Chapter Text
Miranda’s lunch break is a brief, unremarkable slice of her otherwise hectic day—a moment that accounts for less than one-tenth of her luxurious, fashion-forward schedule. Her assistant, Emily, doesn’t even need to check the date; she’ll always have the filet mignon from Smith & Wollensky’s steakhouse pre-ordered for her, cooked medium-rare and topped with just a touch of truffle sauce.
Then, during this brief moment, Miranda would sit at her desk, enjoy this simple meal, and then resume her work.
Of course, sometimes she happily shares this little lunchtime moment with her daughters. When the bell rings, she’s delighted to hear the girls’ voices as they chat about little everyday things.
All told, her lunch break isn’t particularly long. Although the Skybridge—known for its emphasis on perfect efficiency—doesn’t actually have a designated lunch time, Miranda does. Yet for Miranda, this lunch period doesn’t really matter much. Her meals are prepared for her at any time, and her actual lunchtime is almost fleeting.
This is precisely the part of her most important time that she needs to pay least attention to—emptiness, simplicity.
But at one point, this extra part finally found its purpose.
The sunlight landed steadily on the desk, then stretched out smoothly and softly like silk, reaching toward the one waiting outside—Andrea, poor thing, a girl whose fashion instincts still had room to grow.
Her silky black hair, meticulously styled, lazily falls over her shoulders. Long, curled eyelashes flutter gently, and her bright eyes are fixed on the documents awaiting her attention. Compared to the beginning, this young lady has clearly grown—and from beneath the desk, a pair of Christian Louboutin’s red-soled heels peeks out just slightly.
Miranda swallowed hard and quietly returned the chair to its original position.
In fact, it wasn’t her intention to have the assistant positioned on the outside. However, during work, the chair inevitably ends up slightly shifted to the right, or perhaps the left side of the desk always has neatly stacked items that take up space. According to the principle of rational allocation, it’s perfectly normal for her to be seated on the right side.
So, when she glanced at Andrea while savoring her steak, her gaze had merely drifted downward—unconsciously—due to the change in seating.
She hadn’t really been paying attention, but watching a larva undergoing metamorphosis was, at the very least, mildly interesting.
Moreover, this isn't just any old bug—it's Andrea.
The “Miranda Girl,” who has gone from being flustered and frantic to now feeling fairly confident and at ease.
Masters who determine whether something is fashionable or not inevitably find themselves drawn to certain sources of inspiration, and at last, Miranda’s lunch break had a spare moment to spare.
Just as she said, she hadn’t intended to look—but the woman with long black hair was sitting there, always drawing the light toward herself. Paying attention to the shifting light and capturing its mysteries has become an essential part of fashion itself.
God said, “Let there be light,” and so light can indeed be considered a guide of fate.
At this moment, a warm, bright light drew her gaze to Andrea—first to her fingertips. Her slender, well-defined fingers curled gently, their knuckles lightly tapping the tabletop. Clearly, she was still slightly puzzled about how to handle tomorrow’s arrangements.
Then there was her slender, pale wrist, which subtly traced gentle curves with every movement of her hand—curves that seemed naturally graceful and beautiful. If only the employees that day had been able to design the lines with the same natural elegance and perfection, perhaps Miranda wouldn’t have torn him apart completely.
Then...
Miranda gazed at the voluptuously curved lips—just their natural hue alone would have driven countless inept designers from beauty brands to rack their brains, praying they could somehow replicate even a mere one in ten thousand of that perfect shade. At this moment, those lips were tinted with Chanel’s No. 92, lending them an added sheen and making them look utterly spot-on.
But actually, whether or not she colors doesn’t matter to Andy at all—because whenever she’s faced with a multitude of tasks, or even just daydreaming, she always ends up making little, amusing gestures.
Just like this————
Miranda gently pressed her lips together, her lip balm—slightly sweet—brushing lightly against the tips of her teeth before quickly withdrawing. She simply didn’t have that kind of bad habit, which is precisely why her lips always maintained just the right shade of color. As for our Andy?
She hummed softly, put on her glasses, and casually moved the chair back to its original position.
The roller slides, and lunchtime comes to an end.
“Call Gucci and tell them I can make it to the runway show. Then ask Emily to pick up the Cartier sample book—there’s still some rearranging needed in the layout…”
As usual, Miranda sat in her chair and calmly gave precise instructions for the entire itinerary ahead. Of course, the recorder’s efficiency also left her quite satisfied—perhaps even more than just their work efficiency.
Today, Andy was wearing a black tweed jacket by Chanel paired with a leather skirt. As she stood there recording, she no longer looked as awkward as she had when she’d first worn that sky-blue sweater.
The rustling sound of the pen tip touching the paper filled the quiet that followed her words. Miranda habitually glanced at Andrea, her gaze moving from the Chanel pearl necklace resting just below her neck, up to her snow-white skin, and then—
Ah, those red lips, gently curved in a kiss.
Then, I unexpectedly found myself staring into those eyes as bright as jewels.
First there was silence, then…
“What’s wrong?”
Miranda asked softly, and the owner of the “gem” showed a brief moment of panic.
“Nothing.”
Andy’s lips parted slightly, and the corners of his mouth curled upward in a somewhat mischievous smile—then immediately returned to their usual expression.
She’s always been growing rapidly and now seems much more composed—though, at certain moments, it’s just like right now.
“Is there anything else?”
One small mistake—you should never ask Miranda questions. As her assistant, you should be attuned to the tone of her voice, aware of her speaking pace, and familiar with the details of her schedule.
Clearly, Andrea knew—her fingertips, resting lightly on the edge of the notebook, were subtly curled inward, betraying a hint of nervousness.
This is the emotion Miranda most often encounters; in the past, she didn't pay much attention to it.
But at that moment, she came to her senses and realized that the corners of her lips were slightly curved upward.
The silence in the office wasn't uncomfortable at all. Miranda caught a whiff of perfume in the air—a lingering, subtle scent of vanilla—PARIS-ÉTÉ.
She precisely pinpointed the brand and name of the perfume in her mind—this wasn't limited to her role as fashion editor.
It’s sweet, yet just right—not Miranda’s perfume, of course, but she’s no stranger to it. On her way to the office, after handing over the keys, she heads home.
This is Andrea’s flavor.
“That’s all.”
She said.
Then, in her gaze, the fingertips that had been tightly clutching the notebook loosened, and Miranda could almost hear the sound of relief escaping from within her. Immediately afterward, the pleasant clicking of high-heeled shoes echoed through the room.
Miranda took off her glasses, and for a fleeting moment, her vision became slightly blurred. A strand of hair gently slipped down with her movement, and her gaze fell upon the emerald-green watch face.
The needle tips all pointed straight at 12.
Habitually, she raised her eyes to gaze at the departing figure; her long hair gently swayed at the tips with the movement of its owner.
It’s somewhat hazy, just like the flickering sunlight.
With the glasses’ temples lightly resting against her lips, Miranda heard her own voice.
“Andrea.”
The “tap-tap” sound ceased, and the light stopped swaying, coming to a quiet halt. Then, its owner turned around and looked at her.
The afternoon sunlight habitually fell upon Andrea, drawing along Miranda’s gaze as well.
Poor Andy didn't seem to have anticipated a moment like this. She was clearly somewhat awkward, and as she sat there, her gaze kept darting away.
“Not ordering anything?”
The waiter took the menu Miranda handed over, carefully noting her smoothly articulated requests. Soft piano music began to play in the restaurant, adding a touch of cheerfulness to the leisurely lunch hour.
The moment Miranda looked up, Andrea suddenly became flustered and handed the menu to the waiter. Compared to Miranda’s ease and confidence, her unfamiliarity was strikingly obvious.
Take this very moment, for example—she’s a bit flustered, yet she’s trying to appear more composed.
So, she deliberately maintained her composure and extended just the tip of her finger. Miranda raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She picked up the magazine on one side and, while waiting for her meal, made no apparent effort to engage in conversation. Her gaze remained fixed on the pages of the book, yet her ears precisely caught that faintest of sighs.
A smile flashed briefly on her lips.
She was actually enjoying this moment, but across the table, a certain young lady was still deeply puzzled and uncertain about it all.
Although Andy has grown into a reliable assistant, what’s happening right now clearly wasn’t part of his previous “training”—perhaps it’s due to nervousness, or maybe it’s simply and purely driven by desire.
Miranda heard her voice.
Just 23 seconds—from silence to her speaking up.
Miranda had originally thought it would take longer.
“Is something happening?”
As soon as the words were out, Miranda caught a fleeting look of regret in the other person’s eyes and brows. Clearly, both sides knew that this was hardly a good way to start a conversation.
But it didn't matter—Miranda actually began to enjoy the moments when she broke through her assistant’s usually composed exterior.
She didn’t say a word; she just paused, lost in thought, as if preparing to speak.
But in fact, she had no such intention; doing this was merely to enjoy Andrea’s deliberately calm expression.
Then, the waiter appeared and placed the red wine Andy had ordered in front of her—of course.
If Ms. Andy herself knew she had ordered this.
She opened her mouth in mild surprise, her gaze shifting toward the waiter as if she were about to say something. Just then, Miranda spoke at precisely the right moment, steering this little “farce” in the direction she had already set out.
“Generally, I don’t like my subordinates drinking alcohol while at work.”
The skilled assistant opened her mouth as if to apologize, but Miranda casually waved her hand.
She spoke, her voice as usual.
“But if you’re interested, someone happened to give me a bottle of red wine from their own winery.”
Poor Andrea’s expression turned puzzled, as if she didn’t quite grasp the meaning behind this remark.
Or perhaps she understood—but just couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
And her boss, clearly, had no intention of letting her off the hook—in fact, Miranda loved to strike a decisive blow.
So, she put away the magazine and looked directly into Andrea’s eyes.
The piano’s melody carries her words.
"See you on Saturday."
bong———The calm exterior crumbles, as light shifts and flows; the gem’s emotions ripple, complex yet breathtakingly beautiful.
Andrea unconsciously brushed a strand of hair across her face, trying to conceal it—but couldn't hide the redness creeping up her earlobes.
Miranda saw it all clearly; she simply identified the color.
This is Andy’s lip color today.