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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 

<> 

The atrium was still half-shrouded in scaffolding, the marble floors veined with dust from the ongoing renovation. Andy adjusted her hardhat and stepped into the vaulted space, her eyes drawn up as always to the glass canopy that spilled daylight across the skeleton of the room. 

Even unfinished, the space hummed with grandeur. The echo of her boots trailed behind her as she crossed into the center, scanning the lines she had once sketched into existence. 

She anticipated being alone, as she wasn’t supposed to share the site this morning. Her team had scheduled the walkthrough early to avoid the Runway representatives; Runway being one of their latest clients. But the sound of clipped heels and low voices confirmed otherwise. 

Across the atrium, a small procession had assembled: racks of gowns, camera cases, assistants whispering logistics. And in the midst of them stood a woman tailored in black, posture razor-straight, gesturing upward with a thin, gold pen she carried like a scepter. 

That must be the editor. 

Andy slowed, caught off guard. She’d seen the woman’s photograph before in magazines, always flanked by designers and models, but photographs didn’t do justice to the force of her presence. Andy stood from a distance, draped by overlapping shadows made by the wide arches at the corner of the room. She couldn’t quite make out any of the editor’s features except for a luscious head of downy white hair. 

“…the light fractures here,” the editor said, her voice carrying easily in the cavernous chamber. Firm, dulcet tones. “By afternoon it’ll be bronze. We could certainly drown a gown in that.” 

Andy paused. Most people reduced the description of light to “bright” or “dim.” This woman spoke of it like a living texture. 

The editor turned, eyes sweeping the space — the very atrium Andy had fought tooth and nail to design this way, against budget cuts and skeptical trustees. 

“This isn’t just a museum,” the editor murmured, almost to herself. “It feels like it was built to last. Like permanence.” 

The word struck the architect like a stone in her chest. Permanence. Her word. The principle she had carried from her thesis to every project she touched but never spoken aloud. Preferring to show and not tell. 

Suddenly Andy was aware of the dust on her boots, the rolled plans under her arm, the hardhat making her anonymous in the corner. The editor hadn’t seen her. No one had. 

In that moment, she wanted to step forward, to say I built this, but her voice caught in her throat. Instead, Doug’s voice broke over her earpiece, summoning her to check the new stairwell. 

Andy tore her eyes away from the scene, forcing her feet toward the far end of the atrium. 

The Runway team never knew she was there. 

But the echo of the editor’s words — permanence — followed her up the stairs. 

<> 

She climbed to the mezzanine where Doug was waiting, clipboard in hand, sleeves already streaked with plaster dust. He didn’t notice her lingering glance back down to the atrium, where the black-clad woman still commanded her orbit of assistants. 

“You see the new stair install?” Doug asked, tapping his pen against the column detail. “Contractor swears it’s flush. It’s not.” 

The brunette nodded absently, her eyes flicking once more toward the floor below. The Runway team was fanning out now, cameras already angled upward to catch the light she had designed to pour through the atrium’s canopy. 

“You’re distracted,” Doug said flatly, catching the tilt of her gaze. “What, the fashion people?” 

“They like the space,” she murmured before she could stop herself. 

Doug snorted. “They’d like a broom closet if you dressed it in enough chiffon. Let’s stay focused—this stair alignment’s gonna bite us.” 

But the architect wasn’t listening anymore. In her mind, she heard the editor’s voice again: permanence. A word that didn’t belong to the fleeting chaos of fashion, and yet somehow, she had spoken it. 

Andy tightened her grip on the rolled plans in her hands. She couldn’t explain it, not even to Doug, but something in that passing moment made her feel…seen. 

Even if the editor hadn’t seen her at all. 

<> 

The atrium was no longer hers. 

When Andy arrived for the final inspection, the construction dust was gone, polished marble gleaming under the morning light. But the space had been colonized. Racks of garments crowded the corners, cords sprawled across the floor, and a scaffolding of lights rose like a crude imitation of her glass canopy above. 

She slipped on a pair of boot covers, trying not to wince as two scrawny men dragged a velvet chaise across the newly sealed floor. 

“Careful!” she called, instinct sharper than her voice meant it to be. The men barely glanced at her. 

And then she heard it again — that same voice from weeks before, low but edged with steel. 

“If you block the light, you kill the shot. Move it three feet to the left.” 

The editor stood at the center of the chaos, directing with nothing more than her gleaming gold pen. She hadn’t changed: all in black, jaw set like sculpture, her presence so complete, the room was her orchestra. 

Andy felt herself pause, just long enough to hear it again — the timbre of command, the elegance in phrasing something as mundane as light. 

But then: “We’ll need this area cleared for the gowns. The floor space is much too crowded.” 

An assistant with long auburn hair pointed toward the cordoned-off side of the atrium — the side where Andy’s team had taped off the fresh sealant, still curing. 

“No,” Andy said before she realized she’d spoken aloud. 

Every head turned. Even the editor’s. 

The woman’s arctic gaze landed on her with a quick, appraising sweep — not recognition, but assessment. Andy felt the load of it settle like a challenge. 

“This area can’t take weight yet,” she explained, voice even. “It’s not negotiable. If you put your racks there, you’ll ruin the finish.” 

A silence lingered. Assistants exchanged nervous looks. 

The editor stepped closer, eyes sharp, pen still in hand. “And who are you?” 

“Andrea Sachs,” she said, steady now. “Lead architect at Sachs Design Group. Pleasure to meet you.” 

A beat. Then the faintest lift of a brow. “Ah. The invisible hand.” 

Something in her tone was both dismissive and intrigued, as though she’d been handed a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t asked for. 

Andy held her ground. “If your gowns are worth anything, I’d think you’d want a floor to match.” 

For the first time, the editor smiled — not warm, but cutting, like glass catching light. 

“Fine.” She turned to her assistants. “Find another corner.” 

And just like that, the orbit shifted back to her. 

But then Andy felt something burn beneath her skin: not just the friction of conflict, but the thrill of coming toe-to-toe with someone so alluring. Of course, up close, the editor was too gorgeous to make sense of, but there was more to it than that, Andy thought. And in that fleeting moment, the architect had readily decided that she wanted to know this woman.  

<> 

Her apartment was dark when she finally got home.  

The lock clicked shut behind her, echoing faintly against exposed brick and polished concrete floors. 

It wasn’t that the place was empty — she had furnished it well enough, with low modern lines and clean neutrals — but it had the kind of order that belonged to someone who lived alone. The kitchen counters gleamed, untouched except for a lone espresso machine. The sofa bore the faint indentation of her laptop, not a person. Framed sketches leaned against the wall waiting to be hung, as if she’d never quite committed to actually making the space her own. 

It wasn’t unlived, exactly. Just precise. A place for sleeping, for working, for staring out at the skyline when she couldn’t bring herself to do either. Not much more. 

She dropped her keys into a bowl by the door, kicked off her boots, and padded across the open-plan living room. The city sprawled beneath her floor-to-ceiling windows, lights blinking across the skyline like a thousand unanswered messages. 

She tossed her hardhat onto the kitchen counter and unrolled the day’s plans out of habit, but her focus kept snagging on a different image: the editor’s smile. 

Not kind. Not soft. But precise and deliberate — like she had been amused to be challenged. 

Doug had only grumbled about “divas in designer boots” the whole subway ride back to the office. Lily had defended them, saying fashion people weren’t so different from architects, just “obsessed with fabric instead of steel.” Andy had nodded along, pretending disinterest. 

But alone, she replayed the moment again and again. The weight of the editor’s gaze. The sharp question: And who are you? The strange satisfaction of answering it. 

She’d been invisible the first time. Today, she hadn’t just been seen — she’d been measured. 

And for reasons she couldn’t name, Andy found herself wanting to be measured again. 

She took a deep breath, then walked straight to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grit of navigating a bustling city, revising today’s events. The editor’s smile persisted in the back of her mind. 

Proudly, she considered today another success. Her firm had received confirmation that Runway would indeed be using the museum for an editorial spread. Surely, a mutually beneficial agreement. Andy and her team really went above and beyond to make every structure they produced into a timeless, functional work of art.  

Once out of the shower, she pulled on a soft, faded t-shirt and a pair of black boxers, her hair damp, clinging to her jaw. Stood in front of the vast mirror in her bathroom, she studied her reflection only to get lost in thought. 

Sachs Design Group had come a long way. And while they weren’t exactly a household name yet, they were making big strides in their industry.  

Andy flicked the bathroom lights off as she heard her phone buzzing from the adjacent space. 

Lily: You alive? Or did Runway sacrifice you to the gods of couture? 

The architect smirked, thumbs moving. 

Andy: Alive. 

Lily: Barely? 

Andy: Barely. 

Lily: Doug swears you barked at a stylist for dragging a chaise across the floor. 

Andy: Not barking. Correcting. 

Lily: Same difference.

Andy: I was right. 

Lily: You’re always right. That’s what makes you unbearable. 

The brunette’s laugh echoed in the empty loft. She leaned against the kitchen counter, scrolling as Lily kept going. 

Lily: Anyway. Check your email. Natasha just sent the gala invites. 

Andy’s eyes flicked toward her laptop sitting on the sofa. A tired groan rose in her throat. 

She carried the laptop into her bedroom and climbed into bed, the sheets crisp against her skin. The room was huge compared to what she used of it — a king bed centered against a bare wall, one lounge chair in the corner, a dresser with drawers only half-filled. Her life was portable, light, as if she’d never quite unpacked. 

The glow of the screen was the only light in the room. Andy opened her email. 

Sure enough: Museum Benefit Gala — Official Invitation from Natasha Chen. The formatting was neat, the message concise but thorough. Black tie, arrival window, security instructions, table assignments. 

Everyone on their team played a crucial role in the firm’s skyrocketing success and Andy took great pleasure in building and collaborating with each member. 

Doug was her Senior Project Manager. At forty years old, he was the eldest of the group, 12 years her senior. He was behind all structural logistics and contractor management. Doug used to work at a much bigger firm when he and Andy first met. After a decade of overperforming in his previous role, Doug had never received recognition for the value he brought to the firm and found himself frustrated and burnt out from his efforts. He decided to quit his old job and join Sachs Design Group because he saw Andy’s potential and believed in what they could achieve together.  

While Doug was the one that often kept Andy grounded and helped with risk management, Lily was more the innovative one. Lily was her Junior Designer and Interiors Specialist. They’d met in college and managed to stay in contact with one another well after graduation. Years of shared triumphs and challenges has made Andy truly appreciate her bond with Lily.  

And if Doug and Lily were her right and left hand, Natasha was the spine. Natasha was their operations anchor. She was twenty-five, hyper-organized, with a sharp streak of ambition Andy respected. She managed contracts, calendars, the client pipeline — all the things the architect herself didn’t have the patience or time for. 

Outside work, their dynamics shifted. Doug became a grumbler at happy hours, trading barbs over pints. Meanwhile, Lily could drag Andy into conversation about anything from vintage textiles to bad reality television. Natasha, however, was more guarded. Social in bursts, but never fully relaxed around Andy. The brunette had chalked it up to respect for hierarchy. So, she never noticed Natasha’s lingering glances. 

Andy skimmed the email, jaw tightening.  

Galas were the part of success she hated — smiling at strangers who wanted proximity more than conversation. Still, she’d go. She always did.  

A moment passed, she stared at the cursor on the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad. 

She told herself it was professional curiosity. 

Andy typed the editor’s name into the search bar. 

The results filled the screen instantly: interviews, profiles, countless photographs. 

The first thing that hit her was the hair. White, unmistakable, shaped into that perfect, sculptural wave. Then the eyes — piercing blue, crystalline even through a computer screen. Andy leaned closer, almost unconsciously, tracking how those eyes cut straight into every camera they faced. 

In one article, a designer described her as “a storm in stilettos.” Miranda Priestly. Another called her “brilliant and impossible in the same breath.” The architect found herself smiling at that. 

Then, the brunette clicked into an archived spread from the Met Gala. And there she was. The fashion editor stood on a steep showcase of steps, hand on her hip, gown meticulously saturated with Swarovski crystals. Each search result displayed the editor’s poise, accomplishments and obvious position in high society. Miranda exuded the kind of elegance born from certainty rather than trend.  

Andy could simply tell that this was undoubtedly a woman that knew her own mind. And this, Andy found to be devastatingly attractive. 

The architect didn’t flinch from the thought that followed. Miranda Priestly was simply beautiful. Outlandishly, distractingly beautiful. 

Her laptop dimmed as the cursor blinked on the page, waiting for her next click. Andy tipped her head back against the headboard, stretching her legs under the duvet, her bare feet pressing into cool sheets. 

She wasn’t unsettled by the realization. Desire wasn’t something she shied from. If anything, she sat with it, turned it over, examined it like an object of design. What she felt wasn’t vague or dangerous. It was clear. 

She wanted to know this woman. Not as a face in an article, not as a reputation, but personally. 

Her phone buzzed again on the nightstand. 

Lily: Don’t ghost the gala, okay? Natasha’s been fussing over that seating chart for HOURS.

Andy: I’ll be there.

Lily: And try not to overthink too much. 

Andy: That’s impossible.

Lily: True. But try. 

She smiled a tired smile into the dark. Tossing her phone aside, she glanced back at the screen. Another headline stared back at her: Three Marriages, Two Children, and Still at the Top: The Relentless Reign of Miranda Priestly. 

Andy read it twice, her chest tightening at the mention of twin girls. Although, it didn’t scare her. Moreso, it intrigued her. The architect was a firm believer that life was all about building and rebuilding, and that permanence was never about stillness, it was about surviving what shifted beneath you while you remained your only constant. 

And this woman, this Miranda, had seemed to have survived plenty. 

The apartment around her was silent. Tomorrow, Andy would be bombarded with meetings, deadlines, structural diagrams, Doug complaining about site safety, Lily tossing out color palettes, Natasha corralling them all with a smile and an iron calendar. 

But tonight, under the soft glow of her laptop, the architect let herself linger. 

The editor’s face filled her screen, staring back at her with unyielding arctic eyes. And Andy, in her crisp sheets, damp hair curling against her cheek, thought with startling certainty: 

I’m going to know her. One way or another. 

<> 

The atrium no longer smelled of plaster dust and varnish. Tonight, it smelled of perfume, champagne, and money. 

Andy tugged at the cuff of her suit jacket, scanning the crowd milling beneath the glass canopy. The museum trustees had insisted she attend — “visibility for the firm,” Lily had said brightly — but she felt like an intruder in her own space. 

The floor gleamed under soft amber light, gowns sweeping across it as though the marble itself had been designed only for them. Quiet murmuring filled the room from the bundle of those in attendance. 

“Smile,” Doug muttered, elbowing her as a photographer drifted by. “Pretend you like being here.” 

Andy tried. But her gaze had already snagged on a figure across the room. 

No scaffolding this time, no assistants trailing her. Just a sinful wine-red gown, cut like a rose from a garden, gorgeous and thorned, with that same straight posture. Miranda stood in a circle of men, laughing at something one of them said. The fashion maven was evidently rubbing elbows with a fraction of New York’s movers and shakers, truly alive in her element. 

Andy caught herself staring. Again. 

The brunette turned back to the buffet, reaching for a glass of champagne she didn’t want. Doug had wandered off, already charming a cluster of curators. Again, the architect let her eyes wander — and found them colliding once more with the elusive editor’s. 

A flicker. That was all. An unreadable glance across the room. Then the editor returned to her circle, leaving Andy with the heat of being noticed. 

And then the architect made a decision.  

She would take her time with this pursuit. Like reading a new book, she would savor every turning page where her world intersected with Miranda Priestley’s. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed near the stage. The chatter softened, eyes turning toward the podium where a broad-shouldered man in a tailored navy tuxedo took the microphone. 

“Please welcome tonight’s host,” the emcee announced, “real estate magnate, philanthropist, and proud patron of the arts — Christian Thompson.” 

Applause rolled through the atrium as Christian smiled, raising a glass. Andy felt the familiar tug of recognition ripple through the room. Thompson wasn’t just wealthy; he was everywhere — magazine covers, philanthropic boards, half the skyline carrying his signature. And for Andy, there was something else: the architect knew the layouts of two of his four homes better than he probably did himself.  

Christian launched into his toast, thanking the trustees, the museum staff, and the benefactors who made nights like this possible. The brunette let the words wash over her, her attention slipping back to where the editor stood, face half-lit by the amber chandeliers. 

The applause thundered again as Christian raised his glass. Andy clapped politely, her mind elsewhere. 

Not on Thompson, not on the donors, not even on her firm’s visibility. 

Instead, on the editor’s gaze — sharp as a blade and impossible to forget. 

<> 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 

<> 

By mid-morning the next day, the second photoshoot for the museum spread was in full swing. It was a war zone dressed in couture; garment bags swayed past like sails caught in storm winds. Photographers' flashbulbs burst like gunfire, cascading the space in sporadic bits of light.  

Andy leaned against a marble column, hands buried in her trouser pockets. Ponytail tight at the nape, bangs feathering into her lashes; she wore her usual uniform of sharp lines and ease — trousers, a tailored shirt, sleeves shoved up her forearms. She observed the mayhem with quiet curiosity. 

Today, they were in the east wing where the entire floor was one elaborate mosaic, glittering and iridescent. Yesterday’s gala had been staged in the museum’s atrium because the palatial space was enough of a jewel to warrant celebration, unlike the east wing which still required a (negligible) bit of work.  

Doug tilted his head at a worker balancing on a chair to adjust heavy drapery. “That’s a broken neck waiting to happen.” 

Andy blew out a sharp breath. “Because a potential lawsuit is exactly what this circus needs.” 

“Relax,” Doug said, already stepping forward. “I’ll take care of it. You just keep looking brilliant.” 

Despite herself, she smiled. “Someday I’m putting ‘Doug Saves the Day’ on our letterhead.” 

Lily crouched down, snapping a quick photo of a massive floral installation in the center of the chaos. “You know...their eye’s not bad. I mean, wasteful and chaotic, but not bad.” 

A few feet away, Natasha hovered with her iPad, logging notes. The girl’s bright eyes kept flicking back to Andy, following her posture, her warm smile and admiring the architect’s constant diligence. 

Then, an assistant waving a clipboard like a torch, charged towards them. 

“You’re the architect, correct?” She was English by the sound of her panicked accent, scanning the group. 

Lily straightened. “That she is,” the junior designer asserted, nudging Andy’s elbow. 

Andy cleared her throat. “How can I help you?” 

The English woman exhaled a long breath. “Miranda wants the scaffolding gone. She says it’s ruining her shot.” 

Andy tipped her head, letting the request hang a beat in the air. “That’s not scaffolding,” she politely corrected. “It’s called shoring and it is currently keeping a two-ton beam where it belongs. Tell Miranda it doesn’t move until it’s safe.” 

The woman was frazzled as she sputtered. “But s-she—she said it was unacceptable. That it needs to come down today.”  

“I’m sure she did.” Andy’s voice was velvet over steel. “But the ceiling doesn’t answer to her. Two days, minimum.” 

The auburn-haired woman shifted anxiously, eyes darting toward the far side of the room. “Bloody hell.” She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She won’t accept that.” 

“Then don’t make yourself the messenger twice.” Andy brushed her bangs aside with a flick of her fingers. “Point me in her direction. I’ll tell her myself.” 

The assistant gave somewhat of a crazed smile. “This should be interesting. Come, then.” 

Andy followed at an even pace behind her, careful not to get too close in case she lost a tooth from one panicked swing of the woman’s clipboard...and there she was. 

The editor. 

Miranda. 

She wasn’t in black this time. Instead, she wore ivory; a blazer cut razor-sharp, slacks wide and fluid, silk catching the light like water. Against her pale complexion, the choice was befitting. It drew out the porcelain of her skin, the gleam of her coiffed white hair and the cobalt contrast of her eyes.  

How was she even real? 

Andy mused, moving forward at an unhurried pace. Shoulders loose, body language easy, entirely gratified with the vision before her. 

Natasha wasn’t too far behind, and she frowned as she tracked Andy’s steps across the floor. The faint crease between her brows deepened when she caught the subtle warmth on Andy’s face — the way the brunette’s smile brightened just slightly, not for Doug, not for Lily, but for the woman in ivory. Natasha bit her lip, lowering her eyes on her tablet. 

Once Andy was just at the center of the editor’s orbit, the silver-haired woman hadn’t looked up immediately. She was too busy eviscerating another assistant, a mousy looking girl with her head bowed. 

“This shadow across the mezzanine? Amateur hour. Fix it. I don’t care if you have to move the sun. That’s all.” 

The assistant fled. The editor rifled through a rack of fabrics, her manicured hand ruthless in its precision. Andy waited, not deferential — simply patient, as if she had all the time in the world. 

Finally, those sharp blue eyes flicked up. Cool and piercing. 

"Why is my set still marred by construction.” The question came out as a statement.  

Andy wanted to laugh. “Because it’s required to support the ceiling.” Her tone came out conversational, almost lazy. “You take it down, you don’t have a set. You have rubble.” 

A beat. 

“This column is also a problem,” the editor said, gesturing daintily to the pillar at her left. “It splits the eye. Useless. Dead space.” Her softly spoken words were a complete dismissal of the architect's logic. 

Andy inhaled slowly. It’s load-bearing, she wanted to say, but she waited, because timing mattered.  

“Columns,” The architect replied, evenly, “also hold things up. They’re not meant to flatter your eye. They’re meant to keep the roof off your head.”  

The editor didn’t blink, a challenge sparking in her eyes. “It’s hideous.”  

And this is where Andy imagined most people would fold, make apologies, scramble for solutions. Yet, the architect held the other woman’s gaze, steady as stone. “Beauty doesn’t exist without structure. Pull this column out, and the whole place comes down. Including you.” 

A deafening silence fell over the room. 

The editor’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile this time — it was a blade. “So, the great Sachs Masterpiece isn’t a safe structure?” She tsked. “Not exactly reassuring, is it?” 

Doug, hovering at a distance, stiffened. But Andy refused to take the bait. Her smile deepened instead, dimples flashing. 

“Every masterpiece has its own timeline,” she said lightly. “It took Michelangelo four years to paint the Sistine chapel. He didn’t rush. Neither should you.” 

The editor’s eyes narrowed, glittering. “Are you comparing yourself to Michelangelo?” 

Andy tilted her head. “No. Just pointing out that he’d have said ‘no’ to you too.” 

A ripple of suppressed laughter moved through a couple of nearby assistants. The editor’s gaze snapped to them, silencing the air instantly, before swiveling back to the architect. 

“You think you’re clever.” 

“I think I’m right.” 

Andy delivered the statement without arrogance. Just truth. 

The editor stepped closer, heels clicking against the pristine floors. Her voice dropped into something softer, sharper. “You’ve built a cage for me to work inside. My vision is being compromised, my composition, my story. And you expect me to believe that safety is your only reason for denying me?” 

And for a moment, Andy was dazed. This was the closest she had ever come to the editor and the woman’s perfume clouded her judgement like some kind of enchantment. A siren’s call. The architect’s nostrils flared slightly. “I don’t expect you to believe anything.” She said, “I expect you not to die under a collapsed beam. Safety’s not my excuse, Ms. Priestly. It’s my job.” 

Miranda studied her then. Andy held her stare without blinking, her brown eyes calm, her gentle smile unwavering. 

Finally, the editor only tilted her head, lips curving into something between annoyance and intrigue. “You’re dangerously sure of yourself,” she said. 

Andy shrugged, ponytail swaying with the movement. “Only when I’ve earned it.” 

Another silence. The kind that bent the room toward it. 

You don’t scare easily, do you? The unspoken question showed plainly on the editor’s face. 

No, I don't. The brunette smirked.  And I like that you tried. 

Outwardly, Andy remained calm, but her heart was unsteady, bound by the moment.  

The editor suddenly turned away from her, addressing the redhead form earlier. “Schedule the next location earlier. If the architect insists on her...creative process, we’ll simply adjust. That’s all.” 

“Yes, Miranda,” the English woman said breathlessly. 

Without another word, the editor strode away, her entourage rippling in her wake. 

Meanwhile, Andy was rooted to the spot. Only when the sharp click of the fashion maven’s heels faded did she allow herself a low, amused laugh. Miranda’s perfume lingered, and it left the architect tipsy. 

Doug appeared at her side, muttering. “You’re insane. She’ll ruin you.” 

Andy smirked. “Good thing I don’t break easy.” 

“Or,” Lily chimed in, “you could maybe try not to antagonize someone who could easily destroy the firm’s reputation.” 

Behind them, Natasha pretended to be very busy scrolling. Though her jaw was set a little too tightly, her cheeks a little too pink. 

Andy didn’t notice. Her gaze lingered on the space Miranda had vacated. 

<> 

The invitation arrived on heavy card stock, engraved with Runway’s logo in crimson-red cursive. The magazine was throwing a private dinner for VIPs to celebrate the conclusion of the museum spread. Andy decided to take Lily as her plus one.  In her excitement, Lily had waved the invitation around like it was Wonka’s last golden ticket.  

“Oh my god, what am I going to wear?” The junior designer had gleefully paced circles around the office while Andy had just rolled her eyes in quiet amusement. 

Now, standing at the entrance of the rooftop terrace, she was a bit overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all.  

The party glowed against the city skyline. String lights hung between steel beams, champagne flutes sparkled, and music floated just above the hum of conversation. Waiters in black threaded between clusters of guests carrying trays of canapés so delicate Andy doubted they could fill a single tooth. The terrace smelled faintly of jasmine and other rich perfumes. 

Andy smoothed her blazer with one hand, her other cradling the bell of a champagne flute. She looked sharp, but compared to the cinched gowns and tailored tuxes around her, she knew she fumbled the dress code. Not that it bothered her. 

“God, it’s beautiful,” Lily whispered beside her, eyes wide at the view. ““Like… tripping on shrooms, but without the paranoia or the urge to hug a tree.”” 

Andy hummed. “A bit much for dinner.” 

“That’s the point.” Lily’s grin was crooked. “Runway doesn’t do subtle.” 

Andy’s eyes swept the terrace. She knew who she was looking for before she admitted it to herself. 

Miranda moved through the crowd like the axis around which it turned. She was dressed impeccably as usual. Naturally, there was no debate about who was hosting the night’s festivities.  

Andy watched her for a moment, the contrast fascinating. This was Miranda in her domain, entirely untouchable. 

“Don’t stare too long,” Lily murmured. “You’ll combust.” 

Andy bit her lip, “I'm not being very discreet, am I?” 

Lily snorted, “Not unless staring holes into someone counts as discreet these days.” 

<> 

The dinner unfolded with speeches and toasts.  Andy made polite conversation with donors and answered a handful of questions about the museum’s design; but her attention kept drifting. Miranda never lingered near her table, never sought her out, though Andy noticed the occasional flick of her gaze across the terrace. Or was it just Andy’s imagination?  

Likely. 

It was only after dessert, when the music softened and guests began to drift into looser clusters, that Andy found herself close enough to hear Miranda’s voice cut sharper than usual. 

She’d stormed away from a group of people, phone already at her ear. Her tone was clipped, frustrated. Andy, standing near the terrace railing for a breath of air, caught it unintentionally. 

“You said you’d be there this time.” Miranda’s voice was low, wrought with emotion. “They were waiting for you. How could you possibly be this unreliable?” 

A pause. Miranda’s fingers tightened around her phone, knuckles pale. “Preston don’t—don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your daughters.” 

The call ended abruptly. Miranda exhaled, sharp and ragged, before slipping the phone back into her clutch. For a beat she stayed still, shoulders taut, her profile lit by the city lights. 

Andy didn’t move, though she knew she should look away. She saw it then — not the editor who shredded assistants with a word, not the hostess dazzling her guests— but a mother, furious at being failed on her children's behalf. 

The architect kept her voice soft when she approached. “You deserve better than half-measures.” 

Miranda’s head snapped toward her, eyes icy. She was startled. “Were you eavesdropping?” She huffed. “And where do you find the audacity to put your nose where it doesn't belong?” 

Andy didn’t cower. Although, she didn’t mean to think out loud. Maybe the champagne and previous hour of superficial chatter had worn her down more than she initially thought. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” The brunette leaned against the railing. “You just seem very upset.” 

For a second something flickered across Miranda’s expression — vulnerability, maybe — but it vanished as quickly as it came. The editor straightened, mask back in place. “You presume far too much, Ms. Sachs.” 

Andy inclined her head slightly. “Do I?” 

Miranda turned on her heel, already dismissing her when a high-pitched sound split the night. A crack of metal against metal, the groan of something shifting. 

A decorative lighting rig, strung too close to the edge of the terrace, tilted in the sudden wind. The steel frame buckled, glass shattering as it lurched. Guests shrieked, scattering. 

Andy dove forward without thinking. She reached Miranda just as the rig swung down, pulling her into her arms, shielding her body with her own. The crash echoed; shards sprayed across the rooftop floor. 

For a moment they stayed locked together — Miranda pressed against Andy’s chest, Andy’s hand firm at her back, steadying her. She could feel Miranda’s heartbeat racing through the suede of her dress. 

Runway personnel rushed forward, babbling apologies, but Miranda shooed them with a sharp flick of her manicured hands. She stepped out of Andy’s hold quickly, too quickly, adjusting her dress as if to erase the moment. 

“Do I strike you as someone who needs rescuing?” She asked, voice hard though her eyes betrayed the adrenaline still coursing.  

Abruptly, Miranda swept past her, heels striking sharp against the deck as she rejoined the crowd. 

Andy watched her go, her own pulse steady. What stayed with her wasn’t Miranda’s blatant dismissal, but the call she’d overheard — the raw frustration and care she’d tried so hard to hide.  And though Miranda had stormed away, Andy knew she’d just been handed the first real glimpse of the woman beneath the armor. 

<> 

The mahogany-paneled lecture hall at Briarwood Preparatory smelled faintly of floor polish and unwavering ambition. Andy had walked into plenty of imposing rooms before, but this one gave even her pause. She stood at the podium, scanning the rows of near-adults sprawled in their uniforms. Seniors. Bright-eyed and restless, all one year away from stepping into the world beyond these walls. 

Recently, Sachs Design Group had been awarded the American Institute of Architects’ “Young Architect of the Year” honor, a recognition reserved for rising designers who had already made a significant cultural impact. The panel cited Andy’s work on the new museum, calling it “a modern landmark in conversation with the city’s past.” It had launched her name into the industry press; the kind of momentum Lily was eager to leverage. Briarwood Preparatory, an elite private school on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, was known for grooming the children of old money and power players. Always eager to showcase achievers tied to the city’s future, they wasted no time inviting Andy to speak at their annual Career Day. 

Lily had been the one to push her into it. “It’s good PR,” she’d said, leaning on Andy’s drafting table until Andy gave in. “The award puts you in the spotlight. Briarwood is the kind of place where parents write checks with more zeros than you can count. Go. Talk. Inspire the future of tomorrow.” 

So, here she was. 

She didn’t open with blueprints or architectural jargon. Instead, she said: 

“When I was seventeen, I thought architecture meant glass towers and a lot of men in suits talking about square footage. Which, to be fair, is about half of it. But the other half?” She tilted her head. “Is about figuring out how people actually live inside the spaces you imagine.” 

A ripple of attention spread across the room. Even the slouchers in the back straightened just a little. Andy leaned into it, voice bright and steady. 

“Architecture is more than lines on a page. It’s deciding what future generations will inherit. When you walk into a space and feel awe, or peace, or even discomfort...someone built that on purpose. We make choices that shape how people feel, even long after we’re gone.” 

A hand shot up, a tall boy with sharp features, clearly rehearsed for law school interviews. “So, you’re saying architecture is political?” 

“Everything is political.” The architect tittered. “You’ll learn that soon enough.” 

That earned a few laughs from the teachers and a few murmurs from the students. Andy let their receptive energy wash over her.  

“I’ve designed houses for billionaires who wanted six kitchens, only to never use a single one. I’ve also designed community centers where every square foot gets fought over because it matters. You’d be surprised which one feels better at the end of the day.” 

Another hand shot up — a girl in the back row, skeptical. “So…like, why bother with the billionaires then?” 

The architect gave a sly look. “Because they pay for the community centers.” 

That broke the room. Laughter, nods. The ice cracked. 

Then a boy in the back row cupped his face to project his voice. “Do you ever screw up?” He asked. 

Andy didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, all the time. The trick is to make your mistakes look intentional and call it innovation.” She winked playfully, “Works nine out of ten times.” 

The room burst into laughter. 

“I'm kidding.” Andy smiled and leaned casually against the podium. “Look, you don’t have to know your grand life plan yet. I didn’t. I just liked making things real. Draw it, build it, walk through it. If you can find something that gives you that kind of rush — stick with it. That’s the job.” 

She answered a few more questions with ease until the head of school finally thanked her and the room broke in applause. 

As students filed out, Lily appeared at the side door, phone in hand and wearing a big grin. “You killed it. I swear, you actually held their attention.” 

Andy rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop her smile. “Glad to be of service.” 

The brunette hadn’t expected much from the school visit, yet she really enjoyed speaking to the kids. While Lily peeled off to charm one of the teachers, Andy found herself wandering the hallways alone. 

Briarwood carried the weight of generations in its bones. The corridors gleamed with polished stone, oak paneling, and glass statues. Andy walked slowly, taking it all in. 

That’s when she heard it — the unmistakable hiss of spray paint. 

Rounding a corner, she stopped. 

In the library alcove, two young girls stood out of place in their pressed uniforms. One worked a can of black paint in furious strokes. The other clutched her hands together, glancing up and down the hall, whispering frantically.  

“Cass, stop. You’ll get caught.” 

The other girl’s jaw tightened. “Good.” Then slashed another line of paint across the wall. 

There was something strangely familiar about these children, but she couldn’t say what. Maybe Andy should have turned around. Walked away. Pretended she hadn’t seen anything. But something about the defiance in the bold one’s voice, and the quiet worry in the other’s, kept her rooted. 

She stepped forward. “What are you trying to say with that?” 

Both girls jerked upright. Twins. Again, something nagged at the back of Andy’s mind as the bold one narrowed her eyes, clutching the spray can like a weapon. The anxious one flushed and stepped back. 

“None of your business,” The angry pre-teen snapped. 

Andy crossed the hall and braced her weight casually against the opposite wall. “Pretty hard to ignore when you’re tagging a wall right in front of me.” 

The vandal’s chin shot up, defensive. The other one’s words tumbled out in a whisper. “Please don’t tell.” 

Andy’s smile softened. “Relax. I’m not a teacher.” She nodded at the jagged scrawl on the wall. “And I’ve done my share of making marks where I wasn’t supposed to.” 

The troubled girl frowned. “Yeah? What’d you do?” 

Andy tugged a small notebook from her blazer, flipped it open, and crouched to sketch with a quick hand. Simple lines, easy shapes, pulled together into a rough cathedral profile. She tore the page out and slid it across the floor. 

“If you’re going to leave your mark,” she said, voice low and calm, “make it something that means something. Anger fades. But this?” She tapped the sketch. “This lasts.” 

The reserved twin crept closer, peering down. Her eyes widened. “You drew that just now?” 

Andy’s grin widened. “Took me longer than it should have. I’m rusty.” 

“Who are you?” They seemed confused.  

“My name is Andy. Your school invited me to speak to a group of seniors.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m the best at what I do.” 

“And that is?” 

“I design buildings.” 

Angry kid snatched up the page, staring. Her bravado cracked for just a second. She stuffed the spray can into her book bag and muttered, “You’re weird.” 

“Some of the best people are,” Andy said easily. 

"Don’t listen to her.” The reserved girl elbowed her sister. “She just doesn’t know how to process her feelings without acting out. My name is Caroline, and this is my sister Cassidy.” 

A lightbulb went off in Andy’s mind.  

She recalled the night she did a deep dive on a certain fashion editor. 

The vibrant copper hair. The matching sets of blue eyes. Twin girls. Ritzy school. 

The architect had connected the dots.  

“You’re Miranda’s girls.” 

Caroline’s eyes widened. “You know our mom?” 

Cassidy rolled her eyes, “Well duh Carrie, who doesn’t know Mom?” 

Andy shifted against the wall. “Fair point. Your mom’s kind of a big deal, huh?” 

Caroline tilted her head. “So… you work with her?” 

“Not really. Our work just overlaps sometimes,” Andy said, glancing at the dripping black paint on the wall. “If she saw this, though, I don’t think she’d be impressed.” 

“You can’t tell her!” Caroline pleaded. 

“Listen, I’m not telling anyone. But the next time you’ve got something bothering you? Find another way to let it out.” The brunette sighed, “You’re both sharp, I can tell. Don’t waste that.” 

Caroline stared at Andy, curious. Cassidy muttered something under her breath, but she shoved the spray can deeper into her book-bag and zipped it close. 

Andy straightened, sliding her hands back into her pockets. “Go on, get out of here before one of your teachers find out.” 

Caroline yanked her sister’s wrist. “Let’s go, Cass. We’re going to be late for swimming.” The girl ’s voice trailed off as the twins slipped past her, “She was really nice.” 

Cassidy grumbled, “She’s nosy.” A pause. “But...yeah, sure.” 

Andy watched them disappear, warmth lingering in her chest that she couldn’t explain. 

<> 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 

<> 

Andy stood at the long drafting table in her office, hair pulled up into a messy bun. Sunlight spilled across the vellum spread out before her. Every square inch of it was covered in notes, arrows, and pencil-shaded textures. She had three deadlines colliding at once, and this new commission (a flagship boutique in SoHo for a European fashion house) was already eating at her. 

There was a knock at her door. 

“Coffee?” 

Natasha hovered in the doorway, two mugs in hand. The girl smiled a coy smile. 

“Lifesaver,” Andy murmured, taking one without looking up.  

“Have you had something to eat?” Natasha asked, perching on the edge of the table. “You’ve been here since… what, five this morning?” 

“Mmm...four,” Andy corrected absently, sipping the coffee. Her eyes narrowed at a section of façade detail. “This sightline’s off. If I shift the entry point...six feet east...” 

Natasha leaned closer, pretending to study the sketch. “You know, most people wouldn’t even notice these tiny little details. But you don’t miss much, do you?” 

Andy glanced up briefly with an easy smile. “That’s the job.” Then she bent back over the page, pencil scratching again. 

Natasha tilted her head. “Not just the job. It’s...who you are.” 

Andy hummed a distracted, “Mhmm,” and reached for her scale ruler. 

The blonde tried again. “Do you ever stop thinking about buildings?” 

“Not really. Even when I’m asleep. Sad, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t think it’s sad.” She let the silence stretch, her gaze lingering. “I think it’s inspiring. You’re dedicated.” 

“Well, it’s the only way to move things forward.” Andy sighed as she tapped her pencil against the page. “Hey, do me a favor? Pull the materials binder for me. I need to check finishes against natural light exposure.” 

Natasha slid off the table. “Sure thing.” 

As she moved toward the shelves, Andy was already bent back over her work, humming under her breath. 

Natasha returned with the binder, setting it down a little harder than necessary. Andy glanced up, eyebrows raised. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Natasha said quickly, flipping open the tabs and smoothing her hair back with one hand. “Just… long day already.” 

Andy gave her an understanding nod, then scribbled another note in the margin of her drawing. “Tell me about it. Thanks for the coffee, by the way. You always remember how I like it.” 

Natasha’s lips curved into a small smile. “Always.” 

The door banged open. 

“Please tell me one of you ordered food, because I’m starving,” Lily announced, sweeping in with a tote slung over her arm. Her gaze flicked from Natasha perched close beside Andy, to Andy obliviously hunched over her sketches. A grin tugged at Lily’s mouth. 

“Well-well,” she drawled. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Andy looked up, confused. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Lily said, too fast, but her eyes glittered. She dropped her bag onto a chair and leaned over the table. “You’re fussing with that entry sightline again? Didn’t Doug already tell you it works?” 

“I just need to be sure,” Andy said, adjusting a measurement. 

Right on cue, Doug’s voice singsonged from the hallway: “I heard my naaame!” He appeared in the doorway, hardhat tucked under one arm, giving them all a once-over. “Nat, did you log the site inspection reports yet?” 

“Not yet. I’ll get on it.” The blonde gathered her things a little too quickly, slipping out with a glance back at Andy. 

Lily watched her go, then arched a brow at Andy. “You really don’t see it, do you?” 

“See what?” Andy asked, genuinely puzzled. 

Lily grinned, biting back a laugh. “Never mind. Just...remind me not to let you read blueprints and body language at the same time. You miss the obvious.” 

Andy rolled her eyes good-naturedly, turning back to her drawing. “Focus, Lily. Some of us are trying to work here.” 

Lily only smirked, dropping unceremoniously into the sofa nearby. “And some of us are trying to make sure you notice when someone’s practically throwing themselves at you.” 

Andy shook her head, pencil moving steadily across the page. “You’re reading into nothing. Nat’s just nurturing like that.” 

Lily rolled her eyes. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.” 

<> 

By the time Andy got home the sun was well below the horizon. 

She draped her jacket over a chair, tugged her ponytail loose, and padded to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter for a beat, eyes closed. 

She was drained, yet her thoughts kept assembling structures, piece by piece. 

Andy desperately needed to unwind somehow. 

She crossed over to the lattice of bookshelves, running her hand along the spines, letting instinct guide her. Fiction lived beside biographies. Poetry tucked against architecture theory. She pulled down a copy of Baldwin’s Another Country, its cover soft with age, and carried it to bed. 

Andy curled against the pillows, cracked open the book, and let herself sink. Reading was the only time she could quiet the static in her head. It was one of the few things that helped her properly cope with the stress of relentless objectives and looming projects. 

She didn’t remember falling asleep.  

Only waking in the early gray, book pressed against her chest, her alarm screaming about a flight she was due to catch in just a few hours. 

<> 

By the time she and Lily reached the airport, caffeine had smoothed Andy’s edges. Her suitcase rolled behind her, laptop bag slung crosswise over her shoulder. Lily, as always, had a knack for turning travel chaos into theater; juggling her phone, her passport, a croissant she’d charmed out of a café worker all before dawn. 

“You’re walking too fast,” Lily complained as they made their way through the terminal. 

“You’re walking too slow.” Andy didn’t break stride. 

“That’s because I’m not six feet tall.” Lily caught up anyway, cheeks pink from her efforts. She huffed, "You do realize not everyone was born with giraffe legs, right?” 

Andy glanced sideways, smirking. “Jealous?” 

“Of your metabolism? Constantly. Of your legs? Never. I have better shoes.” 

Andy laughed, low and warm, and let Lily herd her toward their gate. 

They settled into seats near the window overlooking the parked aircrafts. Lily scrolled through her phone, already sighing about the flood of emails from the office. The airport lounge was noisy enough that Andy had to lean toward Lily to hear her.  

“Paris,” Lily said, scanning their itinerary. “Then Milan. And we’re due back in New York in two weeks. You’ll get a chance to catch your breath…maybe by Christmas.” 

“Wonderful.” Andy pulled a book from her bag (she always traveled with one) and tried to read. She tried. But her eyes kept drifting to the TV bolted to the wall near the gate. Some entertainment channel played on mute, news ticker crawling across the screen. 

Andy’s gaze snagged instantly. 

There Miranda was on the red carpet at some charity event, adorned by shimmering sequins with a low neckline. Photographers stepped over one another for the woman’s attention, cameras flashing as the editor turned her face into it with the ease of someone long accustomed to being observed. Even muted, Andy could hear it — the cadence of Miranda's voice, the sharp wit tucked into each of her responses.  

“Of course,” Lily muttered, following her gaze. “They’ll televise the opening of an envelope if that lady was in the room.” 

Andy’s head tipped back slightly. She didn’t answer. 

“You’re staring again,” Lily said dryly. 

Andy blinked. “So what if I am? Look at her.” 

“You’re looking at her like she’s the Sunday crossword.” 

“I happen to like crosswords.” 

Lily groaned and shoved her phone into her tote. “Andy, listen. I adore you. But if you’re actually planning to chase Miranda Priestly—” 

“I’m not chasing.” 

“You’re circling.” Lily jabbed a finger at her. “And she’s not exactly easy prey.” 

Andy nearly snorted. “I’m not naïve, Lily. I can handle myself just fine.” 

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t press. She’d worked with Andy long enough to know when her boss’s mind was firmly set on something. 

On screen, Miranda had paused at the foot of the staircase, answering a question with perfectly painted lips and a cutting remark that made the interviewer laugh nervously. The camera caught the sharp line of the woman’s jaw and for the first time Andy wondered, could Miranda be involved with someone else already? Surely, Andy couldn't be the only one interested in a woman as brilliant and beautiful as she was. ‘Divorced’ didn't necessarily mean ‘single’. 

Regardless, there was only one way to find out.  

Andy’s book slid closed in her lap. Her mind was already moving.  

Flowers were too obvious. Jewelry was too intimate. Something else – she needed something else. Something with weight. 

“Don’t do it,” Lily said automatically, sensing the shift. 

“Do what?” 

“Whatever scheme is turning over in that brain of yours.” 

She watched Miranda glide across the screen with unmistakable poise and grace. “She must read a lot.” 

“Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t. So, what?” 

Andy’s voice was thoughtful now, quiet. “She’s a creator. Every word that passes her desk, every page she prints. She understands the weight of a story.” 

Lily eyed her warily. “And?” 

“And,” Andy said, a sly look on her face, “maybe I’ll send her a story worth keeping.” 

“Are you being serious?” Lily groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “Oh God, you’re being serious.” 

<> 

That afternoon, between client calls and site inspections, Andy ducked into a rare bookshop tucked off the main square of the city they’d flown to. Dust motes floated in the filtered light, the smell of old paper thick as incense. 

She moved between shelves with purpose, fingertips trailing the spines, hunting. Until her hand stopped on a familiar name. 

Virginia Woolf. Orlando. 

A beautiful edition; clothbound, deep navy cover, brass lettering on the spine. Andy lifted it carefully, thumbed the pages, felt the weight. 

Orlando, she thought. A life that stretched across centuries, across genders. A story about fluidity, reinvention and beauty that endured because it refused to stay still. 

It was perfect. 

Andy carried it to the counter, already turning the phrasing over in her head. Not too much. Not sentimental. Just enough to leave Miranda guessing. 

That night, in her hotel room, she opened the front cover and wrote in a clean, deliberate hand: 

For someone who appreciates the art of transformation. – A 

She closed the book, slipped it into a protective sleeve, and set it on the desk. 

Tomorrow, she’d have it couriered to the Runway office. No flowers. No fanfare. Just a book. A message. 

Something Miranda couldn’t ignore. 

Hopefully. 

<> 

The air in Milan was thick with heat even after sunset, clinging to the cobblestones and echoing through the narrow streets. Andy leaned against the wrought-iron railing of her hotel balcony, dress shirt unbuttoned, glass of mineral water sweating in her hand. Below, Vespas wove through traffic like threads on a loom, horns sharp, laughter carrying from the café on the corner. 

Eight days. 

Eight days since she’d left a clothbound copy of Orlando in the hands of a courier. Eight days since she’d scrawled her message in neat strokes across the book’s cover with a flicker of hope. To hell with the possibility of being rejected. It had been eight whole days since she took a chance...and Miranda had given her nothing in return. 

Andy had half convinced herself that she’d miscalculated. Maybe she got the address wrong. Maybe the gift was misplaced and instead slipped into some random intern’s leather satchel. Or maybe Miranda had actually received it...only to read the inscription and toss it at the nearest waste bin without a second thought. 

And so here Andy was, antsy.  

Brooding. 

She turned back inside, leaving the balcony doors open to the city noise. Her laptop blinked awake on the desk, a spreadsheet of deliverables for the SoHo project glaring up at her. She had a video call scheduled in thirty minutes with a client in Tokyo, and Lily had already retreated to her adjoining room, muttering something about catching up on sleep. 

Andy rubbed the back of her neck, sank into the desk chair, and opened her notebook instead of her inbox. Pages full of elevations and quick sketches flipped beneath her hand, but the motion didn’t soothe. She tapped her pencil against the margin, restless energy refusing to quiet. 

Her phone buzzed. 

Andy didn’t look at first. Probably Lily, already craving midnight gelato. Or Doug, reminding her about tomorrow’s site walkthrough. But when she glanced at the screen, her body went still. 

Unknown number. New York area code. 

Her pulse gave a sharp kick. 

Andy thumbed the screen open. 

M: Virginia Woolf? 

The brunette blinked at the message. There was no greeting. No explanation.  

Then, Andy leaned back in her chair, unable to stop the smile that nearly split her face in half.  

Her fingers hovered over the keys. Don’t overthink it, Sachs. 

She typed. 

A: I thought you might appreciate her more than roses. 

M: You thought wrong. I don’t particularly care for cryptic gestures. 

A: Not cryptic. Consider it an invitation. 

M: To what, exactly? 

A: Conversation. Over dinner, if you’ll allow it. 

The typing dots hovered, then vanished.  

M: Dinner? For what cause? 

Andy could almost hear the clipped inflection in Miranda’s voice.  

A: No cause. No ulterior motive. Just two people talking. 

The reply came quickly this time. 

M: Do you think this is appropriate? 

A: I just thought sharing a meal was the simplest way to have a real conversation. 

The dots blinked, stopped. When they returned, the words cut sharper: 

M: You’re merely a child. What could you and I possibly have to discuss? 

Andy’s chest tightened at the phrasing, but she didn’t back down. She typed slowly, deliberately. 

A: I’m not asking for a promise. Just the chance to have your company for one evening. If it’s terrible, we part ways and that’s the end of it. 

Another pause, longer this time. Andy imagined Miranda back in New York, tucked away somewhere in a rare moment of quiet, weighing every syllable, choosing her words carefully. 

M: You’re bold. 

A: When necessary. 

M: And presumptuous. 

A: Or maybe I just know what I want. 

The silence that followed felt heavier. Andy sat with it, patient, steady. 

At last— 

M: This number is not to be used for idle chatter. 

Andy exhaled, confident now more than ever. 

A: Then I’ll keep it simple. Miranda, I’d like to take you out for dinner. 

The dots appeared once more, lingered, then vanished. Nothing more came. 

Andy set the phone down. Not a no. Not a yes, either.  

The architect exhaled one great big sigh into the silent suite, “You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?” 

<> 

The Next Day 

The Milan office was quiet for once, emptied of contractors and translators. Andy sat at a long table, laptop open, blueprints spread out. It was late. Too late. The kind of hour when her focus usually sharpened, but tonight it dulled, her pencil still against the page. 

Andy massaged her temples and stretched her legs under the table, ankles crossing loosely. A headache brewed beneath the surface. She’d been living on espressos and Advil for days, her body humming with fatigue she couldn’t shake. Milan had been productive, sure, but she couldn't help the feeling that she was underperforming somehow. 

“You look like hell.” 

Andy turned her head. Lily stood in the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, scarf loose around her neck. Her tone was light, but her eyes studied Andy carefully. 

“Thanks,” Andy muttered, deadpan. “That’s exactly the encouragement I needed.” 

“Well, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?” Lily came in, dropping into the chair opposite her. “You’ve been… I don’t know. Off. Not your usual ‘I’m juggling seven things at once and secretly thriving’ self. You’re quieter. You’re… glum.” 

“Glum?” Andy frowned, absently spinning her pencil between her fingers.  

“Yes. Glum.” Lily shot back. “It’s a word. And accurate.” 

Andy shrugged, now fiddling with the cap of a pen. Her gaze dropped back to the scattered drawings. “I’m just tired, Lil. That’s all.” 

Lily didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh. Tired, sure. But you’re always tired. This is different. There's something you’re not telling me.” 

Andy stayed quiet, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the day had finally caught up to her. Lily leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. 

“This isn’t about work, is it?” 

Andy hesitated, then shook her head slightly. “It’s nothing.” 

“Which means it’s definitely something.” 

Before Andy could come up with another deflection, her phone buzzed against the table. She glanced at it, pulse catching when she saw the name. 

Miranda. 

Her thumb swiped the screen before she could second-guess it. 

M: Thursday. 8 p.m. La Volière. Don’t be late. 

Andy read the words twice, her chest filling with a sharp, unexpected jolt of anticipation. 

Lily craned her neck, trying to see. “Who is that?” 

Andy tilted the phone out of view, her face carefully neutral. “Just Doug.” 

“Doug, huh?” Lily smirked, unconvinced. “Funny, because that’s the first time I’ve seen you look like a human again all week.” 

Andy set the phone down, ignoring the comment. “I'm probably just a bit homesick, but we’re flying back soon. So... just need to push through.” Then she changed the subject altogether, “Have you heard from Nat at all today?” 

Lily leaned back, watching her. “Homesick. Right. Whatever you say, Sachs.” 

Andy’s gaze lingered on the message glowing across her phone screen and for the first time in days, she felt wide awake, filled with renewed purpose. 

<> 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4  

<> 

By the time Thursday finally rolled around, Andy was buzzing with energy.  She had showed up at La Volière precisely at 7:45pm. 

That was 50 minutes ago. 

“Excuse me, Miss? Would you like to be seated now?”  The maître d’ had asked her twice already.  

Andy had given the same answer both times: “Not yet.” 

The architect stood near the grand entrance of La Volière, a rooftop restaurant encased in glass and humming with opulence. From the 40th floor, Manhattan glowed like a jewel in the night. The place was exactly what she expected Miranda to choose. It was refined, intimidating and exclusive. No menu outside the door, no walk-ins. It was the sort of restaurant that lived in whispers and was written about in the back pages of glossy magazines. 

The brunette tugged at her suit jacket sleeve, letting her eyes skim the room. Tables nestled between potted olive trees. A live quartet played near the window, strings weaving over soft piano. Candlelight threw everything into a golden haze. 

It was all undeniably romantic.  

Only, Andy couldn’t help but feel a little foolish for having waited so long. 

She checked her watch. Miranda was over half an hour late. 

Of course.  

Andy forced herself to breathe evenly, though doubt gnawed at her. Maybe Miranda wouldn’t come at all. Maybe this was her way of saying ‘piss off’ without ever needing to actually say it. 

But why go through all that trouble? The architect shook her head. It didn’t make any sense.  

The maître d’ reappeared. “Ms. Sachs, if you’d prefer to wait at the table—” 

“She’ll be here,” Andy interrupted gently. 

Another couple was ushered inside, and Andy couldn’t help checking her watch again, as if that would help. Then, she pulled out her phone. 

A: I’m at the restaurant. Is everything alright? 

Andy wasn’t unreasonable.  

The architect had some idea of what chaotic schedule Miranda adhered to every day. However, Andy respected herself too much to disregard the effort she put into being present tonight. She decided to not jump to conclusions about possibly being stood up by the editor. No, the mature thing to do was to communicate plainly with the other woman. 

So, she did.  

Or, at least, she tried to.  

A: If something else came up, it’s fine if we reschedule. 

A: Unless if you’d prefer to not to meet at all. 

A: Miranda? 

Just when Andy was about to consider tonight a lesson-learned, the doors swept open.  

“No, it will not wait until tomorrow. You will fix it now. If you’re incapable, then I’ll find someone that actually understands the importance of critical thinking.” Miranda breezed in, phone tucked between her shoulder and cheek, chewing out some poor soul on the opposite side of the call. "I don’t care. Get it done.” She hung up and slipped the phone into her purse, exhaling sharply through her nose. Only then did her gaze sweep forward and landed on Andy. 

The woman eyed her from head to toe. “Andréa Sachs.” 

Miranda’s tongue curled deliberately around each syllable of the architect’s name. 

She didn’t apologize for being late. She only tilted her head slightly, the weight of her presence settling over Andy like a cloak. Then, she turned to the maître d’: “Table.” 

Andy followed her. 

The brunette’s eyes trailed along the shape of Miranda’s calves to the swell of the woman’s backside. The editor wore a chestnut knitted blouse with a form-fitting cream skirt. A thin leather belt cinched her waist and Andy was nearly salivating.  

The architect discreetly adjusted her trousers as the maître d’ led them through a maze of candlelit dinners. They were taken to an elevated section of the restaurant with a selection of private booths. Once there, Miranda had slid into her seat gracefully, ankles crossed. She adjusted her cloth napkin in her lap, glanced at the wine list, and finally looked up.  

“Well?” She said coolly. “Are you planning to sit, or stand there gawking all evening?” 

Andy lowered herself into the booth, hands loose on the table. “I was just making sure you were settled first.” 

Not long after they were seated, the waiter approached. Miranda ordered without hesitation: oysters, lamb, Bordeaux. Politely, Andy requested pasta and a lemon seltzer.  

When they were alone again, Miranda’s eyes pinned her.  

The architect wanted to tell the woman just how beautiful she was. But she was sure Miranda knew enough about her own beauty and allure. It showed in the way she carried herself. 

“You’re aware I don’t suffer small talk, yes?” 

“That makes the two of us, then.” Andy replied evenly. “I appreciate you meeting with me tonight.” 

A pause.  

Miranda pulled a small tube of lotion from her handbag. Slowly, she moisturized her palms, apparently dissecting the brunette’s words for sincerity. “You assume I had nothing better to do.” 

“I assume you had a dozen better things to do,” Andy countered gently. “Which makes this matter even more.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, exactly. More like Miranda was waiting to see how long Andy could hold steady without flinching. 

Still, the brunette kept her composure. 

Miranda lifted her glass, studied her, and said, “We’ll see if you’re still so put-together once the wine runs out.” 

“Oh, I won’t be drinking tonight.” Said the architect, fully intending on savoring the moment. 

For a beat, neither of them spoke. 

Miranda set her wine glass aside. 

“How does a 20-something-year-old manage to rise to such a great deal of success in her industry in such a short span of time and, more importantly, what could she possibly want with my personal attention?” 

Humored, Andy smirked at the woman from the opposite side of the table. “Right to it, then?” 

“As I said, my time is valuable.” 

“And so is mine.” 

“So, why waste it on pleasantries?” 

Andy took a measured breath. 

“I started at twenty-two, straight out of Columbia. Top of my class, starving for a chance to prove myself. I landed at one of those firms where you either break or sharpen. I sharpened.   

By twenty-four, I realized I didn’t want to spend my life pushing someone else’s vision uphill. So, I left. Everyone told me I was insane — too young, too reckless. Maybe I was. But I bet on myself and founded my firm with nothing but a laptop, a stack of sketchbooks, and more determination than sleep.” 

The architect could tell that she had Miranda’s undivided attention now. 

“My break came at twenty-five. Christian Thompson — yes, that Thompson — decided to gamble on me. First it was one of his houses upstate. Then another. Those projects cracked the door open. Suddenly my name was in all the blogs, and people started calling. 

At twenty-six, I built a proper team. Small, only four of us. But I didn’t want a big firm. Not yet. I wanted the right people instead.” 

She’s not sure whether Miranda did it subconsciously or not, but the editor had leaned towards her, obviously intrigued. “Go on.” She prompted. 

Andy took a sip of her lemon seltzer. “By twenty-seven, my team and I had the museum commission. That project nearly swallowed us whole, but we pulled it off. The night of the gala was...that was the first time I felt like maybe we’d made it. That people finally saw SDG as more than a scrappy startup.” Andy exuded pride. “And now at twenty-eight? Well. Now I’m here. Running a firm that was supposed to be a long shot, walking into rooms I used to only dream about.” 

Their food was completely forgotten.  

There was a sudden pop of champagne at a nearby booth as Miranda wore an expression Andy wasn’t sure how to decipher.  

The editor hummed, propping her chin up in the palm of her hand. “Quite the journey, then.” 

“It sure was.” Andy nodded, “And it continues.” 

“And my other question. Why are we here tonight?” 

“Truthfully?” 

“I’d expect nothing less.” 

“You fascinate me, Miranda.” 

The reaction was immediate. The editor’s eyes turned into little sapphire slits. 

“Fascination,” Miranda said, “is the pastime of children. Butterflies, fireworks, shiny things in shop windows. Surely a woman of your… professional stature has matured beyond such flimsy indulgences.” 

Andy was slightly confused at the sudden shift in Miranda’s attitude, but she took it in stride. Temperamental thing, this woman was. The architect wondered, is it bad that I find that attractive? 

The brunette adjusted the dial of her wristwatch, attempting to ground herself from suddenly less than innocent thoughts. “On the contrary, I’ve learned that dismissing fascination can be a mistake. It’s usually the first sign you’ve found something, or someone, worth paying attention to.” 

The editor looked away for a moment. Candlelight carved sharp planes across her cheekbones. “Flattery,” she said, “And not even original.” 

Andy’s voice remained even. “I’m not here to impress you with compliments, Miranda. Anything I say to you, I actually mean it. I’m here because you’re unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. And I’d like the chance to know you. Properly. Without the chaos of work involved. That’s it.” 

The quartet’s strings filled the silence that followed, sweeping across the room. Andy let the weight of her blunt admission sit on the table between them, unafraid. 

Then Miranda reached for her glass, lifting it with exquisite precision. “Do you realize,” she said, swirling the Bordeaux once, “how many people would kill for this seat across from me? People with far more… leverage, shall we say, than a fledgling architect?” 

Andy inclined her head. “And yet here I am, sitting across from you.” 

Checkmate.  

Miranda huffed, “While tonight isn't entirely unpleasant, you should know that I have no interest in satisfying whatever fantasies you’ve concocted for yourself.”  

Andy didn’t wince. She didn’t laugh it off either. Instead, she let the words settle, sharp as they were, and leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table. 

“I don’t have fantasies about you, Miranda,” Andy said, measured. “I have respect. And a very real interest in who you are outside the world everyone else sees.” 

Miranda considered the brunette’s statement, “You presume there is an ‘outside.’ That I have some hidden self, waiting to be uncovered.” 

The architect shook her head. “No. I think you’re entirely yourself. Always. But people only notice what they expect to see. I’d like the chance to notice more.” 

“And if I told you there’s nothing more to see?” she asked. 

Andy met her gaze, unwavering. “Then I’d call you a liar.” 

"Tread carefully, Andréa.” Miranda warned, her voice a soft whisper. 

The architect laughed a warm laugh. “Either way, I’ve told you why I’m here.” She clasped her hands together, “But what I’d like to know is...why are you here, Miranda? You didn't have to agree to this. You could've said ‘no’.” 

“Maybe I should have.” 

Andy hummed, unoffended. “Did you at least like the book?” 

“It was…unexpected.” 

Andy tilted her head. “That’s not an answer.” 

Miranda’s wine-stained lips curved faintly. “Virginia Woolf is not exactly light dinner fare. Why Orlando?” 

The brunette considered her for a long moment. The candlelight flickered. Tension coiled in Andy’s stomach, a little unnerved. She didn’t want to reveal so much so soon. So, she simply said, “Because I know what it means to live between worlds. To not fit neatly into the boxes people are so determined to force you into.” 

The Bordeaux made the editor’s eyelids heavy. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she said. 

Withholding, Andy bit her lip. “Maybe one day you will.” 

<> 

As the night went on, it was no easier than pulling teeth to get Miranda to share anything even remotely personal. The editor poked and prodded Andy with several questions, constantly deflecting.  And while Andy was happy to indulge the other woman, she wished Miranda felt comfortable enough to reciprocate her openness. 

Soon, there were more vacant booths surrounding them than occupied ones.  

Andy rose as soon as Miranda did, instinctively mirroring the other woman’s movements. She waited as the woman slipped into her coat and fought the urge to guide her by her lower back once they had left their table.  

Back at the entrance of the restaurant, Miranda glanced sideways at Andy. “I’ll admit, you aren’t the worst dinner companion.” 

The architect’s lips quirked. “That’s dangerously close to a compliment.” 

The editor stuck her nose in the air. “Don’t overreach,” she said. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Andy smiled down at her. “I’d like to do this again. Somewhere less...posh. Is that possible?” 

Miranda hooked her Birkin into the crook of her elbow and regarded Andy with that same unreadable stare. 

“Goodnight, Andréa.” 

And with that, the older woman slipped away without a backward glance, leaving Andy with gratifying certainty that tonight was the beginning of something more. 

<> 

The next morning, Andy beelined for a corner table at a coffee shop in Tribeca, a place that smelled faintly of cardamom and burnt sugar, where the tables were too small for laptops but just right for conversation. 

Doug slid into the chair opposite her, already peeling the lid off his cappuccino. Lily came seconds later, juggling her phone, a pastry bag, and what looked like two folders stuffed to bursting. 

“You’re late,” Doug announced without even looking up. 

“Well, I do prefer to make an entrance,” Lily shot back, dumping her things unceremoniously onto the table before smoothing her skirt. 

Andy hid a smile behind her coffee cup. This was how most mornings with them started, like siblings sparring before they got down to business. 

Lily finally settled, stretching her legs out under the table. “Alright, troops. What’s on the docket today?” 

“Site review in Chelsea at ten,” Doug said, ticking items off on his fingers. “Client call with Milan at noon. And the consultant for the flagship boutique wants another set of revisions by Friday.” 

Andy groaned softly, combing fingers through her hair. “That’s the third round this week.” 

“Welcome to luxury retail,” Doug deadpanned. “The client doesn’t want a building, they want immortality.” 

“Don’t we all?” Lily muttered, tearing her pastry in half and dropping one piece onto Andy’s napkin. 

Andy accepted it with a grateful nod. “You’re a saint.” 

“I’m a carb mule, apparently.” 

The three of them fell into the easy rhythm of shop talk: who was dragging their heels on permitting, which supplier was behind on finishes and what new intern left out the exit signs on the fire plan. Doug’s sarcasm and Lily’s theatrics kept it from tipping into tedium, but Andy was quieter than usual. 

Her eyes drifted from their table to the far side of the café, where a woman wrestled with a toddler who had discovered the joy of spinning the sugar packets like dice. The woman’s belly strained against a linen dress, hand braced against the small of her back as she bent to retrieve the packets her son gleefully scattered. 

“Eli,” she scolded gently, “please stop, sweetheart.” 

The boy grinned, unrepentant, and dropped another packet to the floor. She sighed, crouched, and scooped him up with surprising ease despite her pregnancy. He squealed, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and she laughed; tired but full, the sound ringing bright in the hum of espresso machines. 

Andy watched longer than she meant to. 

There was something grounding in the small scene: the mundane tenderness, the easy intimacy between mother and child. It snagged something inside her, a question she hadn’t let herself dwell on before. 

She’d built so much in the past six years. She had stability. Success. Recognition. And yet, nights still ended with her unlocking an empty apartment, her only company the stack of books she couldn’t quite finish and sketches she couldn’t put down. 

Had she buried herself in work all this time because she wanted to grow SDG into something extraordinary? Or had she been using the grind to cover the absence of...real connection. Family. Someone to come home to. 

Of course, she’s had a few sexual partners over the years. But that was all it was. Just sex. Whenever she had an itch, she scratched it.  

When did that stop being enough? 

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. 

“Earth to Sachs.” Doug’s voice cut through her thoughts. 

Andy blinked. Both Doug and Lily were staring at her. 

“You totally zoned out,” Doug said. 

Andy sighed, “Do you guys believe in work-life balance?” 

Lily nearly choked on her latte. “What, are you writing a self-help book now?” 

“I’m serious,” Andy said, leaning back. “I’ve been thinking about it lately. How people manage to actually live and still keep up with everything.” 

Doug raised an eyebrow. “You mean how normal people stop working after five and don’t check their email at midnight?” 

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Something like that.” 

Lily snorted. “Please. Balance is a myth. You just choose which part of your life you’re willing to let burn for the other.” 

“Wow,” Doug muttered. “That’s bleak even for you.” 

“I’m a realist,” Lily said, shrugging. “I like my job. But if I stopped to ‘find balance,’ we’d lose half our clients.” 

Andy stirred her coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl. “That’s kind of what I mean. I’ve spent so long building all this...SDG, the reputation, the network...and now that it’s finally stable… I don’t know. I come home, and it’s just...quiet. Feels like I built something beautiful but forgot to leave room to live in it.” 

For once, Doug didn’t joke. “You’re allowed to want more, Andy. You’ve been in sprint mode for years. Maybe you’re just… ready for the next thing.” 

Lily tilted her head. “What next thing? You already have the corner office, the awards and the media attention. And we’re still growing. You’re twenty-eight. At that age most people are still figuring out how to file their taxes.” 

Andy felt a headache coming on. “I don’t know what the ‘next’ thing is. A family, maybe. Or at least...something that feels like one.” 

Lily blinked, thrown. “You? The woman who forgets to eat when she’s working? No offense, Andy...but you wouldn’t even have time to take care of a dog.” 

Doug nodded. “And you rarely leave the office before sunset.” 

“Well, I mean none of this would happen any time soon, guys.” Andy huffed, “I’d have to find someone who would even want to share all of that with me first.” 

Doug leaned forward, “Just know that there’s no perfect window where everything slows down, Andy.” 

She glanced toward the window, where the morning sunlight hit the glass just so, catching her reflection between theirs. For the first time, she wondered if maybe there really was room for more, if she would just stop long enough to make space for it. 

<> 

By the time they were wrapping up, Lily was sliding her folders back into her bag, Doug licking stray foam off his finger.  

Andy’s phone buzzed against the table. 

Natasha. 

Andy thumbed the screen. 

Nat: Briarwood Prep wants to meet. Proposal for a new auditorium. Could be big. Call me. 

Her eyebrows lifted. She looked up at Doug and Lily, both already watching her expectantly. 

“Briarwood,” Andy said, voice thoughtful. “They want us to design an auditorium.” 

Doug let out a low whistle. “Now that’s prestige.” 

“Mm,” Lily agreed, already scribbling a note in her planner. “Landing a school like that, it’s not just about the money. It’s optics. We’ll have every parent in Manhattan name-dropping SDG in the carpool lane.” 

Andy chuckled, shaking her head. “That’s one way to look at it.” 

“It’s the only way to look at it,” Lily quipped, leaning back in her chair. “Besides, it’s about time you stopped pretending you’re still the desperate underdog. You’re running with the big dogs now.” 

Doug smirked. “Which means you’ll need me to keep you humble.” 

“God forbid,” Andy said, grinning faintly. 

Their laughter blended into the hum of the café, easy and familiar. But as the noise settled, Andy’s thoughts drifted again. 

She stirred her coffee absently, letting Lily and Doug debate which of them would suffer more under the school board’s committee meetings. She should have been joining in, trading barbs. Instead, she found herself picturing a different scene entirely: two redheaded girls in pressed uniforms, one bold enough to vandalize private property, the other nervously trying to stop her. 

The twins. 

The memory tugged at Andy, unbidden. She wondered if they still thought about that afternoon in the alcove, or if it had already blurred into another ordinary school day.  

Andy forced her attention back to the table, but the thought lingered at the edges of her mind, quiet and insistent. 

<> 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 

<> 

3 PM 

The conference room at Briarwood Prep wasn’t large, but it radiated the kind of elegance that didn’t need to announce itself. Oil paintings of former headmasters lined the wood-paneled walls, their gilt frames catching the afternoon light. A long oval table stretched through the center of the room, already scattered with binders, glossy renderings, and water bottles with the school’s crest embossed on the labels. 

Andy took a seat at the far end, setting her portfolio neatly in front of her. Lily slid in beside her, iPad balanced on one knee, while Doug stationed himself against the wall. He stood quiet and observant, but ready to back her up when needed. 

The head of school, Dr. Jocelyn Pembroke, smiled thinly from her chair. “Thank you all for coming. As you know, we are in the early stages of building a new auditorium. Ms. Sachs and her team here have been retained to lead us through this process, but given the generosity of our donors…” She gestured toward the assembled parents, “…we thought it best to begin with a collaborative discussion.” 

Collaborative. Andy knew what that really meant: everyone here wants their fingerprints on the building. 

Miranda sat two seats down from Dr. Pembroke. A slim leather notebook lay open in front of her, though she hadn’t made any notes. 

It should not have surprised Andy that the editor was one of the school’s donors. Yet, she was thrown off guard by the woman’s presence. It had been four days since their dinner-not-date and the architect hadn’t heard from her since. So, she didn’t expect to see Miranda again so soon.  

Three other parents filled the adjacent seats: a venture capitalist whose name Andy vaguely recognized from the Times, an arts patron who had already begun murmuring about acoustics, and a mother who chaired three philanthropic boards and wanted to discuss “aesthetic harmony with tradition.” 

Whatever the hell that meant. 

The meeting began with pleasantries. Andy listened, patient, as one parent droned about  theater productions, another about whether the lobby could accommodate large crowds. She took notes, nodded, asked clarifying questions. This was part of the job, letting people feel heard before the real work began. 

Then, Dr. Pembroke turned toward her. “Ms. Sachs, perhaps you’d like to present your preliminary thoughts.” 

Andy rose smoothly, sliding a rendering across the table. “Our initial concept balances two needs: artistic quality and community function. The design prioritizes acoustics and visibility, while also creating flexible spaces for smaller events. The exterior would echo Briarwood’s historic lines, but with modern updates. Think...glass elements, sustainable materials and a forward-looking silhouette.” 

She spoke evenly, clearly, letting her enthusiasm show just enough. Her team had spent the entire weekend drawing and revising this presentation, and while this was only a draft, she believed in it. 

When she finished, silence stretched. Then, predictably, the venture capitalist cleared his throat. “It feels…a little stark. Shouldn’t an institution like Briarwood aim for something more...I dunno...classical?” 

Andy smiled politely. “We’re honoring tradition in the masonry and roofline. But we also want to show students that the school isn’t just preserving the past. It’s investing in the future.” 

The arts patron chimed in. “What about acoustics? I’ve been told glass is disastrous for sound.” 

“Not if designed correctly,” Andy countered easily. “We’d use angled panels and layered materials to diffuse echoes. I’ll walk you through it in the schematics.” 

She fielded each question with steady patience, diverting concerns into opportunities. 

And then Miranda finally spoke. 

Her voice was a whisper when it sliced through the chatter. “It’s uninspired.” 

Andy took a deep breath and turned her head, meeting Miranda’s gaze squarely. “Could you elaborate?” 

Miranda tilted her head, finally lifting her pen and tapping it against the rendering. “This looks like it could be any auditorium in America. I see no reason why Briarwood, with its reputation, its legacy, and yes, its resources, should settle for adequate. The design is…safe. Safe is forgettable.” 

Andy exhaled slowly, keeping her voice level. “I understand your concern. But if we move too far from functionality, we risk creating a building that looks good, but fails structurally.” 

Miranda blinked. “Where’s your imagination, Andréa?” 

The brunette cleared her throat. “Why don’t you tell me what you would do differently with the building then?” 

“Well,” The editor hummed. “If I knew the answer to that question, Ms. Sachs, I’d be standing where you are instead of paying you to answer your very own question.” 

That got Andy digging little crescents into the palm of her hand.  

“Yes!” Doug had stepped in enthusiastically. “I think we’re off to an amazing start. Everyone’s perspective is on the table now, and this will allow us to make the most efficient revisions.” He offered Miranda a faint, diplomatic smile. 

“I’m sure.” Miranda drawled. 

The tension in the air thinned. Not vanished, but shifted, diffused. Andy glanced at Doug, catching the subtle warning in his eyes: breathe, don’t bite. 

She forced her shoulders to ease, unclenching her hand behind her back. “Exactly,” the architect said, voice steadier now. 

Lily offered her support, “According to our timeline, this project could take anywhere between eight months to a year.” 

Andy chimed in, “And we’ll be sure to consider everyone’s conditions for the final draft. Prior to that, we will reconvene for the last revisions.” 

Dr. Pembroke cleared her throat. “Thank you, Ms. Sachs. This has all been very…illuminating.” 

<> 

When the meeting came to an end, the others all began to drift towards the exit. Miranda remained seated, thumbs battering the screen of her phone as if Andy were invisible. Doug shot Andy a warning look, but she gave him a small nod to say she would be fine. 

 
“I’ll meet you outside,” she murmured. 

When the room emptied, Andy walked to the far end of the table. “You didn’t like the design.” 

Miranda didn’t look up. “I didn’t say that.” 

“You didn’t have to.” Andy crossed her arms, not hostile but steady. “You spent the whole meeting poking holes in every detail. If you have real concerns, I’m happy to address them. But if you were trying to get under my skin, you should know it’s a waste of your time.” 

“Is that so?” 

“I respect your opinion, Miranda. But there’s a difference between critique and provocation. And right now, I’m not sure which one you’re aiming for.” 

Miranda set her phone down, fingers interlacing neatly. “You think I’m trying to provoke you?” 

“I think you’re testing me, yes.” Andy said, still calm. “But I don’t design to impress you. I design because I believe in what the space can do for people, especially kids who’ll be inspired in a way that encourages them to create something themselves.” 

Something softened, barely, in Miranda’s gaze. “And you believe one building can accomplish that?” 

“I believe intention shapes experience.” 

The air between them shifted. Still charged, but quieter now. Miranda looked away, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a frown. 

Then she got up, gathering her coat over one arm. She came toe-to-toe with the architect. Looking up at her, she said, “I challenge what I find interesting. You should take it as a compliment.” 

Andy was only slightly dizzy from the sweet, powdery fragrance invading her senses. “Do you always compliment people by trying to make them doubt themselves?” 

“Only when they seem capable of withstanding it.”  

And the brunette watched the other woman walk away, fixated on the feminine sway of her hips as the staccato of her heels filled the room. Andy stood for a long moment in the echo of her departure. Then she sighed, “I am so screwed.” 

<> 

4 PM 

Andy stepped out into the sharp afternoon light, the heavy glass doors whispering shut behind her. The muffled echoes of classrooms nearby gave way to the open air and the low hum of Briarwood’s campus at dismissal. 

A pavilion stretched before her, all clean lines and pale stone, perched like a watchtower above the rolling grounds. She leaned against the cool stone railing. Beyond it, a sea of green spilled outward. It was the site that, in less than a year, would hold the new auditorium. For now, it was nothing but uneven grass with the faint imprint of tire tracks where surveyors had staked the perimeter. 

Andy took a deep breath, buzzing with excitement at the start of something new. The air smelled faintly of freshly cut turf. She could hear the shouts of a soccer game winding down across the field: the rhythmic thud of a ball, a coach’s whistle, the easy, unrestrained laughter of students freed from class. A few kids cut across the courtyard nearby, their chatter carrying on the wind. 

“What are you doing here?” 

The brunette's head whipped in the direction of the voice.  

It was one of the girls she had met the last time she was at Briarwood.  

The girl looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Ralph Lauren campaign. She wore a white polo shirt with the school’s crest embroidered on the torso. Her beige jodhpurs were fitted but smudged at the knees, and her tall black riding boots were freckled with scuffs. Her helmet hung loosely from one hand by the chin strap, the other hand gripping a strap of her backpack that hung low off one shoulder. 

“Oh, hey kid!” Andy greeted her warmly, “Did you know that you guys are getting a new auditorium?” 

The twin seemed skeptical, “Says who?” 

“I just spoke with your headmistress about it. That’s why I’m here.” 

“Oh.” The teen seemed unimpressed. “Cool...I guess.”  

“Where’s your sis-” 

“I thought about what you said.”  

Andy paused at the contemplative look on the girl’s face, watching as she pulled a book from her backpack. 

“So, I worked really hard on this and I want you to help me make it last somehow. I want to share it, but I don’t know how.” 

Andy took the book from the girl. The architect studied an intricate drawing that took up both sides of the pages. It was a picture of a two headed dragon emerging from an array of clouds. One head breathed red flames and the other head breathed blue flames.  

“I was inspired by our school’s crest.” The girl shrugged, “And I just thought the flames were kind of cool.” 

The architect stood there gaping for a moment, “Cassidy, right?” 

The girl nodded, “Right.” 

“Cassidy, this is insanely good.” Andy beamed. “See, I knew you were talented. I just knew it.”  

Cassidy stood a little taller at being praised. “Thank you. For that day, I mean.” She released a shaky breath. “I’ve just been really pissed at my dad lately and…I thought doing something drastic would get him to notice us.” She said dejectedly, toeing the ground.  

Andy empathized with the girl. Granted, both her mother and father were always present in her life, emotionally and financially. But, she could imagine how having an absent parent could create a whole lot of insecurities in young kids.  

“I can’t speak on your dad’s character.” She said, “And I don’t know anything about being a parent, but I’ll tell you what my dad always told me. Focus on what you can control. That’s how you find your power. You can’t make people do right by you…but you can decide to do right by others.” 

Cassidy considered what Andy said, “But he’s my Dad. Shouldn’t he want to do right by me and my sister?” The girl visibly deflated, “We’re his kids…” 

Andy sighed, heartbroken for Cassidy. “Yes, he should want that. But adults aren’t perfect, kiddo. They don’t always make the right call and some of them regret it later in life. But you know what you do have?” 

Cassidy aggressively brushed away a tear before it could fall. “What?” She sniffed.  

“You have your mom’s love. And you have a best friend and a sister all wrapped in one. There are so many other kids that would kill to trade places with you.” 

That got a slight smile from the teen. “They are pretty amazing.” 

“I bet they are.” Andy agreed. “I’m certain your mom would do just about anything to ensure your happiness and safety. Some kids don’t have any parents to speak of…” 

“That must suck.” 

“Yeah, but you’re not navigating life by yourself. You have a great support system.” 

“But what if it’s something Carrie and I did? What if we just aren’t good enough for him to want us around?” 

“Cassidy, look at me.”  Andy waited until she had the girl’s undivided attention. Watery blue eyes landed on hers, “You are perfect exactly as you are. Do not blame yourself for anyone else being incapable of seeing that. Many people take for granted all the wonderful things they have in life. It is not your fault. It’s not your sister’s fault, either. Okay?” 

Cassidy nodded. “Okay,” She whispered.  

Behind them, someone cleared their throat.  

“Bobbsey, it’s time to go.” 

“Mom!” Cassidy was startled, quickly swiping at her face before the evidence of her tears could betray her. 

Miranda stood a few feet away, sun caught in her silver hair, and for a moment Andy forgot how to breathe. The brunette offered the book back to Cassidy, “We’ll talk more about your design later, yeah? I’ll be around.” She said quietly. “Promise me you’ll keep making art. Mastery comes with practice and you’re off to a great start.” 

Cassidy nodded, clutching the book to her chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

The girl started toward her mother, but not before glancing back at Andy; a small, grateful look that said more than words could. 

<> 

8 PM 

M: Are you at home? 

Andy’s eyes widened at the text glowing back at her. She had crashed into the velvet of her living room sofa the moment she walked through the door. A half-eaten carton of Thai sat on the coffee table nearby.  

The brunette rubbed at her eyes, sitting up abruptly. What the fuck? She stared down at her phone in confusion. Miranda was texting her. 

M: Andrea? 

A: Yes. I’m home. 

The architect held her breath. 

M: What’s your address?  

What the actual fuck. Andy felt her pulse quicken. 

A: 145 Mercer Lofts, Unit 4B. Why? Is everything alright? 

M: Perfect. I’ll be there shortly.  

Andy gaped like a fish out of water. This must be some kind of fever dream. She must’ve been more tired than she thought, passed out in her living room while her subconscious tortured her with the possibility of Miranda actually visiting her home.  

‘Shortly’? What could that possibly mean? An hour? Fifteen minutes, maybe? 

In a panic, Andy quickly tossed the remainder of her Pad Thai in the food waste bin. She scurried to the bathroom and gave herself a once over in the mirror. Her linen dress shirt was a bit wrinkled, but she wasn’t a complete mess. She quickly brushed her teeth, peppered herself with a spritz of cologne, and made a fast lap around her apartment. If the editor was being serious, Andy wouldn’t want to be seen as a slob. 

Approximately twenty minutes after Miranda’s most recent text, Andy got a notification from the lobby claiming that she had a visitor. 

Holy Fuck.  

She rarely got visitors...so the editor wasn’t bullshitting, then.  

With her heart in her throat, Andy sent confirmation to the receptionist downstairs. 

Not long after, there was a gentle knock at her door. The brunette had an outer-body experience where she watched her feet carry her to the entrance of her apartment. She took a deep breath and opened the door.  

Miranda’s hair was wind-swept, and she had an unmistakable glint in her eyes that said she was entirely pleased with herself at catching Andy unprepared.  

“Is this ‘less posh’ enough for you, Andrea?” 

Andy sputtered, “Uhh-wah-what're you doing here?” 

“Will you not invite me inside?” 

Unable to form words, the architect stepped aside, allowing Miranda entrance into her home. Her brain barely caught up to what was happening as Miranda stood patiently, waiting for Andy to help her out of her coat.  

And it was only then that Andy realized how lifeless her apartment was before. Seeing a woman as stunning as Miranda standing in the middle of her living room made the entire space feel dull in comparison.  

“Typical bachelor,” the editor hummed as she assessed Andy’s space. 

Andy ignored the sarcastic remark, “Miranda, what is this?” 

The woman hadn’t answered Andy right away. Instead, she slipped out of her heels and claimed a spot on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath herself. “Isn’t this what you wanted,” She asked.  

Andy took a seat beside her, “Well, yes. Of course. I’m glad you’re here. But you gave me the impression that it would never happen. Can you blame me for being surprised?”  

Miranda lowered her gaze and fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist. “I heard you speaking to my daughter.”  

“Oh,” The brunette readjusted herself, “You caught that, did you?” 

“I appreciate what you said to her.” Miranda looked back up at Andy. “She confessed to me about the graffiti, and while I don’t support her actions going without consequence, I’m thankful you were there to redirect her.”  

Andy was almost bashful. “It was no big deal,” she shrugged. 

“Oh, but it was.” Miranda sighed. “It’s gotten more difficult to get her to open up to me these days. She’s usually so angry, but I know it’s simply coming from a place of hurt. And I can only do so much about it...” 

In that moment, Andy could see that Miranda was carrying a lot, emotionally. The brunette had questions about the twins’ father, but she didn’t want to overstep and risk Miranda throwing her walls back up.  

Andy decided to respond with a simple truth. “I’m sure you’re doing your best, Miranda. I meant every word I said to Cassidy. Your girls are likely to grow into resourceful and independent young women.” 

Miranda smiled proudly. “I try.” 

It was the first real unguarded smile she’d gotten from the woman. It was warmth and tenderness wrapped in a single expression. It was the difference between a spec of light and a supernova. If talking about the twins disarmed Miranda in such a way, Andy wanted to know more. “How old are they?” 

“Fourteen.” Miranda shook her head in disbelief, “I’m not sure where the time went...” 

“Do you miss it?” Andy wondered. “The toddler phase?” 

The editor chuckled, “God, no. At my age?” She shook her head. “My girls never gave me much trouble. Even as infants they were easygoing. But at thirty-eight? Those days are well behind me.” 

Witnessing Miranda like this was like watching a flower unfurl. The architect didn’t want the night to end. Suddenly, Andy realized her lack of manners. “I’m sorry. Would you like something to drink?” She offered, getting up from the sofa to pad on over to the kitchen.  

<> 

10 PM 

They had cracked a bottle of white wine whose name Andy couldn't pronounce. 

Regardless, Miranda seemed to enjoy it. The woman was at the bottom of her second glass and somehow her feet ended up in Andy’s lap beneath a knitted throw blanket.  

The editor melted into the sofa as the architect worked the soles of her feet. Andy could hardly believe her eyes, “You’re harmless when you’re like this.” She smirked. “Is this all it took? Fermented grapes and a foot massage?” 

Miranda attempted to glare at her and failed when Andy’s thumb circled the ball of her heel. The woman whimpered.  

Andy’s hands stilled, and she carefully shifted Miranda’s feet from her crotch. How could she not be affected when this siren of a woman was sprawled so beautifully across her furniture, with her pretty red toes and nearly carnal whining. 

Completely unaware of the architect’s inner conflict, Miranda sighed. “I must be leaving soon,” she said, checking the dainty dial of her watch. “The girls are expecting me and I have an early morning.”  

That immediately dampened Andy’s spirit. Although, she understood why Miranda had to leave. “Of course,” She agreed, watching the editor tuck her feet back into her stilettos. the brunette cleared her throat, “I have an early morning myself, so I get it.” 

Andy walked her to the door and, even though Miranda was not hers, she felt a proprietary thrill at helping the woman slip back into her coat.  

She turned, then. Looking up at Andy with her scarlet bottom lip caught between her teeth, she whispered, “What an enlightening day.” 

Andy smiled down at her as heat pooled in her stomach, “You’re telling me...”  

The moment coiled with something unnamed as they lingered in the small hall.  

Intentionally, precariously, Miranda leaned forward.  

Andy fought the urge to snag her by her hips, allowing the editor to dictate the pace.  

The woman’s lips pressed beside the dimple of Andy’s cheek, and somehow it sobered them both.     

By the time Andy was alone again, her apartment felt distressingly spacious. The walls seemed to mock her as her footsteps echoed on her way toward the walk-in shower.  

Her body was tense with stress and the effort of keeping her composure.  

For a moment she allowed the hot spray of the shower to drum against her back. Her mind drifted to the slope of Miranda’s throat, as the woman had thrown her head back in laughter at something Andy had said.  

The architect couldn’t stop herself from wondering if Miranda would be able to take her. 

Andy felt the slightest bit of guilt as she pictured the editor on her knees, making a champion’s effort to swallow her length. She would likely struggle, but being the perfectionist Andy was certain Miranda was, the woman would take all of her.  

The mere thought of it made Andy painfully hard. 

It was with a little shame that the architect tugged at herself in the shower stall. She grunted as it took very little effort before she was painting the tiled floor and the opposing wall with her spunk.  

Her breathing was ragged as she watched the mess she made slither down the drain.  

And somehow...she felt worse. 

<> 

Chapter Text

Chapter 6 

<> 

M: What about the following Thursday? I only have one meeting that afternoon. I’m able to reschedule if you’re available. 

A: That won’t work either. I’m hosting interviews all day that day. 

A: But we can definitely plan something for the Saturday after? 

M: The girls have an appointment with their orthodontist that morning and a swim meet in the evening. I was unable to attend the last event so I absolutely cannot miss this one. 

A: Of course not. I’d never ask you to miss out on something as important as that. 

It had been a few days since Miranda had shown up on her doorstep unexpectedly. Since then, they’d developed a habit of texting one another practically any chance they got. Subsequently, Andy readily discovered that beneath Miranda’s thorns was a woman of striking charisma with an insatiable zest for life. Andy felt like an adolescent, glued to her phone. This morning, she woke up with the device loose in her hand with no recollection of falling asleep the night before.   

Each conversation felt like a dance. Miranda opening up to her was like striking a match in a dry field. It was sudden and bright and impossible to contain.  

Andy could barely make sense of it; the contrast between her dull mornings alone and this new, unspoken rhythm that seemed to hum beneath everything. It was as if some invisible hinge in her life had turned. The plot was the same, but suddenly her world had more colors. Work still thrilled her, but it no longer felt like the only thing worth waking up for. Miranda had cracked something open; a space Andy hadn’t realized she’d been saving for something, or someone, that finally fit. 

And apparently the feeling was mutual. 

M: I’d really like to see you again, Andrea.  

A: Believe me, I’d drop everything right now to come see you.  

M: So, drop everything. 

Andy read the message twice, then a third time, the words pulling a slow, involuntary smile from her. Her desk was a battlefield of open project files, coffee rings, and mockups that needed revision; all of it suddenly trivial. The architect swiveled in her chair, phone still in hand, staring at the unfinished layout on her screen. She could technically stay late and get ahead. She usually did. But recently, work felt less like purpose and more like a way to pass time until Miranda reached out again.  

It wasn’t like her to walk away from unfinished work; discipline was second nature. But lately, discipline had started to feel like an excuse for loneliness. Maybe it wouldn’t kill her to let something else (someone else) take priority, just this once. She could make up for the lost hours tonight, she decided. 

But– 

A: Do you actually mean that? 

Not even a second later–  

M: Yes. Come and see me.  

<>   

The elevator chimed softly as Andy stepped out onto the glossy floor. Across from the elevator, the RUNWAY logo gleamed on the wall in bold, metallic letters, catching the light with every movement. 

Andy smoothed her jacket and took a steadying breath before crossing the marble foyer toward the reception desk. The woman behind it barely glanced up from her monitor as Andy approached. 

“Good afternoon,” She began politely. “I’m here to see Miranda.” 

The receptionist’s expression remained flat. “Miranda isn’t taking appointments today.” 

“She’s expecting me,” Andy said, keeping her tone even. 

The receptionist looked up this time, her practiced smile a little too fixed. “I don’t have you on her schedule, Miss.” 

Andy met the woman’s gaze with practiced patience. “Could you just let her know that Andrea Sachs is here?” 

The receptionist hesitated, then gave a resolute shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sachs. But – as I said, Miranda is not taking any appointments right now.” 

The architect exhaled quietly through her nose. 

She pulled out her phone.  

A: I’m here, but your receptionist won’t let me through. 

The reply came almost immediately. 

M: One moment. 

Andy smiled faintly. The blonde behind the desk was mid-sentence about “corporate policy” when the sharp click of heels echoed down the hall. 

The red-headed woman Andy met during the museum shoot appeared in a blur of motion, urgency in her step. “Miss Sachs,” the assistant said briskly. “Right this way.” 

Andy couldn’t help a smug smirk as the desk clerk turned the color of milk. She followed the assistant down a pristine corridor. The rooms along the way were scattered with people, finely tailored bodies moving in synchronized chaos. At the end of the hall, a pair of frosted glass doors waited.  

The assistant pushed them open and gestured her inside.  

Andy held her breath as she observed the queen in her very own palace. Miranda sat surrounded by stacks of binders, studying a book with unwavering attention. The tip of the arm of her glasses rested in the corner of her mouth. Her signature hoop earrings gleamed beside her cheeks and her legs were crossed in a way Andy could only describe as seductive.  

She's so sexy when she’s focused, Andy thought. 

The architect announced herself. “Hey, you.” 

Miranda’s head shot up, “Andrea.” 

The editor quickly got up to greet her. Andy was pleasantly surprised when she received a soft peck against her jaw. The brunette froze, pulse skipping in her throat. The gesture was too brief to be properly savored and too warm to be considered formal. 

So, the cheek-kiss-thing wasn't just a once off...good to know. 

“Did you have any preferences for lunch?” Miranda asked as she led Andy by the hand towards a pair of leather chairs in the corner of the office. 

Andy gave it some thought. “I do have a strange craving for lasagna right now,” she said as she took the seat opposite the older woman. 

“Emily,” Miranda called. 

The English woman materialized. “Yes, Miranda?” 

“Call Maison Vertu and place one order for the chef’s special and another for the Lasagna al Forno. Have it here in fifteen minutes. That’s all.” 

The assistant, Emily, squeaked. “Of course, Miranda.” Then she promptly left the room. 

From her chair, the editor sighed. “I know this isn’t exactly ideal, but I’m very glad to see you, Andrea.” 

Andy leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I’m definitely not complaining.” She smiled, “I’m happy to see you too.” 

“We really should figure out better circumstances to meet under.” 

“I know but...” The brunette rubbed at the back of her neck. “My hands are full for a while. There’s no way to work around it.” 

Miranda hummed in thought. "You said you were free on Saturday?” 

The architect bit her lip, “That I am.” 

Then, a rare hesitation flickered through Miranda’s composure, which made Andy especially attentive because...Miranda never hesitated.  

She noticed the woman’s eyes flicked toward the window before settling back on her. Miranda cleared her throat, “I’ve given it some thought and wondered if you’d like to come to the girls’ swim meet.” 

Andy’s eyebrows shot to her hairline, “Oh?”  

“I’m usually alone in the stands and...” The editor brushed lint from her skirt. “I do enjoy your company.” 

The brunette was stunned at the offer. But–  

“What about the girls?” Andy wondered. “How would they feel about it?” 

“I’m sure you know Cassidy won’t mind.” Miranda tilted her head, “And Caroline has always been the more easygoing of the two of them.” 

“Won’t they think it’s strange, though? Me being there?” 

“Why would it be strange?” The editor asked softly, her blue eyes fluttering slowly. “We are friends...aren’t we?” 

Andy squinted, suppressing a smile. “Friends...?”  

She was being baited. She could just tell.  

She felt it in the way Miranda held her gaze. And in the way Miranda traced the edges of her off the shoulder blouse, slowly brushing her own clavicle with the pad of her index finger.  

Miranda knew exactly what she was doing.  

The vixen. 

Andy swallowed audibly.  

Her throat felt tight, words gathering behind her teeth. She wasn’t sure what she meant to say: a deflection, a tease, maybe even a confession. She never got the chance to decide. 

A sharp knock sounded against the door. 

“Come in,” Miranda called, her voice crisp again, all business. 

Emily appeared, balancing two white boxes in her arms and doing her best not to make eye contact with either of them. “Lunch is here,” she announced quickly, her tone betraying the faintest hint of relief. 

Miranda readjusted herself in her seat, composure slipping neatly back into place. “Set it on the table.” 

As the assistant hurried to obey, Andy exhaled quietly, trying to disguise it as a casual breath. The charged silence dissolved into the polite clatter of packaging and silverware. 

Emily retreated almost immediately, mumbling something about a phone call as she closed the door behind her. 

Miranda and Andy were alone again, but the moment had passed. 

“Preston called this morning.” 

Ah.  

Preston.  

Miranda’s first husband. The twins’ father. And a masterclass in how to disappear without technically dying.  

“Did he?” Andy inquired as she stabbed at her serving of lasagna. 

Miranda’s voice was composed, but there was a thin thread of weariness underneath. “He wanted to ‘check in,’ as he calls it. Said he’d try to make the next swim meet.” A faint scoff escaped her. “I didn’t bother reminding him he’s said that too many times before.” 

Andy witnessed the other woman struggle with the weight of her emotions.  

The editor picked at her salad, gaze distant. “The first time he broke their hearts they were eight,” she said quietly. “Caroline had a recital. Piano. Cassidy had made these big carboard signs. Oh, God, the amount of glitter.” Miranda smiled briefly, but then it dimmed. “They waited by the window for him all afternoon.” 

She paused, eyes flicking toward the untouched breadstick in front of her. “He never showed. He called the next day to say something had come up at work.” A humorless laugh slipped out. “Caroline didn’t cry until she saw me trying not to.” 

Andy felt her chest tighten. “That’s awful,” she murmured. 

Miranda’s expression softened, the steel in her posture bending under the memory. “I’ve spent so much time trying to protect them from disappointment,” she said, voice low, “and then realized I’ve just been teaching them to expect it.” 

Andy set her food aside. She didn’t offer solutions. She didn’t try to explain or console. She simply let Miranda speak, and when there were pauses, she stayed present, letting the silence carry the weight instead of filling it. 

“You’re doing everything you can,” Andy said softly, almost a whisper, her voice more steady than her racing thoughts. “And they’re going to be fine…with or without him.” 

Miranda gave her a quivering smile, “I hope you’re right.” 

<> 

They had both just finished their lunch when Miranda got up from her seat opposite Andy. She approached the brunette, maneuvering to stand between the architect’s knees. Deftly, the editor took a slip of napkin and gently dabbed at Andy's chin.  

“You’re wearing the last of your lunch.” The editor said as she brushed a drop of sauce from Andy’s face.   

Sitting straighter, Andy looked up at Miranda as she held the older woman by the back of her legs. 

Andy gave it no thought. It simply felt right.  

The quiet intimacy was broken by a soft rap at the door. A bald man in a sharp three-piece suit entered the office with a folder in hand. He paused mid-step, his brow knitting as he took in the scene, the proximity between the two. 

“Uh...Miranda,” he said, voice a touch higher than usual, as if realizing too late that he’d walked in at the wrong moment. “The board wants the final drafts on the European campaign by the end of the day. I thought I should…” 

“Nigel,” Miranda cut in, her tone clipped but courteous, the annoyance clear only in the slight tightening of her jaw. “I’m perfectly aware of what the board wants. I’ll handle it. Thank you.” 

Nigel straightened, cheeks coloring faintly as he nodded and retreated, casting one last hesitant glance over his shoulder. 

Andy exhaled, the spell of the afternoon easing around her. She rose from her chair, adjusting her watch. “I guess I’ll let you get back to it,” she said softly, offering a warm, reassuring smile. 

Miranda’s gaze softened just slightly, the tension in her shoulders loosening. “Saturday, then?” 

Andy gave a definite nod and moved toward the door, pausing briefly in a moment of weakness. “See you Saturday,” she said, and with that, she left. 

<> 

Andy eased her work truck into the packed parking lot outside the Westbrook Aquatic Center. It was the kind of sprawling glass-and-concrete stadium that looked more like an airport terminal than a high school sports venue. She cut the engine, tugged the brim of her black cap lower, and watched parents with fold-up chairs and tote bags stream past. 

Inside, the smell of chlorine hung thick in the air, mingling with the echo of whistles, the slap of water, and the rhythmic chant of teams cheering. Andy found her way to the upper deck where families clustered together in color-coded sections. She caught sight of the familiar silver bob before anything else.  

Even here, surrounded by bleachers and swim caps, Miranda managed to look regal. A few parents had clearly noticed her too, their glances quick and deferential. Miranda didn’t return them. 

Andy climbed the first few steps only to pause midway. For a moment, she just took it in. The editor: out of her element but still collected. The twins: side by side in their team warmups, heads bent toward each other in animated conversation. 

Cassidy looked up and spotted her. 

The teen’s face lit up like it was the first day of summer. 

She nudged Caroline, who followed her gaze. Both girls broke into wide smiles and waved in excitement. 

That small reaction did something to Andy. It erased every iota of doubt she had about the girls not wanting her there. She raised a hand in return, grinning, before making her way across the row toward them. 

“You came.” Miranda greeted, that trademark composure softening ever so slightly.  

“Where else would I be?” 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Miranda responded, looking up at the brunette. “Much less be able to find us in this circus.” 

“Well, I figured the best seats in the house would be reserved for you,” the architect replied easily, stepping aside as a vendor wheeled by a cart loaded with refreshments. She motioned toward the bench. “May I?” 

Miranda moved her purse to the opposite side of her lap. “By all means.” 

Andy felt a quiet kind of euphoria as she sat beside the other woman. Close, but not close enough, their shoulders nearly touching. Caroline turned around from her seat in front of them with her goggles perched on her forehead. 

“Andy! You're here!” She said, beaming. Her braces were on full display. Then, as if trying to contain her excitement, the girl lowered her voice. “Mom told us you were coming, but we didn’t believe her.” 

Without warning, Cassidy wordlessly threw herself over the bench and squeezed Andy around the neck.  

“Woah,” Andy barely had time to brace herself. She tried to swallow the knot of emotion stuck in her throat as she returned Cassidy’s embrace. “I’m happy to see you too, kid.” 

The architect glanced up, catching Miranda watching them. The woman’s eyes were glittering as her lips curled into a serene smile.  

All the attention left Andy feeling warm from the inside out.  Miranda seemed…pleased, maybe even relieved, and that made the brunette easily return her smile.  

+ 

Down below, swimmers dove into lanes with clean precision. Water splashed up in sharp arcs, the crowd erupting in cheers. The twins leaned forward on the bench below, calling out encouragement to their teammates, voices bright and earnest. It was infectious. Andy found herself clapping when they did and laughing when Caroline groaned at a missed turn. 

When the girls left to warm up for their own relay, Miranda exhaled quietly beside her. Andy glanced over, studying her profile. There was tension in the woman’s shoulders that no amount of poise could hide. 

“Everything alright?” Andy asked. 

Miranda’s chin lifted slightly. “Everything’s fine. I simply… dislike losing.” 

Andy snorted, keeping her tone light. “You do know it’s the girls competing, right?” 

Playfully, Miranda shot her a sidelong glance. “Don’t be obtuse, Andrea.” Her voice softened a fraction. “When they’re out there, it feels like a piece of me is, too.” 

When the announcer called Cassidy’s name for the 200-meter freestyle, Miranda straightened immediately. Andy’s hand brushed her elbow, a small, instinctive gesture meant to ground her when the crowd surged. It was such a fleeting touch that Miranda barely reacted, but Andy felt the static of awareness spark between them. 

Cassidy stepped up to the block, bouncing slightly on her toes. In support of her sister, Caroline leaned against the railing closest to the pool, cheering her on.  

The buzzer sounded…and Cassidy didn’t move. 

A split second too long. 

By the time the girl dove in, the others were already cutting through the first stretch of the lane. The race carried on, but Miranda had gone still beside Andy, her fingers grasping at the younger woman’s wrist.  

When Cassidy surfaced after her final lap, she was breathing hard, her face tight with frustration. Andy winced in sympathy and took the editor’s hand. Keeping her voice even, she said, “She’ll shake it off. Don’t worry. She’s got this.” 

Anxious, Miranda kept quiet, eyes fixed on the pool. 

Cassidy climbed out, wrapped in her towel, and avoided looking up at the stands. Caroline hovered protectively near her sister.  

“We should go down,” Andy murmured quietly. 

Miranda blinked. “Go down?” 

“She’ll need encouragement,” Andy said gently. “Even if she doesn’t say it.” 

Miranda drew a slow breath, eyes still on her daughter. “You might be right.” she said, before rising from the bench. Andy followed suit, and as they moved along the narrow aisle, the architect placed a steadying hand at the small of the editor’s back, guiding her through the crowd without thinking. 

+ 

They found the girls in the locker corridor. Cassidy looked small wrapped in her towel, obviously trying to hold herself together. All while Caroline was mid-argument with another swimmer, a taller girl with a sneer in her voice. “—wasn’t my fault your sister can’t hear the buzzer!” The girl snapped. 

Caroline’s fists balled. “That doesn’t give you the right to talk sh—” 

“Hey,” Andy’s voice cut through, calm but commanding. She stepped between the bickering teens, “That’s enough.” 

The tall girl faltered, glancing at Andy, then at Miranda.  

“Whatever,” the troubled adolescent mumbled before walking away with her tail between her legs.  

Caroline huffed, still bristling before turning to the adults. “Mom, I swear she started it.” 

“We saw,” Andy said before Miranda could respond, resting a steady hand on Caroline’s shoulder. “You did the right thing defending your sister.” 

That earned a flicker of relief from Caroline, her posture easing just a touch. Beside her, Cassidy wiped at her eyes, trying to hide how shaken she was. 

Andy nudged the girl affectionately. “Tough break on that start, huh? I swear that buzzer lagged a full second.” 

Cassidy looked up. “You actually think so?” 

“Without a doubt,” Andy said, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “I’ve seen fairer starts in Mario Kart.” 

That got a small laugh out of both girls.  

Miranda stepped in. Her hand brushed lightly over Cassidy’s damp red hair.  “You handled your setback well, Bobbsey. Some swimmers would’ve let that rattle them completely.” 

Skeptical, Cassidy gave a small shrug. 

“Seriously, Cass.” Andy insisted, “You kept your head in the race. You committed to seeing it through. That’s worth acknowledging.”  

Miranda nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on her children with a hint of pride. “And next time, you’ll create a new record for yourself. I’m sure of it.” 

+ 

They had returned to their seats, this time closer to the pool. The crowd was loud again, a low roar of excitement rolling across the stands, but between Andy and Miranda, there was a brief, pocketed silence. 

“You good?” Andy asked softly. 

Miranda seemed contemplative, then spoke just loud enough for Andy to hear. “You handle them well.” 

The brunette’s expression was earnest. “They make it easy.”  

Down below, the twins reappeared poolside. They were adjusting their goggles and shaking out their gangly limbs. Andy leaned forward instinctively, forearms braced on her thighs, tracking their every movement. 

When the announcer called the relay lineup, the noise in the stadium spiked. The girls took their marks, Cassidy glancing once toward the stands. Her eyes found her mother, then Andy. The girl gave them a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. 

Strangely, Andy was overcome with pride.  

The buzzer blared.  

The swimmers sliced cleanly into the water, the race unfolding in a blur of foam and motion. Miranda’s knuckles whitened on the armrest, holding her breath. Andy herself was at the edge of her seat through every turn, every kick. 

And then it happened. Cassidy touched the wall first. Caroline only a heartbeat behind. 

Miranda’s applause was refined and deliberate. But the brightness in her eyes gave her away. Andy, on the other hand, was already on her feet, cheering unabashedly, hands cupped around her mouth as she whistled loud enough to startle the people around them. 

It was as if she’d been doing this for years. 

Cassidy looked up first, then Caroline, both girls easily spotted their mother and Andy. They waved wildly, dripping and grinning from ear to ear. Andy waved back, her grin matching theirs, while Miranda’s composure melted just enough for her to lift a hand too. 

For the briefest moment, the four of them existed in their own little world; laughter, applause, and the shimmer of water and light. 

<> 

As the stadium began to empty, Miranda gathered her purse while Andy retrieved the twins’ duffel bags from the benches.  

Caroline was chattering animatedly about the relay and Cassidy’s earlier disappointment seemed to have evaporated altogether. 

When they reached the parking lot, the twins ran ahead toward Miranda’s Mercedes.  

“They like you,” Miranda said quietly beside her. 

Andy glanced at her. “They’re good kids.” 

“It’s… unusual,” Miranda admitted. “They’re not easily impressed.” 

Andy snorted. “Guess that makes the three of you.” 

Miranda clicked her key fob and the twins scrambled inside the backseat of the car.  

Andy hoisted the duffel bags and eased them into the trunk. Once everything was secured, the women found themselves standing toe-to-toe at the rear of the sleek car.  

The brunette threw caution to the wind and reeled Miranda in by the waist, pulling her close.  

“This meant everything to me.” 

No preamble.  

“I mean it.” Andy couldn’t stress it enough. “Today meant everything to me.” 

Miranda laced her arms around the brunette’s neck. The older woman stared up into Andy’s eyes, licked her lips and whispered. “It’s left an impression on me as well.” 

A moment passed. 

“You want to kiss me. I can tell.” 

Andy laughed at the accusation. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.” She said, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first saw you under the skylight of the atrium.”  

Miranda hummed, pressing her forehead against Andy’s. “And I would encourage you, now. Only, my children are gaping at us through the windshield.” 

For a heartbeat, they simply stood there. Yet the girls’ watchfulness made the moment impossible. 

So, they didn’t kiss. 

Instead, Andy walked Miranda to the driver’s side.  

Miranda got in and the engine purred to life as Andy stood beside the car. “Get home safely,” she said. 

Miranda seemed reluctant to leave. “You do the same.” 

The back window rolled down. “Bye Andy!” Both girls yelled in unison.  

And as she watched the Benz’s taillights shrink in the distance, Andy felt like her whole world had just shifted. She was left alone in the parking lot with the tangible, undeniable truth of what she wanted...and who she wanted it with. 

<>