Chapter Text
Miranda Priestly detested the annual Elias-Clarke fundraising gala. Too many donors, too many flashbulbs, and far too many people who insisted on speaking to her.
“Princess Andrea Sachs Renaldi of Genovia,” her assistant, Katie? Sara? It hardly mattered; Miranda called them all Emily—murmured in her ear as the royal stepped forward.
At least Emily had the sense to bow. Miranda began a more refined bow of her own when a warm hand wrapped, unannounced, around her forearm.
Most people knew better.
Miranda’s glare snapped upward, sharp enough to cut glass. To her irritation—and something else she refused to name—the princess only dropped her hand with a quick, amused glint in her eye.
The imprint of her touch lingered, embarrassingly warm.
“Apologies,” the young woman said, the corners of her mouth betraying that she wasn't apologetic at all. Her gaze flicked briefly to Miranda’s bare left hand, registering the lack of a wedding band. “Ms…?”
“Miranda Priestly, editor-in-chief of Runway,” her second assistant supplied from behind her, sounding dangerously close to swooning. The princess gave the girl an indulgent nod, which only made her blush harder.
“Apologies, Ms. Priestly, for touching you.” Andrea didn’t sound remotely apologetic. If anything, she looked at Miranda as though they shared a secret. The gall of this girl.
Yet her eyes, large, warm brown, shimmering with unhidden mischief, sent a curious spark through Miranda’s chest before she willed it away.
“It’s just—I’m still a New Yorker at heart.” Andrea gestured lightly, dismissively. “All the bowing and curtsying feels a bit… unnecessary.”
Behind her, knock off version of Emily sighed dreamily. That alone pulled Miranda’s attention back where it belonged.
Anyone else would have been charmed.
Miranda Priestly was not anyone.
Her gaze cooled, though a thin ribbon of interest coiled beneath it.
Miranda hadn’t kept up with Genovian politics, but everyone on the planet had watched the spectacle unfold when Andrea Sachs was revealed as the late King Philippe’s long-lost American daughter. The discovery had thrown the monarchists into hysterics and made the rest of the world collectively intrigued at the development.
“Please—call me Andy,” the princess said, plucking a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray. She offered the second glass to Miranda with an almost hopeful tilt of her wrist.
Miranda declined with a curt shake of her head. She had already endured her one drink for the evening. She wasn’t about to dull her senses now, not with this girl standing in front of her, radiating warmth and mischief like it was a birthright.
Miranda sniffed, displeased. “That nickname is not fit for a princess, Andrea.”
The way Miranda said her full name, precise, clipped, seemed to strike the princess like a physical touch. A flush bloomed beneath Andrea’s cheekbones, quick and unguarded, and Miranda’s stomach tightened at the sight despite herself.
“Richard Smith has arrived,” her second assistant mumbled, drawing Miranda’s attention from the blushing royal to the man she was expected to coax into donating a very generous sum to Elias-Clarke.
Miranda inhaled slowly, letting out an inward sigh that never touched her face. Her expression remained perfectly composed—her mask, as always, unshakeable.
Andrea lifted her glass in a small, knowing salute. “Duty calls,” she said softly, amusement threading through her voice.
“I’ve had the most fascinating conversation with the princess,” Nigel announced as he slid into his seat at the perfectly polished table reserved for Runway’s finest. “Did you know there’s pear ice cream in Genovia?”
“How exquisite,” Miranda replied, the words flat and cool. She had absolutely no interest in expanding her culinary horizons with royal fruit-based desserts.
Nigel, undeterred, practically hummed. “She would be lovely on the cover of Runway.”
He said it lightly, almost to himself, but they both knew the final decision rested solely with her.
Miranda’s lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. She doubted the princess would ever agree to such a thing. In fact, she had the distinct impression Andrea would flee the country before posing for a magazine—especially hers.
Not that Miranda could deny the girl would photograph beautifully. Andrea had a presence that surprised her: soft curves, a shapely bosom framed by the kind of gown that suggested more than it revealed, and a face that shifted effortlessly between playful charm and refined elegance.
Beautiful, yes. But entirely impractical for the pages of her magazine.
Nigel kept rambling about cover lines, but Miranda’s attention flicked—just once—across the ballroom.
Andrea stood near the chandeliers, her head tilted in conversation with a diplomat…
And then she was looking right at Miranda.
Not a polite glance.
A lingering, unreadable stare.
Miranda tore her gaze away immediately, irritation prickling down her spine.
How dare the girl look at her like that —and how ridiculous that part of Miranda welcomed it.
She forced her attention back to the table, back to Nigel, back to the insufferable obligation of being here at all… but something in the room shifted.
A small hush.
Miranda felt it before she saw it.
Andrea Sachs Renaldi was crossing the ballroom.
Not escorted.
Not guided.
Not drifting politely the way royals were trained to do.
She was walking with unmistakable purpose.
Toward her.
Nigel noticed first. “Oh dear,” he murmured, delighted, “she’s coming towards us.”
Miranda stiffened. “Nonsense. She is surely—”
But Andrea stopped at her shoulder.
“Ms. Priestly.”
Her voice was warm honey. Miranda looked up despite her better judgment.
Andrea smiled, bright and unreserved in a way that felt completely wrong for royalty and even more wrong for Miranda’s equilibrium.
Andrea’s grin widened. “May I?” She indicated the empty seat once occupied by Jacqueline. She didn’t wait for permission, clearly sensing that Miranda wouldn’t grant one.
Nigel, observing with quiet amusement, excused himself toward the restroom, flashing Miranda a sly wink before he left. She noted it for later. A redo of the September shoot would be just the right repayment for his insubordiance.
“Did you know I once applied to be your assistant?” Andrea asked, settling lightly into the chair beside Miranda.
Miranda’s gaze swept over her, searching for any flicker of memory—an interview, a dismissal—but found nothing. If anything, she was certain that she would have left that hypothetical encounter just as bewildered as she was now. Andrea was a force, vibrant and untamed, radiating untapped potential that was impossible to ignore.
Andrea laughed softly, almost to herself. It was the first time Miranda had glimpsed anything resembling embarrassment in her. “I didn’t get past your first assistant,” she admitted.
“Probably for the best,” Miranda interjected, the edge in her voice unmissable. “It seems your time would be better devoted to… other endeavors.” She let the words linger, deliberately pointed.
Royalty, after all, was no small commitment.
Andrea tilted her head, undeterred, her eyes alight with mirth. "Yes, I agree. I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to ask you to accompany me for a nightcap after this if I were a lowly employee."
Miranda blinked once, deliberately slow, forcing her composure back into place. There was no room to assume what Andrea meant by “nightcap”—and yet, her pulse betrayed her, betraying her in a way her perfectly controlled face would never.
Thankful for the drape of her Valentino gown, she allowed herself the tiniest adjustment, masking the flush Andrea’s words had drawn to her chest.
“I see,” Miranda said coyly, letting her eyes linger on Andrea for the briefest fraction too long.
She felt it before she looked—the slip of a room card, passed under the table with precision, weighing heavily in her palm. Every instinct told her to dismiss it, to ignore it, but curiosity won.
“How presumptuous…” Miranda drawled, her voice bored, masking the way she slipped the card carefully into her clutch.
This woman really was something else. Bold, fearless, unrelenting. And Miranda, despite herself, was completely intrigued.
“Have you ever—” Andrea’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper against Miranda’s ear in the presidential suite at the Ritz hours later, her lips brushing urgently as she worked to free Miranda from her ballroom gown, “—fucked a princess?”
Miranda halted mid-step, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, unimpressed. “Does that line actually work?”
She felt the flutter in her core she refused to acknowledge, the undeniable proof that yes, that line worked. Not that she would ever admit it.
Andrea’s lips curved into a faintly mischievous, almost apologetic smile, cheeks dusted with pink. “You’re the first one I’ve tried it on,” she confessed.
“Lucky me,” Miranda said softly, a trace of smugness threading her words. Without warning, she closed the gap, kissing Andrea with a ferocity that matched the heat pooling low in her chest.
In this moment, it didn’t matter that she was twice Andrea’s age, or that they came from entirely different worlds. All that mattered was the way Andrea’s blush deepened beneath her lips, the way her pulse quickened at every touch.
Andrea’s hands found Miranda’s shoulders, then the back of her neck, holding her close. A low, breathless laugh escaped her, teasing and sensual all at once.
Miranda pulled back just enough to watch, fascinated, as Andrea’s eyes sparkled with that dangerous mix of mischief and desire that had been impossible to ignore since the gala.
She kissed Andrea soundly, fingers tracing the softness of her skin. Her lips followed the shell of Andrea’s ear, along the nape of her neck, down her spine. She lost herself in this woman, so eager to please, so attuned to every flicker of her desire. By some divine law, Andrea knew exactly how to melt Miranda from ice to fire with a single touch—her tongue, her fingers, the way she molded herself around Miranda.
Hours later, she found herself in a too large bed, blissfully spent, Andrea curled at her side, soft snores filling the quiet.
Then reality hit. She had slept with someone half her age, a woman, a member of royal society. Every aspect of her personal life had been meticulously cultivated, controlled, curated. This was absoulely not any of those things.
“Didn’t take you for a slip away in the middle of the night kind of gal,” Andrea mumbled sleepily, watching Miranda fumble with the zipper of her gown, the kind of thing an assistant would normally handle.
“You could stay, you know,” Andrea said softly, stretching just enough to brush a shoulder against Miranda. “We could get breakfast in the morning—”
At Miranda’s unwavering look, Andrea added, “Or coffee?”
“I have work,” Miranda said sharply, though it was a lie. Tomorrow was Saturday. “Fashion never rests.”
Andrea’s brow arched, unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she moved closer, lips brushing a trail of tiny kisses along Miranda’s shoulder as her hands carefully zipped up the now-wrinkled gown.
Miranda stiffened, somewhere between annoyance and longing. She didn't glance back at Andrea, didn't bid her a goodbye, instead she rushed out of the hotel room in one swoop, leaving behind more than just the hotel suite.
“Mom?” Caroline’s voice cracked in shock. There was no way her mother was walking in looking like… No. Absolutely not.
“Bobbsey?” Miranda drew in a sharp breath, fingers clutching her chest at the sight of her daughter staring at her, mouth agape. They were in the foyer of the townhome, eyes locking in mutual suspicion. “I thought you were at your dad’s this week.”
Before she could continue, she added, with none of the usual sharpness she reserved for employees but a rare sternness for her daughter: “Shut your mouth, or flies will come in.”
Caroline snapped it shut immediately, though her eyes remained wide. “Dad sent me home. Cass isn’t feeling well, and he didn’t want me to catch it.”
Miranda sighed softly, nodding. She would need to check on Cassidy later—probably explained the three missed calls from her ex-husband.
“Did you…” Caroline started, scanning her mother more closely, then wisely shut her mouth when Miranda’s piercing gaze dared her to continue.
“You look great,” she finished lamely. She’d have to call Cassidy—her sister would get a kick out of this.
As Caroline hurried up the stairs to her room, taking them two at a time, Miranda called after her, “Caroline?”
“Mhmmm,” came the reply.
“No word of this,” Miranda warned, leaving no room for argument.
Once the soft thud of Caroline’s door closing signaled the girl was safely out of earshot, Miranda leaned against the railing at the top of the stairs, letting the house settle around her.
She replayed fragments in her mind—the way Andrea’s eyes had sparkled, the warmth of her skin, the small, almost imperceptible touches that had made her pulse quicken despite every warning her meticulously curated life screamed at her.
Miranda’s fingers brushed over her collarbone, tracing the faint impression left behind by Andrea’s lips.
Too bad, she thought, that it would never happen again.
“This is the closet, Andy,” Nigel said the following week after the fundraiser, practically ushering her inside, a nickname he had no qualms about using, unlike Miranda.
Andy smirked. Nobody, she thought, would ever have the right to call her Andrea now, not after Miranda had staked her claim on it in a way that felt entirely ruined for anyone else.
She whistled low, impressed. Every piece of fashion was meticulously organized, as if the closet itself were an extension of Miranda’s mind. Her eyes caught a pair of boots that seemed to be calling her name.
Before Nigel could launch into the history of the collection—or all the outfits he desperately wanted to see her try—Miranda’s voice cut through the air, low and firm.
“Nigel, I need the layout of last week’s shoot.”
Her eyes weren’t on the two of them; they were fixed on her phone, scanning an email with unmistakable displeasure.
It was only when Andrea’s voice echoed softly, “Hello, Miranda,” that the air shifted. There was no visible reaction from Miranda—at least none that the casual onlooker could detect. And yet… a subtle tightening around her jaw, a minuscule hitch in her breath, betrayed her otherwise flawless control.
“Andrea,” she greeted, voice cold as ice, every ounce of warmth withheld. She was every bit the dragon lady her reputation promised.
Miranda’s eyes flicked to Nigel, who was watching the exchange with more curiosity than he probably should have. “Do take your time, Nigel,” she said smoothly, letting the words drip with thinly veiled sarcasm. “You know how that thrills me.”
At the sound of Miranda’s voice, Nigel sprang into action, excusing himself to fetch the designs while promising Andy a continuous tour of Runway when he was back.
When the closet door clicked softly behind him, Miranda’s gaze returned fully to Andrea, narrowed and sharp.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, low enough to sting.
Andy recoiled at the words.
“Nigel offered a tour of the elusive Runway,” Andy recovered casually, shrugging as if that alone explained her presence.
She was shocked how naturally it came to answer to someone else. Not since before her coronation, back when she was still an aspiring journalist, not a member of royalty, had anyone dared to question her.
Miranda’s eyes narrowed, a slow, deliberate tilt of her head betraying both curiosity and irritation. “And you accepted?”
Andy’s lips curved into a faint, teasing smile. “The perk of seeing you might have enticed me.”
Miranda rolled her eyes, though a small, unexpected flutter warmed her chest. She snubbed it out immediately.
“I don’t have to tell you this is a bad idea,” Miranda said, voice low and measured, as if instructing Andrea on the different shades of blue.
Andy tilted her head, ready to protest, but froze under the intensity in Miranda’s gaze. There was something unrelenting there, something that Andy didn't want to push.
“We are both high-profile women,” Miranda continued, voice ice. Andy nodded, listenting intently. “I have children. I have Runway.”
Andy understood. She herself had a country. Citizens to consider. “I’m not asking for anything serious,” she said carefully.
Miranda’s eyes sharpened. “Do you think I’m… just a fling, princess?” she hissed, the words tasting like fire.
Andy’s eyes widened at the accusation, but she didn’t back down. “No,” she said quickly. “I mean, I don’t have expectations. I understand your job, your children, your priorities. I understand the world you live in—because I have my own responsibilities—but even through all of that, I want to know you. In whatever way you’re willing to let me.”
There was something disarming about Andrea Sachs Renaldi revealing a piece of herself, the earnest look in her eyes, the quiet softness. Miranda, who had been called cruel countless times, realized she didn’t have it in herself to snuff out that hope.
“Plus…” Andy’s expression softened, her eyes dreamy, “the sex was really good.”
The stoic mask Miranda had held throughout Andy’s confession cracked just slightly. A faint curl of her lip betrayed a smile she didn’t quite intend to share.
“Have you ever… fucked in a closet?” Miranda’s voice was low, charged, her blue eyes locking with Andrea’s deep chocolate gaze.
Andrea laughed before she could stop herself, the sound spilling out freely, mirroring the audacity of the question she asked during their first night together.
The schedule became its own rhythm, ongoing month after month. If Andy was in New York, she would call. There was no good reason for Miranda to visit Genovia—at least none that would make sense to her colleagues or her daughters. Even if she could invent one, her work load would never permit it.
So they made do. They holed up in the Ritz whenever their schedules allowed, losing themselves in the quiet hours. Andy learned every detail of the esteemed fashion mogul, and Miranda allowed herself, slowly, to unwind in the princess’s arms.
Somewhere along the way, Andy began sending texts from Genovia: pictures of rolling landscapes, of pear desserts that looked entirely unappealing but that she insisted were exquisite.
Miranda found herself calling during her commute or between meetings, filling her car rides with details of her day-to-day life. Her ex-husbands had once revolted at her schedule, but Andrea seemed fascinated by the machinery of a fashion empire, by the inner workings that kept a world-class magazine afloat. And somehow, that fascination unraveled something tight in Miranda’s chest.
“Ready for Paris Fashion Week?” Andy asked during one of their calls. Miranda hadn’t spoken to her for over two weeks, buried in preparations and editorial planning.
Miranda exhaled, the weight of the upcoming week pressing down. “We shall see. My team seems adequate this year.”
She couldn’t see Andrea, but she could hear the princess’s grin in the silence that followed.
"I'll be in Paris as well," Andy dropped casually, and Miranda felt that small, unwelcome flicker under her rib, a yearning that didn't quite fit Miranda Priestly, but alas struck her.
"If you find yourself a free moment…" The princess trailed off, she still found herself pushing and prodding at the boundaries that Miranda had set in place.
"Send your itinerary to my assistant," Miranda commanded, before quieter, softer, “I’m sure something can be arranged between shows.”
Andy lit up; Miranda could hear it in the warmth of her next breath. “That’d be great. It’s been a while. I’d… like that.”
Miranda didn’t echo the sentiment. She never did. But Andy had learned long ago how to read the quiet things Miranda didn’t say.
“Princess!” a distant voice called—formal, urgent enough that even Miranda heard it.
Miranda hummed. “Go,” she instructed lightly. “Solve your pear crisis. Or whatever it is you Genovians do.”
Andy laughed, “Talk soon, Miranda.”
Miranda stared at the phone for a long moment after, the ache beneath her ribs settling.
Their itineraries, as it turned out, were hopelessly misaligned in Paris. Andy’s days were swallowed by diplomatic meetings, charity luncheons, state receptions. Miranda’s were an endless round of designer showcases, fittings, rehearsals, and the quiet crises only she could manage.
Miranda’s assistants had borne the brunt of her irritation all week.
By pure chance, they crossed paths during the chaos of the Marc Jacobs show.
Andrea appeared beside her like a sudden shift in light, greeting her with a delicate air kiss. She leaned in close, her breath warm against Miranda’s cheek. “You look divine,” she whispered.
The compliment sent a faint ripple through Miranda’s composure. And truly, Andrea was breathtaking. The new Valentino gown transformed her into something both regal and molten, a vision Miranda found herself momentarily winded by.
But there was something else in Andy’s eyes. A look Miranda recognized too well—not from Andrea, but from exhausted, stretched-thin subordinates who were one crisis away from unraveling.
Fear.
“Are you alright, dear?” Miranda asked once they’d slipped behind a curtain, out of reach of cameras and hovering fashion reporters. A single minute stolen.
Up close, Andrea looked even more frayed. Still stunning—always stunning—but her brown eyes carried a weight that didn’t belong on someone her age. Her posture, usually so effortlessly royal, had the faintest slump to it.
Andy didn’t answer the question. Instead she rushed forward with something like urgency. “Any chance we could squeeze in dinner tonight?”
Emily had already scoured the calendar three times trying to find space for that very request she herself had made. There had been none. Miranda had made sure the assistant understood exactly how unacceptable that answer felt.
“I have the after-show,” Miranda said. For her, it was the closest thing to an apology.
Andy nodded, disappointment flickering across her face before she pushed it away. She reached up, sweeping her bangs aside with a tired movement.
“Call me when you get back in,” she said softly. “Maybe I can stop by for a few minutes before you go to sleep.”
Her fingers brushed Miranda’s wrist as she said it—light, unobtrusive, but directly over her pulse point.
Miranda felt the way her own heartbeat skipped beneath it.
She returned to her seat for the remainder of the show, the lights dimming again, music swelling as the next sequence began.
There was a gnawing sensation that something was wrong, but her attention refused to settle.
Her eyes kept drifting back to Andrea.
Across the runway, the princess looked polished, radiant, and effortlessly poised between two A-list actors. She laughed when she was expected to laugh, nodded when protocol dictated it, smiled in ways that cameras adored.
To the world, she looked exactly as she should:
Andrea Sachs Renaldi. Princess. Darling. Diplomat.
But Miranda saw the strain.
Worry was not unfamiliar to Miranda Priestly, but this particular shape of it—this quiet, persistent pull toward Andrea—was.
As soon as the show ended, Miranda turned to her first assistant.
“Emily,” she said, tone crisp enough to snap. “You’ll attend the after-show in my place. I expect a detailed summary in the morning.”
Emily blinked. Stared. Blinked again. But she recovered quickly and nodded. “Of course, Miranda.”
Miranda leveled a pointed look at the assistant’s delay in leaving.
“That is all.”
Emily practically bolted.
Miranda stepped into the waiting car as soon as it arrived.
“The Ritz,” she told the driver.
Only once the car was in motion did she take out her phone.
She typed her room number, a time, nothing else.
Andrea arrived with a bottle of wine so expensive it would have made the Ritz sommelier aghast, and a small box of decadent pastries from a patisserie that was nearly impossible to get during Fashion Week.
She offered them up almost sheepishly when Miranda opened the door, a thank you for cancelling her plans.
“Thought you might like these,” she murmured.
"They will do," Miranda answered, though the usual tinge of indifference was nowhere in sight.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And Andrea’s lips were on hers.
Miranda exhaled into the kiss, a sound far too close to a sigh slipping from her mouth before she could stop it. Her hands found Andrea’s waist, guiding, claiming, pressing—
And in one fluid movement, she pushed the younger woman back against the door.
Andrea gasped, breath catching, her fingers curling into the lapels of Miranda’s robe.
“You’re late,” Miranda murmured against her mouth, though her tone held no real reprimand—only the remnants of months of tension.
“I came as soon as I could,” Andrea breathed, barely above a whisper.
Then she kissed her again, deeper this time, swallowing whatever explanation Andrea might have tried to offer. She hated excuses. Her fingers slid into the princess’s hair, tilting her head just the way she liked, drawing another soft, helpless sound from her.
As though suddenly remembering herself, Andrea eased back, her breath still unsteady, apology flickering in her eyes.
“Should we… crack this open?” she asked, lifting the bottle slightly.
“If you insist.”
Miranda retrieved a bottle opener and two glasses. Andrea followed her through the hotel room, steps soft.
They stepped onto the balcony. Paris glittered below them.
Miranda despised small talk—loathed it, really—but she recognized the way Andrea clung to it tonight. A flimsy raft, something to keep her afloat long enough to gather courage for whatever truly needed saying.
“My grandmother,” Andrea began, her voice shifting—lighter anecdotes abandoned for something weightier.
Miranda looked up. Ah. So they had finally reached the truth.
“The Queen,” Andrea continued. She stared into the skyline as if it held an answer. “She wishes to abdicate.”
Miranda didn’t react. She’d seen it coming—the subtle political shifts, the way the princess had been pushed slightly more into the public eye. Andrea was capable. Andrea was idealistic. Andrea was, in ways that mattered, unmistakably ready.
“And I’m next in line.” Andrea’s voice was soft, almost fragile. She lifted her glass and peered at Miranda over its rim.
“With that comes…” She hesitated, throat tightening around the words. “Traditions.”
Miranda’s fingertip paused at the stem of her glass.
Marriage.
A husband.
A public life built on image and tradition, and none of those roles held space for Miranda Priestly, who was older than Andrea’s mother and had the audacity to be a woman besides.
“How obtuse,” Miranda drawled.
Andy cracked her first real grin, "Very."
“They’ve already started vetting potential suitors,” Andrea added, though her tone was hollow.
Something icy slid through Miranda, landing heavily in the pit of her stomach. The worry she’d felt earlier finally bloomed into something solid, sickening.
She had known, of course, that this—whatever this was—stood on borrowed time. She just hadn't expected the goodbye to be on Andrea's terms.
Miranda set her glass down, slow, deliberate. She didn’t reach for Andrea. She didn’t speak.
Andrea’s fingers traced the rim of her own glass, restless. Her eyes flicked to the skyline, then back, searching.
“I…” Andrea started, then shook her head.
Miranda let the silence stretch.
Finally, Andrea’s hand hovered near hers, almost brushing. She pulled it back.
The moment passed, fragile and unspoken, and Miranda felt it echo in her chest.
More than once, Paris had left a bad taste in her mouth.