chapter Text

MONDAY

It was quieter that morning. Luggage wheels rolled across gravel, birds chirped somewhere high in the trees, and voices lingered low, soft, tired and happy. The week had ended, but something about the air still held a little of the magic.

Andy was double-checking Marco’s notes for their train when she spotted Emily by the fountain, inspecting her passport like it might dissolve.

“Do you even remember the last time we weren’t sharing a timezone?” Andy called out as she walked over, hands in the pockets of her light coat.

Emily looked up, mildly exasperated. “Do you remember the last time I wasn’t correcting your time conversions at 3 a.m.?”

“Told you the moon messes with me.”

“That’s not—never mind.”

They stood there, smiling in a way only people who’ve fought and forgiven a thousand times can. Then Andy stepped forward and hugged her, tight and full of gratitude.

“God, I’ll miss you.”

Emily resisted a second, then folded in. “You’re such a sap.”

“You love it,” Andy mumbled into her shoulder.

“I do,” Emily admitted softly. “You idiot.”

They pulled apart, a little misty-eyed but still dry-witted.

“Don’t let Milan chew you up,” Emily said, squeezing Andy’s hand once.

“Don’t let Greece domesticate you.”

Emily laughed, real and open, before Serena’s voice floated from the driveway: “Emily, love, the bags are already in the car, so should we be.”

“Coming!” Emily called. She turned back to Andy, just once. “Don’t disappear again, okay?”

“I won’t. Not this time.”

They bumped foreheads like old times, and then Emily jogged off toward Serena, who waited with a grin and sunglasses already on. Andy watched them go, a sliver of ache rising in her chest, the good kind.

Then a familiar presence emerged behind her. She didn’t need to look to know.

“I wasn’t sure I’d catch you before you left,” Miranda said.

Andy turned to meet her gaze.

Miranda held her poise like armor, but there was something unguarded around the eyes. 

“I was hoping you would,” Andy said honestly.

Miranda tilted her head. “I’ll walk you to the car.”

They didn’t say much at first, only their steps were slow and the sound of gravel crunching beneath their shoes can be heard. The air was fresh, a little cool.

“You thanked the brides?” Andy asked.

“I did,” Miranda said. “Though I’ll never forgive them for the seating arrangements.”

Andy laughed. “I think they knew exactly what they were doing.”

They reached the cobbled drive where Marco was loading the last of the bags. He gave Miranda a polite nod, but his eyes were on Andy. Andy smiled reassuringly, and he stepped back to give them space.

Miranda glanced toward the horizon. “I leave for New York in two hours.”

Andy nodded. “And we’re heading back to Milan.”

A beat passed between them and Miranda’s voice dropped, “I hope you know I meant what I said last night.”

“I do.”

Another silence, charged but calm.

Miranda looked at her, “Thank you… for listening.”

Andy smiled, soft and real. “Thank you for saying it.”

She reached for Miranda’s hand for just a moment, fingers brushing. Not a kiss, not a promise.

Just a goodbye, for now.

Miranda watched as Marco opened the car door for her, then held Andy’s gaze one last time.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said quietly.

Andy hesitated, then, “I’m counting on it.”

She got in. Marco closed the door behind her, and moments later, they pulled off down the winding road, back toward the train station, back toward Milan.

Miranda stood there until the car disappeared.

Nigel strolled up a few seconds later, coffee in one hand and an obnoxious sunhat in the other. “So,” he drawled, “on a scale of one to completely, how ruined are you?”

Miranda exhaled, lips twitching. “Utterly.”

“Good,” he said. “Means you’re doing something right.”

And with that, they turned toward their car, the week behind them and something new just beginning.

TUESDAY

The Ampersand Studio in Milan buzzed back to life beneath soft, diffused morning light.

Andy walked in earlier than usual, her steps deliberate, head bowed slightly under the weight of a week still lingering in her chest. Marco was already by his desk, a black espresso beside his laptop, muttering in Italian at a loading screen.

She made it to her office and stopped short.

On her desk sat a vase tall and slender, the crystal so fine it caught every speck of the sun. Nestled within were flowers that seemed handpicked for memory: blush garden roses, white hellebores, pale lilac, and olive sprigs. 

It was quiet and elegant at the same time. 

Her fingers brushed the envelope tucked delicately within the arrangement.

She unfolded the card. The handwriting was unmistakable.

For you not to wonder,
and for the possibility of us.

—M.

Andy’s throat tightened as she lowered herself slowly into her chair, staring at the bouquet like it might answer the thousand things still unresolved inside her.

From across the studio, Marco didn't say anything, but his eyes flicked up. His expression softened.

"Let me guess,” he called out eventually. “She’s still not subtle.”

Andy turned the card over once more and pressed it against her chest. “Not even a little.”

The rest of the gifts began arriving around lunch.

Serena’s message was the first to arrive…

SERENA: Miranda just extended our honeymoon to another Greek island. I don’t think we’ll ever want to come back to New York now. 

EMILY: She remembered the vintage we served at the welcome dinner and sent a damn case of it ahead. Is she trying to kill us softly?

SERENA: If she is, it’s working.

In New York, Nigel’s call came in just after Andy’s second espresso.

“Sweetheart. Your lover sent me a robe softer than a secret and cologne that smells like a five-star scandal. I am beside myself. Also, the note said ‘For your loyalty, and for never letting me get away with too much.’ 

I may or may not shed a tear over this. Thank her for me, will you? Ciao, dearest.”

Then came Marco’s delivery.

The box was wrapped in heavy slate-gray paper, the kind Andy recognized from Miranda’s stationary vendor. Inside was a vintage Montblanc fountain pen, a rare, autographed print of a 1972 Runway Italia cover, and a note.

For your loyalty, your patience, and for telling her what I never could.

Marco stared at it for a long time before folding the card and slipping it back into the envelope like it was something sacred.

“Wow,” he muttered.

Andy looked over. “Are you crying?”

“Am not.”

“You get a pen and a Runway cover and a direct thank-you from Miranda Priestly. That’s practically a knighthood.”

He huffed, but there was a touch of red to his ears. “If she breaks your heart again, I’m burning this pen.”

Andy smiled and said, “I wouldn’t have expected less.”

Back at her desk, she reread her own note one last time, fingers ghosting over Miranda’s words. 

For you not to wonder. For the possibility of us.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t an apology. But it was something.

And today, it was enough.

WEDNESDAY

The sky over Milan held the sleepy gray of a city between rains. At the Ampersand Studio, the windows misted slightly, and inside, the air smelled faintly of espresso, printer ink, and yesterday’s flowers.

Andy arrived later than usual, a croissant clutched in one hand and her phone in the other, thumb scrolling through an article she wasn’t really reading. Marco glanced up as she passed, lifting a brow, but didn’t comment.

She hadn’t slept much.

Tuesday’s bouquet still stood proud and fragrant in her office, the petals just beginning to relax at the edges. Andy paused by her desk, set her things down and stilled.

Another vase.

This one was different: rounder, shorter, and etched with a fine silver trim. Inside were soft white ranunculus, delicate sprigs of lily of the valley, and early stems of forget-me-nots. 

A more subdued palette, almost bashful in its elegance. Like a whisper, like someone testing the ground beneath their feet.

Her heart thudded. She found the card tucked into a pale silk ribbon wound around the neck of the vase.

I know I left the door closed.
May I try knocking, this time?
—M.

Andy sat down slowly, card between her fingers. Her breath caught on a quiet laugh, the kind that surprised her from the chest. The note was barely six words. But God, didn’t they say enough?

Across the room, Marco peeked over his laptop. “Wednesday,” he said, tapping his watchless wrist. “Right on schedule.”

Andy didn’t answer right away. She just stared at the flowers, touched a thumb to one of the shy blue blooms.

Then, without looking up, she murmured, “I think she’s nervous.”

Marco blinked. “Miranda Priestly?”

“She’s being careful. Can’t you tell?”

He leaned back, studying her. “And how do you feel about that?”

Andy thought about it, her fingers toyed with the edge of the card.

“Seen,” she said finally. “I feel seen.”

And maybe a little exposed.

She turned her chair slightly to better face the window, watching as a soft drizzle began to fall. Behind her, the studio hummed on, but she kept her eyes on the flowers, and on the note she’d tucked back into her palm.

Knocking.

It was so unlike Miranda to ask for entry.

And yet... wasn’t that the point?

Andy exhaled, lips twitching upward.

Thursday was tomorrow.

She was already wondering.

THURSDAY

The morning unfolded slowly. Milan was quieter today, the streets still damp from yesterday’s rain. Inside Ampersand, the rhythm of the day had taken on a certain gentle cadence. Familiar and steady, but not for Andy.

She kept glancing at the clock.

She wouldn’t admit it, not to Marco, not to herself, but every time the elevator dinged or footsteps echoed in the hallway, she paused. Just for a second, just in case.

The flowers arrived after ten.

This time, they were in a low, wide bowl of smoky glass, with blooms arranged like a conversation: peonies the color of soft coral, tender cream tulips, blue muscari like little thoughts in the margins. There were jasmine vines threaded between the stems, scenting the air faintly.

The card was there, almost tucked away beneath the bowl as if to say, you don’t have to read it. But Andy did, of course.

I have rehearsed every version of what I should’ve said that morning.
None of them were braver than silence. But I’m trying.
—M.

Andy closed her eyes.

Her fingers curled gently around the edge of her desk as something bloomed beneath her ribs. It wasn’t joy, not yet, but something very close to ache, soft and deep and aching to be met halfway.

She read the card again, slower.

Miranda’s words always cut clean. But this was a kind of softness Andy had only imagined. Here it was, not as a plea, but as a quiet truth: I’m trying.

From the doorway, Marco cleared his throat.

Andy looked up, caught. “What?”

He held up a mug of coffee in offering, then nodded toward the new arrangement. “That jasmine’s going to make your office smell like heartbreak.”

Andy took the mug with a sheepish smile. “It smells like… memory.”

Marco made a noncommittal noise and perched on the edge of her desk. “Do you think she’s building up to something?”

Andy leaned back in her chair. “She’s not the type to build up.”

“She sent four bouquets in three days. Since we got back from Lake Como.”

Andy looked down at the note again. Her thumb moved over the ink, the pen stroke heavy in places like Miranda had pressed too hard. Like it mattered.

“She’s not rebuilding,” Andy said quietly. “She’s revealing. Little by little.”

Marco blinked. “That’s intimate.”

Andy smiled into her coffee. “It is.”

She tucked the card into the drawer beside the others, Tuesday’s olive sprigs, Wednesday’s forget-me-nots, her private archive of a conversation they still hadn’t had aloud.

But it was happening all the same.

Friday was coming.

And the space between what was and what could be had never felt closer.

FRIDAY

By ten, no flowers had arrived.

By noon, Andy told herself it didn’t matter.

By two, she was actively trying not to refresh her inbox, her texts, or glance at the elevator like it owed her something.

She had made it through the day on little rituals: a strong espresso, a meeting with the design team, a review of pitch decks. But underneath all of it was that stubborn ache, the kind that pressed in when anticipation turned too sharply into silence.

Marco didn’t ask, he didn’t need to. He glanced at her just once, longer than usual, and when she didn’t look back, he said nothing.

By five-thirty, she’d told herself she was being ridiculous. Maybe Miranda had stopped. Maybe Thursday’s note had been her final word. Maybe Andy had read too much into every flower, every careful line of ink, every name she’d dared to hope was said with want instead of regret.

She was packing her laptop into her bag when the call came from reception.

“There’s a delivery for Ms. Sachs,” the receptionist said, her voice light with curiosity. “Just arrived.”

Andy’s heart stuttered.

She moved down the hallway without thinking and there it was, held delicately by the same courier from days before, this time with a small apologetic smile.

“Traffic from Florence,” he explained, handing her the box. “Worth the wait, I think.”

The arrangement was quieter today.

A soft gathering of dried lunaria with creamy ranunculus and faint lilac asters. There were bits of smoke bush, almost like dusk captured in leaves. It was autumnal in palette and fragile in mood. As though someone had tried to bottle the hour just before twilight.

Taped gently to the side was a smaller note than the rest. Not a card, just a folded square of paper, Miranda’s handwriting rushed this time, a little uneven.

I almost didn’t send these.
I thought maybe you’d had enough.
But I haven’t.
—M.

Andy stood still. There, in the doorway of her own studio, she felt her breath catch.

This one, this note, felt the most like her.

Because hadn’t she told herself that very thing, moments ago? Hadn’t she wondered if she’d had enough? Hadn’t she almost let go of the possibility?

But Miranda hadn’t. Not yet.

Back in her office, Andy set the arrangement down with unusual care. She didn't sit. She stood there, her fingertips resting on the vase like it might ground her.

She didn’t cry. Not quite.

But the relief was a kind of unraveling.

In the end, she didn’t reply. Not with a text, not with a call.

She simply placed the new note into the drawer with the others, where Miranda’s voice had begun to gather into a paper-lit path.

Tomorrow was Saturday.

And Andy would be here.

Still waiting. Still hoping.

SATURDAY

She wasn’t meant to be in the office.

Saturday was supposed to be for sleep, laundry, a market run for figs and burrata, maybe even a long aimless walk around Navigli if the weather held. But the week had been chaotic and the deadlines unrelenting, and if Andy was being honest, she didn’t mind the silence the studio offered when no one else was around.

It was nearly eleven when she let herself in. The halls were dim and cool, her heels echoing faintly as she passed the darkened meeting rooms. No Marco, no team, no noise. Just the stillness of a space waiting to be filled.

She left her phone in her bag. She made herself a slow cappuccino. She turned on just one desk lamp and opened her laptop, determined to lose herself in layouts and copy drafts.

And that’s when she saw it.

She hadn’t heard the elevator. Hadn’t registered any knock.

But there it was, a small arrangement sitting neatly in the center of her desk, as though it had always belonged there.

This time, the flowers were understated, almost hesitant. A low, wide ceramic bowl instead of a tall vase. Inside were white sweet peas, pearl-green hydrangea, dried snowberries, and faint blush scabiosa. 

There was barely any scent, not even bold colors. Just softness, like the hush before an apology, or the breath before a truth.

Andy reached for the card slowly.

It wasn’t a note, not exactly. It was just a single line, written in Miranda’s handwriting

I didn’t know you’d be here. But I hoped.

Andy sat down. The chair creaked under her, her gaze flicked across the flowers, then to the note again, her thumb brushing the edge of the vellum as if she could somehow warm the ink still lingering there.

She didn’t know how Miranda did it. How she managed to land her words right on the bone.

Because Andy hadn’t meant to be here.

And she had been pulling away, just a little, after yesterday’s late arrival, trying to guard against the ache that had begun to curl around the edges of each delivery.

But this one… This one unraveled her.

She slipped the card into the same drawer as the others and whispered aloud, “You’re not playing fair anymore.”

No one answered. Only the soft rustle of sweet peas when the air stirred.

Andy stared at them for a long time before opening her laptop again.

For the next hour, she didn’t really work.

But she stayed.

As if part of her had been waiting to be found.

SUNDAY

Andrea wasn’t expecting anything.

But she was hoping. Stupidly, selfishly hoping.

It was nearly nine, and the city was quiet outside her loft windows. She’d left her phone on the coffee table and tried to pretend she wasn’t looking at it every few minutes. Dinner sat untouched on her plate, a simple caprese she’d made out of habit, not hunger. The speaker played something low and easy, a record she couldn’t name but kept flipping back to whenever she needed company that didn’t talk back.

She hadn’t received anything today. Not at the studio. Not at all. And after five days of flowers, after five days of wondering and what ifs, today’s silence had felt a little like loss.

She was telling herself to stop spiraling, to be rational about it, when a soft knock at the door made her jolt.

Andrea froze.

No one ever visited this late on a Sunday. Not unannounced. It wouldn’t have been Marco, he’d only barge in using his spare key. It couldn’t be her other friends, they’re on their honeymoon in God-knows-what-island now. 

She crossed the room barefoot, pulse suddenly high in her throat. She didn’t dare hope, but there it was. A now-familiar box in the hands of a delivery man who greeted her by name, as if the whole week had simply shifted delivery addresses like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sign here, please.”

She scribbled something that resembled her signature and shut the door slowly behind her.

The box was a little heavier tonight. Cooler even, still wrapped in the same pale ribbon, sealed with the same script on the card. She carried it to the kitchen counter like it might break… or she might.

When she lifted the lid, she had to sit down.

White peonies. Creamy cymbidium orchids. Slender eucalyptus. All delicate and deliberate, but something about this arrangement felt less formal. It was softer, more intimate. Like a whisper instead of a statement.

She reached for the card with careful hands.

Hoping you're available tonight.

No signature. Not even initials. But Andy already knew. She didn’t hesitate this time. Her phone was already in her hand.

Andrea: Where are you?

Three dots. Then four words came in.

Miranda: Bulgari Hotel. Room 906.

Andrea stared at the screen, her heart climbing into her throat.

Milan. Miranda was in Milan. Tonight.

Andrea stood outside the door, nerves humming low and constant beneath her skin. Her knuckles hovered near the wood. She hadn't messaged again after Miranda replied with the hotel and room number. She didn't even know what she expected, maybe that the moment would pass, that she'd come to her senses. 

But here she was. A single orchid in hand. Wearing her uncertainty like perfume.

Before she could knock, the door opened.

Miranda stood before her.

Dressed in a soft silk robe the color of dusk and barefoot. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something quieter in her eyes, like she was surprised too, even though she was the one who’d sent the note.

Andrea blinked, “You’re really here.”

“I am,” Miranda said simply. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Andrea gave a soft, nervous laugh and held up the flower. “I wasn’t sure either.”

Miranda’s gaze flicked to the orchid. She reached for it, fingers brushing Andrea’s. “It’s beautiful.”

“You sent me six arrangements this week. I thought I’d return the favor.”

Miranda stepped aside, and Andrea walked into the room. It was warm and understated, bathed in amber lighting and that unmistakable quiet that comes with late evening. The curtains were pulled open, the Milan skyline visible through the window. Andrea took it all in, then turned back to Miranda, who had closed the door gently behind her.

“I thought maybe you'd come to the loft,” Andrea said, folding her arms without meaning to. “If you were in Milan.”

“I didn’t want to impose,” Miranda said, walking past her toward the sitting area. “It was already… presumptuous, the note.”

Andrea followed her slowly. “It was bold,” she admitted. “But I’m not complaining.”

“I wasn’t sure if I should send it,” Miranda said, settling into the armrest of the sofa. “Or if you’d think I was overstepping. We haven’t exactly defined anything.”

Andrea stayed standing, her hands sliding into her coat pockets. “I didn’t know I was going to come here. I read the note and just walked out the door.”

“Impulse.”

“Or habit,” Andrea said softly, meeting her gaze. “You sent flowers, and I came running.”

That made Miranda smile, faint but genuine. “It wasn’t a trap.”

“I know.”

“But I did want to see you,” Miranda added. “Not just text. Not just phone calls. And if I was going to be in Milan, I thought…”

She trailed off.

Andrea stepped closer. “You thought maybe I’d show up.”

“I hoped.”

There was a pause then. Neither of them reached. They were just two women suspended in the quiet between hope and fear.

Andrea sat down beside her, slowly. “I’m glad you sent the note.”

Miranda looked over at her. “I’m glad you answered it.”

And for a moment, the distance between cities, between years, between what had once gone unsaid and now hovered just beneath their voices all fell quiet.

Only the flower remained between them, tucked between palms, a single bloom that might as well have been a question neither of them had the courage to ask.

Not yet. But maybe tonight was for not rushing the answers.

Andy barely had time to take in the warmth radiating between them before Miranda put the flower down and closed their space. There was no preamble, no witty lines. Just the pull of something long-restrained and no longer willing to behave.

Their mouths met like a promise broken and remade. This kiss was not for testing the waters, it was a plunge.

Miranda tasted like expensive wine and a week’s worth of sleepless longing. Andy gasped into her mouth, her back meeting the inside of the door, Miranda’s body pinning her at the seat like she was making sure neither one of them would disappear.

“You’re really here,” Andy murmured against her jaw, voice low, almost angry with relief. “You didn’t vanish this time.”

“I’m here, we’re here,” Miranda whispered. 

Their clothes came off in pieces. Andy’s blazer dropped to the floor, followed by Miranda’s robe. Somewhere between the seating area and the bedroom, Miranda pressed Andy up against the hallway mirror, her reflection wild-eyed and flushed, hair messy, mouth open in a silent moan as Miranda’s hand slid up her thigh, over her hip, and pulled her in closer.

Andy hooked a leg around Miranda's waist, grounding herself on the arch of Miranda’s thigh. She gripped her shoulders like she couldn’t believe this was happening. That the woman she’d mourned for years was kissing down her neck like she’d never left, like she was hers.

“You never wrote,” Andy panted as Miranda’s mouth moved lower, teeth grazing the underside of her breast. “You just left.”

“I know,” Miranda said, her voice dark with regret and want. “And I’ve paid for it. Every night or every year.”

Andy pulled her up, kissed her like it could undo the ache. Their mouths clashed, hot and desperate. She dragged Miranda to the bed like she’d done it a thousand times in dreams, Miranda falling back against the pillows in a tangle of pale limbs.

Andy straddled her, bare skin brushing bare skin, the heat of it dizzying. Miranda looked up at her like a prayer answered too late but just in time. Hands wandered, tracing every inch of Andy’s body. 

When Miranda touched her—really touched her—Andy cried out, hips stuttering forward. “God—Miranda.”

“Let me,” Miranda breathed, with her voice sharp. “Let me make you forget every second I wasn’t there.”

Andy nodded, choking on the yes, the please, the finally .

They moved like they’d never stopped knowing each other. Like years hadn’t passed. Like that kiss on the wedding night had only been the fuse. Andy pressed Miranda down into the sheets, kissed her with teeth and tongue, mapped her body like it was familiar terrain she could walk blindfolded.

Miranda’s hair spilled across the pillows like silver fire, her fingers clutched at Andy’s back, her breath coming in broken moans. “More,” she whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t.

Andy moved against her, with her. Both of them climbing toward something desperate with years overdue. Their cries filled the room, the kind of heat that had no shame, only release. The kind that could only come after waiting, hurting, and hoping.

When it hit, Andy broke apart in Miranda’s arms, trembling, her face buried in Miranda’s neck. And Miranda followed, soft and shuddering, with Andy’s name on her lips like it was the only language she still remembered.

They didn’t sleep.

After the high, after the stillness, Miranda kissed Andy again. Languid at first, then deeper, hungrier, like she couldn’t bear the taste of distance on Andy’s lips. 

Andy rolled over her without hesitation, already greedy again, her hands finding Miranda’s breasts, her thigh between her legs as Miranda arched beneath her with a breathless, “Don’t stop, please—”

It wasn’t just one time. It wasn’t even two.

There was no neat crescendo, no tidy resolution. They kept finding each other with shaking hands and open mouths, over and over, like their bodies had been waiting in the shadows of their lives for this exact night.

They ended up in the shower when their bodies were too sticky with sweat and scent.

Andy guided Miranda backward into the glass-walled stall, water pouring over them as if to cool the flame that refused to die. But it only made it worse. Andy pinned Miranda to the tile, water running down the curve of her back, between her breasts, down her stomach.

Miranda gasped as Andy sank to her knees.

The sounds. God, the sounds. Soft groans, the slap of water, Miranda’s head thudding lightly against the marble as her hand tangled in Andy’s hair. “Andrea—oh my God—”

Andy worshipped her, lips and tongue and fingers moving like prayer, like confession. She didn’t stop until Miranda came undone with a broken sound, her hips twitching, her hand flying up to cover her mouth in a vain attempt to be quiet. Andy caught her, held her through it, tasting every second.

And still it wasn’t enough.

When Miranda held Andy up and kissed her again, it was with something feral behind it. Years of being too composed, too silent, too careful. She backed Andy into the opposite wall, hands sliding around her waist, gripping her ass as she lifted her. Andy’s legs wrapped around her like instinct, head dropping back as Miranda kissed a wet path down her neck, her collarbone, across the swell of her breast.

“I thought I forgot,” Miranda murmured, breath hot against her skin. “But my body remembers you, Andrea. Every part of you.”

Andy could barely breathe. “Then show me.”

She did.

The water ran cold before they even realized it, and by then neither of them cared.

They dried off in silence, both trembling from too much pleasure and not enough time. Andy sat at the edge of the bed, watching Miranda comb through her wet hair with her fingers, her profile soft in the pale light filtering through the curtains.

“You didn’t have to book a hotel,” Andy said quietly, still breathless, her voice raw with something deeper than exhaustion.

“I didn’t want to impose.” Miranda didn’t look at her. “Your loft felt too personal. Too much of a risk.”

“And this wasn’t?”

Miranda finally turned. “It was the only thing I had the courage for.”

Andy stood, bare and open, and walked to her. She slid her arms around Miranda’s waist, forehead resting against hers.

“You were always welcome,” she whispered. “Even after everything.”

Miranda’s hands clutched her tightly, too tightly, as if she needed to feel the bones beneath Andy’s skin to believe she was real.

Neither of them said “I love you.” Not yet. But the words lived in their silence. In the night they stole back. In the bruises that would bloom by morning.

And when Miranda finally fell asleep beside Andy, her arm draped across her hip, their legs tangled under the comforter, she didn’t dream of regret. Only of the woman who finally came back.

MONDAY 

Morning light poured into the suite through a crack in the blackout curtains. The air was still warm with the remnants of skin-on-skin, of gasps and whispers and hours made wordless by want.

Miranda stirred slowly.

Her body ached in a way that reminded her she had been thoroughly touched, held, taken. There was a dull pulse in her thighs, a pleasant soreness between her legs, a fading imprint of lips along her ribs and shoulder. 

Her neck was marked. Her wrists remembered fingers. And the faint scent of Andrea clung to the pillow beside her.

But the space was empty.

Miranda blinked.

The sheets were cool where Andrea should’ve been, tucked on her side, mouth slightly open in that deep sleep she used to fall into after. Miranda’s hand drifted over the space, as if she might feel some lingering warmth, but it was gone. There was nothing but the faint memory of weight.

No sound from the bathroom. No rustling in the suite. No shadow under the door.

Gone.

Miranda sat up slowly, the ache inside her hollowing. Her hand came to her chest before she could stop it, pressing down as if the weight might anchor her back to calm.

But there was none. Andrea had left.

And with that realization came the cold, creeping flood of something sharp,   something ancient and familiar and entirely earned.

This was what Andrea had felt, wasn’t it?

That morning in London. The quiet that felt like punishment. The disbelief, the denial, the way the bed still smelled of the woman who’d walked away too soon. The ache of waking from something perfect, only to find it had unraveled while you slept.

She had done this to Andrea.

Years ago. Without thinking, without staying, without explanation.

She had slipped out, like a coward, trying to keep her world clean and intact while Andrea was left with nothing but the echo of her.

And now, Miranda sat in a hotel bed in Milan, her skin still marked by last night’s fire, and understood, finally, what she had done.

The heartbreak wasn’t loud. No, it didn’t scream nor wail.

It just settled, like a stone sinking in her chest, pulling everything beneath the surface.

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. But God, she wanted to.

The bed felt colder the longer she sat in it. Miranda drew the sheet up around her chest, her hands still, her face unreadable. But something inside her had begun to crack. 

She exhaled, then moved.

A practiced elegance carried her to the edge of the bed where her robe was half draped over an armchair. She slipped it on, cinched it tight around her waist. Her fingers shook only once, but she hid it, even from herself.

She walked to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and rinsed her face with water that stung from how cold it was. She patted dry with a white towel, then caught her own reflection in the mirror.

She looked undone.

For a moment, Miranda stared at herself and thought: You look like a woman who’s just been left.

She shut the light off.

In the bedroom, she started to dress. Not her usual wardrobe but the ones she wears only for travel. The practical coat she kept in the closet for days when comfort won out over sharpness. She folded her jewelry into her travel pouch, pressed the lid closed with a snap. Then she zipped her suitcase with finality.

Maybe it was payback. Maybe it was symmetry. Maybe it was the universe coming full circle.

She had left Andrea years ago, heart racing, mind spinning, desperate to protect the empire she had built from a night that had felt too true . She hadn’t looked back.

And now, Andrea had done the same.

No note. No goodbye. Just absence.

Miranda sat down again, this time on the edge of the bed, her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. It wasn’t just pride. It was grief, old and new, taking root like thorns around her ribs.

Perhaps it had always been inevitable. Perhaps what was broken once only ever pretends to heal.

She pressed her fingers to her lips. They still tingled from last night’s kiss.

God, if this was revenge, if this was Andrea finally reclaiming the dignity Miranda had stolen that morning in London, then fine. She would carry it. She deserved to. But it didn’t make it hurt less. It didn’t make the silence easier. It didn’t erase the truth of what had passed between them in the hours before the sun rose.

Her phone lit up on the nightstand.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t.

The ache inside her had thickened into a weight. And Miranda Priestly, brilliant and formidable, sat alone in a quiet suite in Milan, clutching the handle of her suitcase and bracing herself to leave for good, without knowing if Andrea would ever look back.

Then a key clicked in the lock.

Miranda didn’t flinch this time.

And then—

“Yes, Marco, I read the memo. Of course I did, I signed it,” Andrea’s voice breezed in ahead of her, light and professional. “And yes, I still want the moodboard ready by Wednesday or you’ll get another haunting in your inbox.”

Miranda turned. 

Andy stepped in backward, cradling a small box of pastries, a coffee tray with two to-go cups, and her phone balanced on her shoulder. She was radiant, flushed from the morning air, grinning into the call.

“No, I didn’t forget the updated layouts. I just—hold on—”

She turned around fully, mid-sentence, eyes meeting Miranda’s, and stilled. The grin dropped, but the amusement didn’t.

“Oh,” she said, tone shifting. Her gaze fell to the packed suitcase. “She thinks I left.”

Into the phone: “Marco, I have to go. Tell the team to chill. Or lie. Just something with fewer notifications. Don’t call.”

She hung up.

Miranda stood frozen, lips parted slightly, hands still by her sides, betraying nothing except the faint tremor in her right hand.

Andy tilted her head, walking over with slow, infuriating ease, setting the pastries down on the table before slipping the coffee into Miranda’s hand like a peace offering.

Then, softly: “You thought I left.”

Miranda’s mouth tightened. “You were gone.”

“For coffee and sugar.” Andy leaned closer, the barest hint of mischief pulling at her mouth. “I didn’t know I was dating such a dramatist. Should I have left a trail of rose petals to the bakery and back?”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t here. There was no note, no call.”

“You were sleeping.” Andy brushed a strand of Miranda’s hair behind her ear. “And I didn’t want to wake you. You looked… peaceful. Soft even.”

Miranda scowled at that. “I am never soft.”

Andy leaned in, whispering against her ear. “You were last night.”

Miranda flushed, but didn’t retreat.

Then Andy’s arms were around her waist, warm and smug. “You really thought I’d disappear after last night? After everything?”

“It would have been poetic,” Miranda murmured, hating how hollow her voice sounded. “Cruel. But poetic.”

Andy kissed the tip of her nose. “Then thank God I’m more annoying than poetic.”

“I got your favorite,” she added. “Or what I hope will be your favorite. Sfogliatelle from Maré. It’s warm and ridiculously flaky. Like me.”

Miranda stared at her, still too shaken to smile. “You’re an impossible woman.”

Andy grinned. “Yeah, but I came back. That’s what counts, right?”

Miranda tilted her head, something cool and assessing creeping back into her gaze. “Hm.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You said we were dating.”

Andy blinked. “I said what?”

“You didn’t know you were dating a dramatist,” Miranda recited, sipping the coffee Andrea had just handed her. “Past tense would’ve sufficed. But you went with are. Present. Active.”

Andy’s breath caught. “That—oh, I meant—”

“Did you?”

A beat.

Andrea shifted her weight, suddenly too warm in her oversized sweater and too aware of how close they were next to each other.

“I mean,” she tried, “I just—after last night, and the flowers, and the whole—thing—we’re kind of... something. Right?”

Miranda didn’t speak.

She only arched one of those infernal, elegant brows.

Andy gave up. “You are in Milan,” she added, defensively. “You sent six arrangements. This is most definitely giving dating behavior.”

Miranda set the coffee down, then scooted forward until there was barely space between them.

“I see,” she said, voice low and dry. “So your standards for commitment begin with seduction, escalated gifting, and intercontinental travel.”

Andrea, face flushed, tried to hold her ground. “Well, yeah—”

But Miranda kissed her. Just once, the kind of kiss that says you walked into this one.

Then she pulled back. “In that case, yes. We’re dating.”

Andrea looked mildly horrified. “I walked into a trap.”

“You did.” Miranda leaned in again, whispering against her lips, “But you did bring pastries.”

They begin cautiously, as if afraid the sound of each other’s voice might undo them.

The first few weeks are measured. A call every Sunday, sometimes a Wednesday, if time and chaos permit. Miranda rings from the backseat of her town car. Other times she calls from dressing rooms lit with soft bulbs, gowns rustling in the background, some assistant whispering about a missing brooch. 

Andy, on her end, picks up from the couch in Marco’s office, her laptop perched on her knees, papers scattered like fallen leaves around her. Ink smudges the edge of her thumb. There’s always something half-finished—a storyboard, a grant proposal, a campaign brief—but she puts it down when Miranda’s name flashes across the screen.

Their conversations start polite. Then soften and then sink.

Sometimes, one of them falls asleep mid-call. Once, Andy wakes to the muffled sound of Miranda breathing, steady and close, the phone forgotten on the pillow. She doesn’t hang up.

Another night, after a long day of back-to-back meetings, Andy sends a photo: a crumpled napkin from a café in Milan, marked with a lipstick print. Just one line in the message: "Thought of you."

A week later, a small, carefully wrapped box arrives at the studio. Inside is a silk scarf in the exact same shade of wine red. No note, just that.

They fight, too.

One Sunday, Miranda misses their call. Then another. No explanation, just silence.

Andy doesn’t text. Not for three days, not until her anger crusts into something colder.

When they finally speak again, it’s nearing 2 a.m. in Milan. Andy is exhausted, her voice dry with restraint. Miranda, sharper than usual, says something brittle, something meant to deflect but cuts instead.

Andy hangs up without a word.

For seven days, there was nothing. Not even a receipt of delivery. Milan turns colder, New York doesn’t answer.

Even Marco felt it, the way the warmth drained out of the room every time Andy entered. She no longer lingered at the espresso machine in the mornings. No offhand comments, no bursts of laughter during edit screenings. Only static silence. An ache she wouldn’t name.

On the third day, Marco tried knocking on her office door. “Want lunch?” 

Andy didn’t look up from her screen. “No appetite.”

By day five, he cracked and called Emily. “I haven't seen her like this. Like she's about to light anything on fire,” he whispered into the phone. “She’s sharper and meaner and only eating almonds. Two associates cried just today.”

Emily, being Emily, sighed dramatically. “God help us. Fine, give me until tonight.”

That evening, the newlywed appeared at a particular townhouse in a coat far too elegant for someone merely dropping by.  She breezed past the twins with a tight smile and made her way upstairs, unannounced and uninvited.

Whatever was said behind that closed door between Emily Alves-Charlton and Miranda Priestly remains between them.

Then, on the eighth day, a courier delivers a package.

It isn’t flowers, not this time, no. Just a single book, worn at the edges, soft from use: The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. Inside, Miranda’s handwriting bleeds along the margins, thoughtful and almost apologetic. Notes upon notes. Her voice, tucked between the lines.

Andy reads it cover to cover, twice. Then calls her the next night. The first words she says are barely above a whisper. “Don’t do that again.”

And Miranda, quiet for a beat too long, says, “I won’t.”

They aren’t perfect. They never pretend to be.

There are missed calls, delays, weeks where work swallows them whole. Jealousy, not of other people, but of time, how it always slips away. There were also silences that stretched just a little too long.

But there are also Sunday mornings where they do the crossword puzzle together over video, Andy curled up on the rug with coffee in hand, Miranda reading clues with glasses sliding down her nose.

There are books mailed back and forth across the ocean, their favorite lines underlined, entire pages dog-eared.

There are voicemails, long and winding, ending in a sigh and a soft, “I miss you.”

The distance never disappears. But it changes. It doesn’t shrink, but it no longer feels like a wall. More like a fabric stretched between them. Fragile, yes, but woven now with intention.

They stop pretending it’s not hard. They stop pretending at all.

Instead, they build something else, not around the distance, but through it. A language of soft rituals and sharp honesty. A space that belongs only to them.

It works, not because they fit perfectly, but because they choose to try, again and again. Because when it’s late and the silence creeps in, one of them always reaches back.

The calls still come, the scarf still smells faintly of perfume, and somewhere on Miranda’s nightstand in New York, a café napkin remains folded in a drawer.

They know it’s not forever like this, but they’ve made something out of the in-between.

And somehow, that’s enough. For now.

A FEW MONTHS LATER

It began with a warning. The kind Andrea Sachs was prone to giving. Vague, teasing, and entirely insufficient for the emotional landslide it would cause.

They were on a call one night, late for Milan, mid-evening in New York. Andy was lying belly-down on her bed, hair still damp from the shower, cheek pressed against her forearm as her phone rested beside her ear.

“You should check the business section next week,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “Specifically… Tuesday.”

Miranda, across the ocean, looked up from her tablet. “You’re warning me about the news?”

“Just preparing you,” Andy said, tone lilting. “Don’t say I didn’t.”

Miranda raised a perfectly arched brow. “Andrea.”

Andy only grinned. “Goodnight, darling,” she whispered, and hung up.

Not even two full days after Andy’s warning, the issue arrived on Miranda’s desk by 7:00 AM, delivered with the rest of her curated stack of publications. She almost didn’t notice it, not until the Ampersand logo caught her eye. Stark and elegant against the muted greys of the Financial Times cover.

Then she saw the headline.

AMPERSAND MEDIA LAUNCHES NEW YORK SATELLITE OFFICE
Andrea Sachs to Head Expansion, Bridging Milan to Manhattan

She froze.

It wasn’t the headline, not exactly. It was the photograph: Andrea on a rooftop in Tribeca, hair swept by wind, one hand in the pocket of her high-waisted slacks, the other holding her phone. She looked powerful, confident, certain, and at home.

Miranda’s breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes dropped to the featured pull quote: “New York was always the city I loved most. This time, I get to return on my own terms.”

A silence settled in her office, sudden and private. The city stirred beyond the glass walls, but Miranda stayed still. Her fingers grazed the page, as though it might vanish if she moved too quickly.

She read it three more times.

That evening, she asked Roy to take her to the small, inconspicuous shop in SoHo that specialized in engraving antique keys.

A townhouse key. The second of only four copies.

A day after, Andrea’s Milan loft was in shambles with boxes half-packed, cables coiled like snakes, and stacks of papers clipped and labeled for customs.

She’d just finished her final team dinner (Marco may or may not have cried) when her buzzer rang.

A delivery. Just a black box, no note. Just her name written in that familiar, sharp script.

Inside was a single object: a townhouse key.

Longer than modern ones, cool and brass in her palm. 

And beneath it, folded in thick white stationery, was Miranda’s note: Welcome home.

Andrea sank into the couch, legs folding beneath her, key gripped in both hands like something sacred. It was a gesture so Miranda and yet it said everything.

She didn’t text, didn’t call.

Instead, she spent the rest of the night choosing which keychain to attach it to. She settled on the oldest one she owned—cracked leather, initials long faded—from her first New York apartment.

She booked her flight two days early.

Miranda was in the living room when she heard the door.

It clicked once, not the buzzer, not a knock. The soft, certain turn of someone who belonged.

She stood, unsure whether to wait or walk toward it, when Andrea stepped inside. Hoodie on, hair in a messy bun, duffel sliding off her shoulder. She looked exhausted and radiant. She looked real.

She held up her hand.

“Look what I used,” she said, flashing the key.

Miranda crossed the floor before she could overthink it.

They didn’t kiss right away.

Andrea dropped her bag. Miranda reached for her face. There was a moment, suspended in the hush of the townhouse, where neither of them said anything.

Then Miranda’s thumb brushed beneath Andy’s eye.

“You came early,” she whispered.

“You invited me home,” Andy said.

And there it was, not a grand declaration, not even a conversation. Just a quiet understanding passing between two people who’d waited years to arrive at the same place, finally, with no one walking away this time.

That weekend, Emily, Serena, Nigel and Marco were invited to the townhouse, with the twins interrogating Marco. 

The townhouse glowed warmer than it had in years. The twins were already home for the weekend, though they had barely dropped their bags before ambushing the guests. Caroline had assumed the role of lead interrogator with all the poise of her mother, and Cassidy flanked her with the mischievous charm of someone who enjoyed watching people squirm.

“So,” Caroline said, arching a perfectly unimpressed brow as she passed Marco a breadstick. “You’re the infamous Marco.”

Marco, caught mid-sip of Barolo, sputtered slightly but recovered with a sheepish smile. “Guilty as charged.”

Cassidy leaned forward with a scoff, her tone dry. “Please. Half the internet thought you two were secretly married when Ampersand launched. What was the story behind that, anyway?”

Across the room, Emily and Serena were already halfway through their second glass of wine. Emily, heels off and hair swept into an elegant low bun, looked more relaxed than usual. “I did warn Miranda, you know,” she told Serena with a smirk. “When you ghost someone like Andrea Sachs, the universe finds a way to bite back. Or deliver her to your doorstep holding a duffel bag and a key.”

Serena laughed, hand on Emily’s knee. “And here we are. God knows how many years, one wedding, and an Italian rebrand later.”

Nigel arrived fashionably late in a silk scarf and a fresh gossip reel. “You will not believe who got Botox from a street doctor in Montmartre,” he said by way of greeting, kissing Miranda once on each cheek. But as soon as he spotted Andy nestled comfortably at the edge of the living room couch, her feet curled beneath her and a glass of red in hand, his face shifted.

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal girl herself.” 

Andy stood, grinning. “In the flesh.”

He hugged her without pretense. “About damn time.”

Miranda watched the room with something close to disbelief. How seamlessly it had all come together.

And Andrea, right there beside her, not just surviving the night, thriving in it. One arm slung over the back of the couch, easy and unbothered as if this had always been her home. At some point, Miranda passed behind her and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.

Andy looked up.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to.

Much later, when the plates had been scraped clean and Cassidy had fallen asleep with a throw pillow over her head, Miranda stood at the kitchen sink while Andy dried the last wine glass beside her.

“You didn’t have to come early,” Miranda said quietly.

Andy smiled as she toweled the stem. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

And so it ended where it began, in celebration and chaos, with too much wine and not enough words.

Except this time, they stayed.

— Wedding Week