Chapter Text
3 months later
Miranda paused in front of her kitchen island, thumb hovering over the familiar contact with a quiet, unwelcome flutter of trepidation.
Absurd. Entirely absurd. And yet, loneliness always made her reckless in the most humiliating ways. The familiar sweep of Andrea’s name caught her eye every time she opened her contacts, and tonight—against her better judgment—she tapped it.
The message thread unfurled.
I’m in New York.
Please talk to me.
I miss you.
Undeleted. Unanswered.
The photos hit harder—sunlit castle halls, paintings, distant horizons from balconies Miranda had never stood on. And the food. Dear God, the food. Andrea insisting on sending her every pear-infested dish she encountered, as if Miranda needed further proof of royal suffering.
She hadn’t replied to a single one.
Until tonight.
With no daughters home and no obligations to distract her, Miranda snapped a photo of the slice of pizza on her plate and—betraying all sense—sent it.
The response landed instantly: an avalanche of pizza emojis. Of course.
A travesty. Truly. And this woman had once called herself a journalism major.
Then the phone lit up with a call. Andrea’s face hovered on the screen. And Miranda, to her own shock, answered.
“Miranda!” Andrea exclaimed. The surprise was palpable; perhaps she’d expected Miranda to hang up. Miranda had considered it. Andrea must have sensed that, because she rushed on, groaning dramatically, “You must really hate me.”
If only she knew. Hating Andrea had never once been the issue.
“So that was real pizza?” Andrea asked mournfully. “I swear I can smell it through the phone.”
“I imagine pears lose their charm rather quickly,” Miranda replied, tone cool but steady, her first spoken words to Andrea in months.
Andrea blinked at her, something bright sparkling behind her eyes—recognition, longing, maybe both. “Where’d you get it from?”
“Joe’s.”
Andrea let out a guttural sound of despair. “You’re evil. Actually evil.”
A small smile tugged at Miranda’s mouth, uninvited, traitorous, and entirely too visible.
Andrea, of course, noticed instantly, her own smile matching.
“What would your employees think?” Andrea gasped in mock horror. “That the Miranda Priestly eats pizza?” She clutched her chest dramatically, her slim frame shifting closer to the camera. Miranda’s gaze flicked—just briefly—to the curve of Andrea’s exposed cleavage before she forced herself to look away.
She straightened, forcing her focus on Andrea’s face. There was a faint thinness there, a tiredness that hadn’t been present months ago.
“A carb here and there never hurt anyone,” she said briskly.
Then she leaned into the camera screen, studying Andrea more closely. There was a subtle hollowing to her cheeks, a gauntness she didn’t recall. A sign—no, a certainty—that Andrea had not been taking care of herself.
“It would do you good to remember that,” Miranda added, her voice softening in the smallest, most dangerous way.
She ended the call before Andrea could reply—then stared at the phone as it lit up again and again, ignoring every call, every message.
The pale blue envelope sat misplaced among the usual evening clutter—catalogues, proofs, RSVP cards Emily expected her to glance at before the night was over. The office was hushed, almost muted, emptied by the late hour.
Even Emily had fled, dispatched on a coffee run.
She slid a manicured finger beneath the seal, opened it with precision, and drew out a thick card engraved in elegant calligraphy requesting her presence at a summer ball in Genovia. Two additional seats reserved for her daughters. All extended at the personal request of the princess.
Her mouth curled sharply at the edges.
Then she flipped the invitation over.
There, in Andrea’s messy-but-precise script,
Miranda,
Genovia is beautiful in the summer. Pear trees in full bloom. Please come.
Yours always,
Andrea
Miranda felt the words lodge somewhere behind her ribs, an ache she refused to acknowledge.
Yours always.
Three weeks passed before Andrea finally called.
Andy didn’t bother with pleasantries.“You haven’t RSVP’d,” Andrea said, breathless, almost accusatory.
Miranda rolled her eyes—Andrea couldn’t see it, but Miranda knew she could feel it.
“I do have a life, Andrea.” Her tone made the name sound like a reprimand. “I can’t rearrange my schedule at the whims of a princess.”
Andrea’s answering laugh was short and sharp—a soft mockery with teeth. And Miranda braced for what might follow, her spine going rigid. She knew this tone. She’d heard it from ex-husbands who believed they’d cornered her flaws, men who accused her of demanding everything and offering nothing.
But Andrea wasn’t one of them.
No Andrea was kind.
So instead of rising to Miranda's bait, she dismissed it, though begrudgingly. "Think about it, please."
She said goodbye before Miranda could object, and the line went silent.
Miranda set the phone down, unsettled by the ease with which Andrea diffused her. And she was left with one unmistakable thought:
Andrea Sachs Renaldi would make an excellent ruler— if compromise truly was her cornerstone.
Andrea had insisted on picking up Miranda and the girls from Genovia’s only airport.
She stood above the crowd, a faded gray NYU T-shirt hugging her frame, shorts too informal for a future queen, and worn sneakers.
Miranda raised an eyebrow at the outfit, displeased at the simplicity, though she couldn’t deny the subtle enjoyment of the length of the shorts when Andrea turned toward her.
“Miranda,” Andrea greeted, warm, unnervingly bright. “Caroline,” Andrea continued hesitantly, waving at the correct twin, “and Cassidy. Welcome to Genovia.”
Miranda caught the faint glimmer of the twins usual mischief—the lifelong game of pretending to be one another—but a glance from their mother kept them in check.
Cheeky grins replaced by polite smiles.
“Here, let me.” Andrea lifted Miranda’s carry-on with effortless ease, Miranda had deliberately left her assistants behind, leaving mundane tasks such as luggage to now befall herself.
Andrea repeated the gesture for the twins, who stared in surprise. “We can—” Cassidy began, Miranda was thankful that the twins showed their manners, but Andrea leveled the twins with a calm, placating smile. “I insist,” she said, lifting both of the twins smaller bags herself.
And so they moved: three Priestly's following the future queen, who carried not only their luggage but a quiet draw of admiring looks from her future subjects.
She was sure Page Six would've loved to see this.
“The mustang is a little small,” Andrea admitted sheepishly as the twins were sandwiched among suitcases. “I didn’t realize you could fit all that luggage onto a plane.”
“I don’t like to be unprepared,” Miranda replied, voice crisp.
Andrea’s eyes softened, amused, “No, I suppose you do not.”
The drive to the castle passed swiftly, the scenery far more impressive than any Manhattan skyline. The gleaming castle came into view, and even Miranda allowed herself the briefest flicker of content, though her face never showed any indication.
The twins hooted, eyes wide, but it was Andrea’s perfectly arched eyebrow, aimed squarely at Miranda, that made her heart stutter.
“It’s adequate,” Miranda said, cool as ever. Andrea’s grin widened in response.
The guards waved them through the gates, recognizing the princess, but it wasn’t until they stepped from the car and were flanked by attendants for their belongings that Miranda truly felt the weight of Andrea’s authority.
Atop the staircase, Queen Clarisse Marie Renaldi waited, a kind smile on her face.
A guard stepped forward, staff in hand, posture rigid and formal.
“Her Majesty, Queen Clarisse Marie Renaldi,” he intoned, voice carrying across the space. A second tap of his staff punctuated the announcement.
“Long may she reign!” came the ceremonial cry, echoed by the assembly.
The twins gaped, eyes shining with awe. “This is so cool!” Caroline whispered, Cassidy nodding in agreement.
While the twins stood shell-shocked in the presence of royalty, Miranda maintained her composure with ease. Years of dining, negotiating, and sparring with the world’s elite had long ago stripped the novelty from meeting monarchs. Still, even she couldn’t deny the quiet charm in Queen Clarisse’s fond smile as she spoke to Caroline and Cassidy.
After polite greetings and a few gentle questions aimed at the girls, the queen excused herself with exercised grace, gliding away with her attendants.
A woman stepped forward, efficient posture, sharp eyes, an uncanny echo of Emily in both expression and urgency. “Your Highness,” Charlotte murmured, tugging lightly at Andrea’s sleeve, “your grandmother requests a word once your guests are settled.”
Andrea gave no indication whether this summons was welcome or foreboding. She simply nodded, expression neutral, voice mild. “Of course.”
Then she turned back to the Priestly's, warmth slipping easily into place again as she led them down a long marble corridor.
“The right wing is yours for the week,” she said, pushing open a set of extravegent doors.
The twins gasped in perfect unison at the sprawling suite—vaulted ceilings, elegant moldings, windows spilling sunlight over polished floors.
Miranda remained silent, though Andrea caught the flicker of something—approval, perhaps—before it vanished behind her usual composed facade.
Andrea arrived to collect them a few hours later for dinner. One of the attendants assigned to their wing had already informed them that the meal would be served at eight, so by the time Andrea knocked, all three Priestly's were prepared.
Andrea gave the twins quick instructions on how to find the dining room, watching them hurry ahead. She fell naturally into step beside Miranda, the two of them walking shoulder to shoulder. The faintest breeze drifted through the corridor, brushing them into the lightest contact.
“I trust your quarters are satisfactory?” Andrea asked. Her tone was even, but her gaze lingered—far lower than etiquette allowed—at the delicate line of Miranda’s collarbone.
“They are,” Miranda replied, her voice deceptively aloof. She did not bother hiding the way her eyes dipped to the elegant reveal of Andrea’s neckline.
Gone was the simple travel attire; Andrea was dressed in full royal elegance now, every detail of her gown chosen with a precision Miranda knew all too well from runways and couture houses.
They were now drawn in front of the dining room doors, "Miranda, I," the words felt similar to Paris, even the way Andrea drew her mouth shut echoed, and whatever tentative truce had grown between them these past months froze in Miranda’s veins.
She was here for vacation. To show her daughters a beautiful country. She was not here to indulge the treacherous thrum beneath her ribs.
“Andy—” a man called from down the hall, the infuriating nickname slicing cleanly between them and snapping Miranda back into herself.
Andrea turned toward him, posture straightening, expression slipping effortlessly into something formal, composed—
Every bit the queen she was becoming.
Miranda made it a point not to meet Andrea’s eyes over dinner. Not when Andrea addressed her directly. Not when she asked her thoughts on an anecdote. Not when her laugh—too warm, too familiar—curled through the long table straight to her chest.
Her responses were clipped and precise. Barely sentences. The version of herself she used in boardrooms and hostile takeovers, untouchable, immaculate, frost-edged.
If her fingers tightened imperceptibly around her fork each time Geoff—the same insufferable man from the hall—leaned too close to Andrea in some transparent attempt to impress her, that was hardly worth noting.
Except, apparently, to Queen Clarisse, whose gaze kept cutting toward Miranda with a level of perceptiveness Miranda had no patience for.
Her own eyes remained fixed on her plate, her daughters, the centerpiece— anywhere but on the future queen sitting across from her.
Anywhere but on Andrea.
“Miranda.”
This time, the voice was not Andrea’s—it was the queen’s.
Miranda lifted her eyes, blue orbs meeting blue across the table as the final courses were being cleared. Queen Clarisse regarded her with a polite, impenetrable calm.
“Would you care to join me for dessert after dinner?”
She absolutely would not.
She would prefer to retreat to her room, immerse herself in the upcoming Runway issue, suffocate the persistent ache clawing beneath her sternum. Anything but further conversation.
But etiquette—and monarchy—did not bend to her preferences.
Miranda allowed herself one glance toward Andrea. The princess watched her with a quiet, unmistakable concern that made something in Miranda’s spine lock tight.
And of course, the queen’s question, was not a question at all. Miranda knew commands when she heard them; she had delivered enough in her lifetime to recognize the tone worn politely thin.
"Of course, Your Majesty,” she said, voice smooth as ice.
“I trust you can sympathize with my granddaughter’s predicament,” Queen Clarisse began once the dinner crowd had thinned. She poured tea with grace, sliding a plate with a single crumpet toward Miranda.
Miranda regarded both items with faint disdain.
Still, she inclined her head. “I do.”
And she did.
She understood dynasties—how they were built, how they were preserved, how they demanded sacrifice. She had spent decades crafting an empire of her own at Runway, brick by immaculate brick, knowing full well that no matter how high she climbed, her legacy could be swept aside at a moment's notice.
Irv Ravitz had tried more than once to dethrone her.
So yes. She understood.
The pressure to secure a lasting legacy.
The expectation to choose duty over desire.
Across the room, Andrea was being tugged along by the twins, both girls chattering at her in delighted harmony. Andrea glanced back, offering Miranda a sympathetic half-smile that did not escape the queen’s notice—nor Miranda’s.
Miranda looked away first.
“My granddaughter seems… smitten with you,” the Queen said with a soft sigh, a trace of worry threading through her words. Yet there was a glint of mischief in her eyes, the same spark that was familiar to Andrea.
“I haven’t noticed,” Miranda replied smoothly.
The lie came easily, though it carried a quiet burn—less to protect herself and more to shield Andrea from any unnecessary scrutiny.
As much as Miranda had allowed herself to follow Andrea wholeheartedly into this mess, she was not about to surrender the princess to judgment for their entanglement.
Clarisse’s grin was kind as her eyes flickered past Miranda’s shoulder to Joe, the queen’s bodyguard Andrea had introduced earlier. A wistful look lingered there—one Miranda deliberately ignored.
Some inclinations, it seemed, ran in the family.
“My grandmother seems to like you,” Andrea said the next morning, sliding onto the balcony beside Miranda, who was already nursing a scalding cup of coffee and reading the Genovia Times.
Miranda had sent it back three times before it was perfect—burning hot, with just a pinch of sugar.
“Though the servants seem a little intimidated by you,” Andrea teased, watching the butler bow to her before sidestepping Miranda’s hawk-like gaze.
Miranda did not level a response, turning the page instead.
“I was hoping to take you into town, show you some of the sights,” Andrea continued, her voice light, “There’s this restaurant you have to try.”
“I promised the twins a tour of the castle today,” Miranda replied evenly, keeping her tone neutral. She could feel Andrea’s gaze lingering.
Andrea’s grin widened apologetically. “My grandmother already kidnapped them. They’re off horseback riding in the fields. She enjoys having girls around that age,” Andrea said, voice dropping to an impish, conspiratorial tone. “I was sixteen when we first met. Making up for lost time.”
Miranda’s lips thinned, a flicker of displeasure at the disruption of her plans. Andrea caught it immediately. “I can call her back,” she offered.
Miranda waved her hand, sighing. “No. Of course not.”
She was not use to explaining herself, but the words slipped out effortlessly. “I was looking forward to some quality time with them. It’s hard in New York.”
Andrea nodded, placing a gentle hand over Miranda’s. She squeezed lightly, grounding, comforting.
“I guess that means I have you all to myself,” Andrea said, her gaze piercing.
“This is… certainly something,” Miranda mutters darkly as the third course arrives, yet another inventive variation on pears. Every course. Every single course. She could admire the chef’s ingenuity, but if she didn’t get some protein soon, she felt her mind might start to fray.
Andrea stifles a giggle behind her napkin. The chef watches, eyes wide, his gentle composure faltering slightly, and Andrea sends him a quick, apologetic glance.
At least Miranda could concede it tasted delicious.
During the end of the course, Andrea's hand had found it's way to Miranda's own. She linked them together easily enough, though Miranda pursed her lip at the outword affection. Andrea was careless, as if she was immune to the glances of the people around her.
“I’ve been submitting articles,” Andrea says proudly, still not picking up on the stares—or at least not caring enough to acknowledge them—from their fellow diners. “Nothing with my real name, of course. One just got picked up by The Mirror.”
“That’s wonderful, Andrea. They are a very reputable publication, though not as well known as The New Yorker or The Times,” Miranda declares, drawn by Andrea’s sparkling eyes as she swirls her spoon in the concoction of pear soup.
They continue talking, almost cautiously at first, as if one wrong word might crack the fragile truce between them. Months of distance condense into brief, meandering stories—Miranda offering sharp, glittering tidbits about Runway’s latest fiascos and Andrea sharing her own updates, from a piece she’s drafting to legislation Genovia is quietly pushing through the EU.
Andrea listens with that singular focus, chin propped on her hand, eyes soft in a way that makes Miranda feel perilously seen. And Miranda, for her part, pretends not to be charmed by Andrea’s animated rant about embassy bureaucracy.
The echo of Paris hangs in the air, though neither of them seems keen on implicitly mentioning it.
Andrea’s foot slides beneath the table, brushing Miranda’s calf before daring higher, and that, too, goes studiously unmentioned. Miranda doesn’t so much as blink, but her fork pauses in midair, her breath doing something terribly undignified in her chest.
The chef approaches—tentative, hopeful—and asks if everything was to their liking. Andrea assures him it was “exquisite,” which makes him light up. Miranda gives a single, prim nod that still manages to convey: I have had enough pears to feed a small army.
Miranda and Andrea last barely twenty minutes in the car before Andrea turns down a quiet road, unbuckles her seatbelt, and kisses her with such fevered intensity that Miranda is certain her lips will be bruised by the next morning.
She is scorching to the touch—practically lethal—as Andrea’s fingers slip beneath her shirt. They search. And search. And search. Tracing, memorizing, caressing with a single-minded intent, as if Andrea is trying to imprint every inch of her into memory.
Miranda’s hands find Andrea’s shoulders, gripping, holding on, desperate in her own need.
Her mouth sinks into Andrea’s shoulder, riding a tightrope of sensation that threatens to spill over when her release gathers hot and bright behind her eyelids. The whiteness flares, peeking through spots of blurriness.
She gasps for breath and then kisses Andrea so acutely it steals whatever air she has left. Andrea looks pleased, a languid smile touching her lips — and Miranda, because she excels at all things in life, returns the favor.
Later, when they’ve made their way out of the car and down the sloped path Andrea insists on taking her to, she sees the small pond with pear trees surrounding it. A picture she recognizes from the months of unanswered text messages.
Andrea spreads a blanket and helps Miranda ease down before lowering herself. She fits comfortably between Miranda’s legs, tracing idle shapes along her calf, her arm, twirling her fingers — restless and reverent, in awe of her.
“There are things I wish,” Andrea starts, her tone far away even though her eyes never leave Miranda’s, as if she’s afraid Miranda might bolt, attempting to catch the first flight out of the country.
Andrea is regal, practically a queen as she continues, and her words land with devastating softness. “I wish for you the most.”
Miranda’s heart stutters. Then, by some miracle, it starts again — slow, heavy, anguished.
Maybe it’s pity, or kindness, or something more dangerous, because she smooths a frown line from Andrea’s forehead.
“You should wish for a successful reign,” she reminds the young woman — barely twenty-five — who, in a year’s time, will have far more to worry about than Miranda Priestly.
And because Miranda is a masochist at heart, she kisses Andrea so soundly she hopes it conveys all her own wishes too.