Disclaimers and Ratings: I own nothing and am making no profit from this work (aside from the satisfaction of writing). This chapter explores adult themes and has language that anyone under 16 really shouldn't be reading. Let's rate this at R. From Chapter 3 forward the rating will go to NC-17.

A/N: I would like to thank Firebird93 for her awesome beta work. Without her you all would be suffering through comma faults, a few awkward phrasings (okay, maybe a bit more than a "few"!) and all those other unfortunate things that happen when I channel a scene in my head directly onto paper. So thank you E! She is also a writer and has posted in DWP-land. Her fic "Forgiveness" is especially wonderful and can be found on fanfiction dot net.

Chapter 1

How did I get here? Andy struggled with remaining still and calm as she waited for judgment, as she waited for the ridicule and disdain she was certain would be bestowed upon her. She kept her eyes down, focusing on the sculpted patterns of the pale butter yellow carpet. Her nose began to itch but she ignored it, keeping her hands firmly behind her back.

Seconds passed, the silence broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the ridiculously ornate mantle clock so typical of the Louis XIV style and the subtle in and out of her breathing. If she didn't know better she'd swear she was alone in this room, but no ripple of movement had heralded an exit; no, she was quite sure she'd shocked the other woman if the preternatural stillness that greeted her actions was any indication.

She was distracted by a tickling sensation; a trickle of sweat was making its way from between her breasts to her belly, the material of her loose cashmere sweater providing no barrier to its progression.

More quiet clicks of the minute hand pulled time as if it were an extra thick mass of saltwater taffy. Andy considered again how she had arrived at precisely this moment, her fate on a razor's edge. Utter ruin or… A rustle of fabric disrupted her anxious self-chatter but it lasted for only a few seconds. She remained immobile even as her thoughts raced. Yes, two possibilities here: ruin and complete humiliation followed by a forced march back to Ohio or something so amazing that for a long time she'd dared not even allow the extravagance of belief in the possibility.

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Miranda watched as a pink tongue slipped between luscious red lips before a flash of white teeth tugged lightly at the bottom lip. Slowly her power of observation was returning her to the place of equilibrium so startlingly disrupted by the actions of a young woman nearly half her age, but with perhaps more courage than the entire board of Elias Clark. She now faced a decision from which, once made, there would be no going back. As she contemplated the fate of not only herself but also of Andréa, she was forced to examine the road that had led her to this point. It really should have come as no surprise when she stopped to think about it. Months now the dynamic between them had been shifting and bubbling, not unlike a mountain stream on its way to the ocean, tumbling quickly down steep grades or burbling lazily through flat, grassy glens, always in motion with no apparent pattern.

Well, that stream has apparently arrived at a loggerhead. Miranda internally snorted at her allegorical meanderings as she tapped her chin. But she realized now that there did exist a pattern and the space she was forced into now allowed her to actually see - and grudgingly accept - her part in its formation.

But what to do? Indecisiveness was never one of her foibles so to have it loom now, the decision heavy with import, indicated the enormity of the moment. This act, this amazingly, never-to-have-been-conceived of act by a creature who embodied beauty both inside and out had, she realized, not only assuaged all of the anger and hurt stemming from Andréa's earlier abandonment, but had completely humbled Miranda.

As Miranda's contemplation stretched outward, she asked herself with no small amount of wonder how she had even earned this trust. The utter stillness of the form before her allowed Miranda the space to traverse fully the winding switchbacks within her own psyche, leading her to admit her collaboration in the events leading to this moment in time.

Time. The finally crafted masterpiece of a mantle clock, perfectly executed (albeit in a style that she personally loathed), continued to mark the continuation of time and would continue regardless of her decision; it was the consequences that would differentiate how that time would be experienced by not only herself but by Andréa as well.

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Andy realized it started with a speech. The scathing "Cerulean" lecture in which Miranda called her on her ignorance and arrogance – and tore the fabric of all she'd naively held true to that point in her life. That's when the questions began, when she could no longer abide in the static place defined by a midwestern college girl's view of the world. It was the beginning of the end of her relationship with Nate and the birth of the perceptual transformation of Miranda and of herself.

Yes, she acknowledged that she had never been so completely humiliated in her life, and the resulting embarrassment and anger fit well within the scope of her emotional comfort. But there had been something more occurring, something that didn't sit well with what she knew of herself so she had dismissed it as irrelevant. Clearly though, it hadn't disappeared, for the narrowest of fissures had been created, allowing for that something indescribable that was bubbling deep within to leach silently into her subconscious. In hindsight Andy now saw that despite firmly trampling those fledgling glimmers of her new self and tossing them into an unlit corner of her mind, she couldn't discount their role as harbingers of things to come.

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Miranda looked for guidance in her own past thoughts and actions. Why had she never fired Andréa? She was not known for her patience with people who did not contribute to the environment of efficiency and order around her or who did not fit the meticulously crafted scene she had created at Runway, so why had she tolerated it with Andréa? And those were the least of her transgressions! The girl had actually had the gall to pass judgment on her entire industry and all Miranda had done was verbally smack her down, leaving her bruised but still within her realm.

Why?

She returned her gaze to Andréa and began to walk slowly around the enigmatic offering before her. Never had she been presented with such a…

Hmm. She struggled with the "what" of it. What does one call this… this presentation, this offer, this… gift? Perhaps she needed not to worry so much about defining it as she needed to make a decision about how to proceed.

She reviewed her options. There was the obvious, the expected course: she could send the young woman away. No, she should send her away. It's what everyone would expect of her after all. But the gut-wrenching ache that surfaced at the mere thought was answer enough.

So… one down.

Another response, this also a socially acceptable alternative, was to turn away and pretend as if the last twelve hours had never happened. Just dive straight into a discussion of the next day's schedule before demanding Andréa bring her coffee from that little café across the street.

She pursed her lips and acknowledged that she didn't want coffee right now.

In fact, a single-malt sounded much more attractive. With one last gaze at the woman who had yet to lift her head, so patiently awaiting her fate, she walked the few paces into the dining area, heading to a sideboard next to the dining table where a full bar was situated.

She poured herself a single finger only, as she knew she needed to keep her wits about her, leaned back, legs crossed and one elbow resting on the highly polished surface of the elaborately carved wooden cabinet, and gave free rein to her eyes as they greedily traveled the length of Andréa's body.

Miranda willed her lips to curve upwards, attempting, through conscious manipulation of her body, to offset her discomfiture with a cockiness she really did not feel because even accepting that a third alternative existed was pure folly. She took a small sip of the potent liquid and swirled it in her mouth, letting its flavor explode across her tongue. Humming slightly in satisfaction, she tried to steady her mind because this option frankly caused her brain to stumble. Could she? Could she act on something she'd only ever considered in her safely kept and closely held fantasies? A minor tremor caused the glass to shake slightly as parts long thought to be in hibernation if not well-embalmed, clenched in sympathetic response to the images created in her very active imagination.

Would it be so difficult? Even as Miranda pondered her ability to rise to the occasion, a realization slammed home. She'd already been doing it. Granted, not to this extreme, but she could see that they'd been playing a game for the last month at least. Only now Andréa had stripped away all pretense and boldly dropped her request at Miranda's feet.

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When Andy heard Miranda move away she had to suppress a gasp of disappointment as well as a burning need to look up and see what the editor was doing. Instead she focused once again on the carpet and on what she was able to discern just from the long moments since she'd instigated this turn in their interaction. Though she couldn't see the clock she could tell that at least ten minutes had passed since she'd made her request. That she hadn't been tossed out on her ass she considered a favorable sign.

She stifled a sigh, because with Miranda you just never knew for sure. She might simply be letting Andy stew, just to get back at her for leaving earlier, before she kicked her out and had her blacklisted. But that inner voice that almost always guided her on the correct path (when she took the time to actually listen to it), assured her that Miranda was not being arbitrarily cruel right now. So bolstered, she waited, using what she had learned from many years of practicing Tae Kwan Do to focus again on the center of calm that allowed her to maintain her position with a minimum of discomfort.

The sound of Miranda humming in obvious pleasure at whatever liquor she was drinking nearly undid her resolve. Scrabbling for something to take her mind off of the utter sensuality of the sound, Andy thought back to a recent interaction between them. Perhaps, after the "Cerulean" speech it was the most transformative.

About a month before Paris and shortly after the Harry Potter triumph Andy had been delivering The Book when she came upon the twins in the hall as she stepped into the townhouse. They'd not really spoken when she dropped the manuscripts off to them at Grand Central and the three of them stood frozen, staring at one another, until the girls, in harmony, dropped their eyes to the floor and mumbled an apology. To say that she was floored was an understatement, but she thanked them as she moved to put the dry cleaning into the closet. Cassidy opened the closet door for her and Andy smiled one of her beaming smiles, causing the girl to blush.

"Thank you… Cassidy is it?" She'd seen the girls in the office a couple of times and took care to pay attention when Miranda addressed them, noting the slight differences in freckling and height and the huge difference in temperament. "You didn't have to do that, but I appreciate it."

The girl looked up in shock, all embarrassment forgotten as Caroline slid next to her sister and gazed at her. "How do you know she's not Caroline and I'm not Cassidy?"

Flashing her widest smile, Andy laughed. "If I told you that you'd probably find a way to make me wish I hadn't."

If her expression was any indication, Caroline was about to issue a denial, but was preempted by Miranda's voice floating down the hall. "Cassidy, Caroline, aren't you supposed to be in bed? Or do I need to come back out there?"

Andy laughed at how quickly the girls dashed up the winding stairs but sobered as she heard the quiet "Andréa, come here." The command made her pivot on her heel immediately and without thought.

After joining the editor in the sitting room and handing over the mock-up, she placed herself in what she had come to call "Miranda parade rest." Not quite at attention but attentive with back straight, head slightly down, and her hands behind her back. On this night the blouse that she wore gapped more severely than normal as her stretched arms pulled at the fabric.

They stood in silence. Andy had looked up after it had gone on longer than usual, stunned to see Miranda seemingly fixated on her chest. She squirmed slightly, hyperaware of a telltale dampness between her legs, the quantity of which increased when a slight scowl on Miranda's face and pursing lips preceded the ice blue eyes as they rose to skewer her own. Andy's fidgeting ceased immediately even as her inner thigh muscles clenched against an internal throbbing.

Whatever else was said that evening was immaterial, but the internal conversation that Andy had as she made her way home via the subway forced her to admit a few truths.

One. She realized that she responded without thought to Miranda's cues of displeasure.

Two. She found that she wanted to please Miranda, no matter what.

Three. She experienced an odd sort of sensual pleasure at being the object of Miranda's sole focus.

Four. When she knew that Miranda was pleased with her it made her hot in a way that no one else had ever managed.

So bothered was she that the dreams she'd been having almost since starting at Runway, which until that point had been mere shadow images beyond her memory's grasp in the waking world, began to sharpen and remain accessible during the day. The week following what she now called the "gapping blouse" incident saw those dreams seep into her daily life, intruding upon the few quiet moments between errands and run-throughs. Even though the images were often disjointed and fleeting, a mix of visual and sensory, they managed to shake her to her core.

For this was not the Andy she thought herself to be. No, Andy would never desire to have her hands bound behind her back, never want someone to deliver a stinging slap to her bare bottom, never desire to kneel before someone.

Never. Not sweet, innocent Andy from Cincinnati, Ohio.

The resulting conflict resulted in her being jumpy and distracted more than usual - to the point that Nate, who was exceedingly self-absorbed, actually noticed.

Nate.

Andy shifted slightly, just enough to keep the circulation flowing, as it now had to be at least fifteen minutes since her impetuous and wildly inappropriate act.

Nate, she now realized, would never have worked, even if no Miranda had entered the picture; it probably would have just taken her longer to figure it out. Never had she been as turned on with him, naked with him pleasuring her, as she had been clothed and at rest in front of a stern Miranda. So it was after that week of distracted and twitchy hell that Andy had decided that she needed to understand more about the dynamic of herself in relation to Miranda Priestly because at some point she had realized that the "someone" present in most if not all of those snippets of longing was not faceless or nameless. Of course she conveniently ignored that one occasion that she had got herself off with thoughts of Miranda running through her head.

Having no idea who to talk to, she turned to the internet, using her laptop at home on those nights when Nate was scheduled to close at the restaurant. She didn't know where to start, didn't have the vocabulary to plug into a search engine, as this was so far beyond the realm in which she was raised and to which she had been exposed since leaving home. So she started with S&M.

Oookay. That had been an eye-opener. But most all of it, with a few notable exceptions, felt disingenuous and frankly made her feel sick to her stomach. The last thing Andy wanted to see was some man glorifying his power over a woman - that happened enough in real life; that there was so much of it out there almost caused her to shut her laptop and forget all about it. But that voice inside of her wouldn't let her be and as she continued her research she found other words, other acronyms, like D/s, which led her finally to several sites that explored what it meant to be a submissive. Whereas the sex and kink sites were at times shocking, unsettling, and occasionally arousing, the feelings evoked merely rumbled like a storm on the horizon. It was the online journal of one submissive in particular that cracked like a thunderclap directly above her head, blowing her mind and shaking her to her very core because, once the initial tumult receded, Andy realized that the other woman's words could have been her own.

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Miranda swirled the golden liquid, staring as if mesmerized by the shifting, swirling shapes constantly moving and changing. She knew enough about who she was to understand that she was not going to send Andréa away, either with anger or feigned ignorance. Once that was acknowledged, acceptance was quick to follow.

Now. What to do?

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The sharp sound of a heavy glass hitting wood startled Andy from her reminiscence. Her palms began to sweat and her thighs began to quiver. Could it be that Miranda had decided? But the adrenalin slowly drained from her system after several long moments in which nothing changed except that she could now hear Miranda's breathing. The desire to look up was nearly impossible to resist now as all the cues available to Andy's senses seemed to indicate that Miranda was truly struggling; it was only by focusing once again upon her memories that Andy found from within the restraint.

This time she was transported back to the fight Nate and she had had only two weeks before.

Andy had just walked in the door and was setting her bag on the round table that served as both desk and dining surface. Nate was on the couch, her laptop in front of him. She thought nothing of it; he often used her laptop to look up recipes since his had died the month before and he was saving for a new hard drive.

"Hey, Nate, how's it going?" Andy was distracted and didn't really look at him, but the sharpness of his response cut through her preoccupation.

"What?" She turned to face him fully and leaned against the rickety table.

Nate rolled his eyes at her and then regarded her with a strange mix of sadness, disbelief, and disgust. "I said, is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Andy swore her heart nearly skipped a beat as she quickly catalogued everything on that computer. Fortunately her journal was password protected so nothing too revealing written in her own hand was accessible. Pondering her search history she reassured herself that she'd used a browser that didn't use tracking cookies and so stared at him for a moment, shrugging with a nonchalance she hoped would be enough.

"What are you talking about?"

Nate grumbled under his breath, "What am I talking about?" Then after a few clicks of the mouse started to read, "She told me to 'assume the position,' which means on all fours, so I did quickly, positioning my ass perfectly with my arms outstretched on the bed above my head. I waited for what felt like hours when a sharp slap stung the softest part of my buttocks, sending a torrent of liquid gushing from my pussy as my clit jumped to attention. Four more slaps and my mistress asked, 'What do you need, my dirty little girl?' 'More please mistress.'"

Andy could only stare in shock. How the hell did he find that? With a sinking feeling she realized she'd protected everything else from prying eyes but not a few stabs at creative writing.

"What the actual fuck, Andy?"

"Nate, look, it's just fantasy." Andy tried to placate.

"I don't understand!" He stood and paced in front of her. "Why do you need that sick, deviant…"

Andy swallowed convulsively against the acid rising in her stomach.

He turned sharply and glared at her as his hands tore frantically through his perpetually messy hair. "Does that turn you on?! I know we haven't been tearing it up lately in bed, but shit, is that why? Am I not sick enough for you?"

Andy felt that last part like a slap to her face and she straightened. "Nate! Stop it!" She moved in closer to him but still left enough room to throw her hands out and upward in disgust. "I'm not going to take this. I haven't done anything wrong, so show me some damn respect!"

"Yeah, like you're showing yourself any respect. Seriously?! Answer me. Does this turn you on?" His voice has softened somewhat, nearly pleading, and Andy willed strength to every muscle ready to collapse.

She straightened her spine and looked him in the eye. "Yes. It does."

The look he gave her made her understand that they were truly over. It had been inevitable, but still the actual ending of it was more difficult than she had ever imagined.

"Look…"

Nate put a hand up. "No. Don't. I…" He pushed a hand through his shaggy hair. "I don't know who you are anymore. And after reading that, and hearing that you aren't ashamed, I don't want to."

He stomped out of the room in a manner that reminded Andy of her three year old nephew and she stood still, thinking perhaps that the feeling within her now was what people described as shock.

He slept on the couch that night and left the next morning.

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When she stopped to think about it now she recognized that a part of her wanted Nate to find her writing. She'd had no clue how to end it with him, and had even lied to him in that final argument; she did feel guilty, but not because of her desires, but rather because in her mind she had been so unfaithful to their relationship. So that and the fear of change had kept her chained in silence.

This led Andy to contemplate the various shades of "silence" as anything was better than obsessing on the twinge in her lower back that shot a sharp but short-lived pain through her body. She'd never done particularly well with silence before coming to New York, before Miranda. It was from her boss that she'd learned the value of the spaces between words and that editing wasn't only about what was written. Like now, the value of this particular silence was beyond price not only because she was accepting it but also because she had chosen it.

It was strikingly different from the silence experienced after the luncheon where all she could do was jut out her bottom lip and fumble for the words to defend herself.

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The discussion that afternoon with Miranda in the car coupled with the ever present undercurrent between them, with all of the unspoken words and ritualistic-like behaviors had confused her greatly. When Miranda told her that she could see beyond herself to what people needed, it confounded her. How could she be that?

Then the "everybody wants to be us" line had pushed her over the edge, as if Miranda was including Andy in her inner circle. It sparked every fantasy only to have them burst like water balloons because how could she possibly trust Miranda after what she had done to someone who was perhaps the closest adult to her? That realization threw Andy into a despair so agonizing that all she could think to do to stop the pain was to remove herself from its source.

So she ran.

Well, it was more like a determined walk, but it was in the opposite direction of the one human being that had come to mean more to her than anyone else ever had. At the fountain her phone began ringing and she chanced a glimpse back, a brief moment frozen when their eyes locked. The disbelief on Miranda's face made her feel both wretched and triumphant. She'd surprised a woman who was never taken unawares. But then, in a way, she always had. Andy's triumph evaporated into the mist-laden chill of the Parisian air when, in the second before Andy turned away, she caught a fleeting glimpse of despairing regret before it was buried beneath the icy façade.

So she turned away, the ringing of her phone beginning yet again. Already the guilt of her actions began to build and she nearly threw the phone into the fountain, but it was a thread that still connected her to the powerful force of nature that had turned her world on its head. She couldn't let that go. So she walked, phone clutched in a death grip, although she did turn it off as the text messages had started and she couldn't deal.

An hour later saw her wandering aimlessly. Nothing looked familiar. The feeling of hopeless sadness that had been lurking just below the surface since she exited the car broke free of its numbing cage and slithered up her spine to settle firmly in her throat, constricting it, and behind her eyeballs, burning them with water like acid.

Andy realized that she was crumbling and forced her focus outward enough to take in the details of the cobblestone sidestreet down which she had turned. Sandy-colored plaster-faced five- and six-story buildings rose on all sides, their upper floors sticking out slightly farther than their lower levels, harkening back to those centuries when hygiene was defined by less stringent parameters and all manner of waste was pitched out the windows to fester in the street. A weathered hand-painted sign caught her attention and, hoping for some sort of café in which she could sit and hide in a corner, she moved closer. A disappointed sigh escaped her chilled lips as the sign indicated it was a bookstore, but it was the only establishment on this particular street that could offer any kind of sanctuary. After a short debate Andy decided it was better than nothing; maybe they'd have a bathroom she could lock herself in as her walls were caving in and the instinctive need to find safety propelled her final steps and guided her hand to pull at the heavy wooden door.

The space was low-ceilinged, dark, and quiet, and Andy felt a small amount of tension release. She pushed farther in, looking around, as her body greedily sucked in the warmth. Noting some movement out of the corner of her eye, she found an older woman behind a small counter reading a book. They made brief eye contact and the woman looked at her with mild curiosity. Mumbling in heavily accented French that she just wanted to look around, Andy moved towards the back after receiving an assenting nod, opting to find the water closet on her own.

What she found instead was a small seating area with a bar area stocked with a thermal carafe of liquid she hoped was coffee. Taking one of the mismatched ceramic mugs sitting next to it, she poured the hot, dark substance and settled into one of the oversized chairs as the tears she'd fought to contain finally released, hot tracks pouring steadily onto her still chilled cheeks. She sat there, staring into the mug that gradually was drained, and viewed the events of the past weeks as though they were a movie. At some point she got up to replenish her cup, finding the bitterness of the liquid a welcome accompaniment to her mood.

Eventually her thoughts circled around and landed on the hours before. The day had started with betrayal; actually the betrayal had begun the night before with Stephen's cowardly divorce declaration via email. Then it was Christian's of Miranda, Irv's of Miranda, then Miranda's of Nigel.

As Andy followed this line of thinking, she viewed her own actions, her walking away, from a different angle and she gasped, her second steaming cup landing with a thunk on the small side table as she realized that Miranda could very well see this abandonment as Andy betraying her as well. After two hours of sitting and considering her life, this is what it came down to, what it would always come down to: Miranda. The idea of betraying Miranda was so devastating that she was willing to risk her own heart to show her that she really hadn't and that she never would.

Once the decision was made the blanket of despair in which she'd cloaked herself fell away, as did her disconnect. Aimlessness was replaced with resolve and the space in which she had sought refuge felt more like a jail cell.

She couldn't get back to the hotel fast enough.

But she had no idea where she was and she had no desire to walk one step further in shoes that enhanced her height by a good four inches. She searched her tiny bag, relieved to find a few Euros placed in her purse for emergencies, and was able to have a taxi called for her.

She had a few minutes before her transport would arrive so Andy took the time to find the water closet. When she flipped on the light in the small space, the single overhead bulb illuminated an image in the mirror that took her aback. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her mascara was smudged and had tracked down each cheek with her tears.

She grabbed some scratchy toilet paper and attempted to repair the worst of it, but even then it was still obvious she'd spent a good part of the past hour crying. She fixed her wind-swept hair as best she could, then straightening her shoulders, she resolved to maintain what little was left of her composure until she was back in her room.

When she arrived at the hotel she had no idea what she was going to do. How she was going explain her lapse? She was waiting for the elevator when the doors opened and Nigel, who was preparing to step out, saw her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her back in, stabbing at the button for their floor.

"What the hell is going on, Six?" Nigel looked both concerned and disgruntled.

Andy couldn't help the tears that started yet again. Nigel handed her the handkerchief from his lapel pocket but she refused. "I'll get mascara all over it."

"Eh"—he shoved it into her hands—"it'll die a worthy death. Take it; you need it."

Despite the tears she managed a slight chuckle and dabbed at her eyes as the elevator came to a stop.

Nigel followed her to her room and took the keycard from her shaking hand when it became apparent she couldn't keep it steady enough to disengage the lock.

Once in the room she kicked off her shoes and folded her body onto the small settee, pulling her knees up to her chin as she gathered the full material of her dress close to her body so as not to give Nigel a show.

Nigel, allowing her several minutes to compose herself, rested on the edge of her bed, hands on his knees, watching her carefully.

After a stretch of many minutes, he prompted her, "What happened? Why did you leave her?"

Andy's head whipped up so fast she swore she heard her vertebrae crunch into one another. "Don't you mean Runway?" She bit her lip and stared.

Andy watched as he met her eyes and held them steadily. "No," he said, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I meant Miranda. I've been watching you both for a while now…"

"Nothing's going on!" Andy was panicking. How could he know how she felt?!

Nigel held up his hands. "Okay, okay. But, nonetheless, you have feelings for her, right?"

"Nigel, I…" Andy had no idea what to say. How could she admit to him what she was barely able to admit to herself? She was in love with Miranda.

"Six." He reconsidered. "Andy, you wouldn't be the first person to fall for her, you know."

Andy blushed.

"Let me guess. That little stunt she pulled with me today knocked her straight off that pedestal you had her resting on, right?"

Andy shook her head no, but contradicted the action with her words. "Well maybe, just a little bit of that is mixed in, but no, I don't think I had her on a pedestal. No. That's not why I left."

Nigel's tone was softer now. "So why? Was it in a fit of self-righteous anger? Because I don't expect that from you. I understand what happened."

Andy looked up then, surprised. "You do?"

"Yes, we talked. After you made your grand exit, she didn't stay for the show. We both left and found a little bistro not far from the hotel. She told me it was sacrifice my job with James or lose Runway. So, I get it. It was shitty and it hurt but it was the only hand she had left to play. It was business, not personal."

"Did she apologize?"

Nigel's countenance lightened a fraction. "Apologize? Hmm, I guess what Miranda said to me could be construed as an apology even if she didn't actually say the words 'I'm sorry.' I don't know that Miranda has ever apologized to anyone other than her daughters or one of her unfortunate choices of husband."

Andy considered Nigel's words and felt even better about returning. Now, she just had to figure out how to do it.

"Do you think she'll take me back?"

Nigel smirked. "For someone who hasn't yet admitted that she has feelings for her boss, that's an interesting choice of words."

Andy blushed again. "Yeah, well…" She let the thought trail off and opted to ignore it. "Do you?"

Nigel looked critically at the disheveled young woman before him and thought about all the times that Miranda could have, no, should have, fired her and shook his head, partially out of wonderment.

"Yes, Andy, I think there's a good chance that she will. But it really depends upon you, about why you've come back, and what you'll tell her is the reason you came back. I believe you need to tell her the truth, but that is entirely up to you. I understand it wouldn't be the easy road. Miranda Priestly is not an easy person to love."

Andy's mouth gaped. "Are you seriously telling me I should tell her that I'm in…"

She clamped down ruthlessly on the words, not so much because she was embarrassed, but because she felt that regardless of how it might turn out, the first time she said that she loved Miranda was going to be to her face.

"…that I have feelings for her?" Her voice rose an octave. "Like, just tell her?" She licked bone dry lips then pursed them, drawing a short bark of laughter from Nigel.

She glowered at him. "This isn't funny."

"Oh, Six, I know it's not, truly. It was more that I found amusing that look you just flashed me. You've been studying Our Lady for some time now, haven't you?"

"Um." Andy had no idea what to say to that so once again changed directions. "Where is she now? Is she sticking with the rest of her schedule?" That she was not next to Miranda at that very minute sent a stab of sadness through her. She needed to be near her almost as badly as she needed to be able to take her next breath.

"She's at the Medina show now, that up and coming, but small fashion house. Then she will be back here to change for dinner, although I don't believe she really wants to go. I have a feeling that if given the right motivation she may be persuaded to dine in this evening."

Andy just stared at him. "Nigel," her voice firmed, "what do you know?"

With a sly smile and twinkling eyes he evaded, "Know? I don't know a great many things about the woman who's been my friend for over twenty years."

"Damn it, Nige, spill it! What did she say?"

"She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. Like I said, I've known her a very long time and I've never seen her this upset at an assistant, especially a second assistant, who quit. Dare I say I also know that it's not Stephen's leaving that is the reason. You have gotten to her. I don't know what that means, but I think if you don't find out you'll always wonder."

"But, Nigel, I could lose everything."

Gently, so as not to spook her, Nigel shook his head and gazed at her with sympathetic eyes. "Andy, if you leave here without talking to Miranda, you will have lost her anyway, so you might as well try."

continued in Chapter 2