Unmarked

The elevator chimed loudly as it came to a stop on the 18th floor of the Elias-Clarke building—the executive floor. Sleek, sterile, and suffocating  is how Andy would describe it. She stood at Miranda’s side, her jaw tight, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier ready to follow her general into war.

The doors slid open.

Irv Ravitz’s secretary—prim, polished, and perched like a vulture behind her glass desk—looked up sharply. Her hand hovered near the intercom, eyes already narrowing at the sight of them.

“Ms. Priestly, I’m afraid Mr. Ravitz is—”

Miranda didn’t so much as glance her way. She walked with square shoulders and her nose in the are right past her, heels slicing through the silence, coat swaying with lethal elegance.

Andrea following behind without any hesitation.

“—in a meeting,” the secretary finished, voice rising an octave as Miranda breezed past without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment.

She swung open the office door.  Irv looked up from the conference table, visibly startled. He blinked, twice. “Miranda?”

She was already stepping inside, the sound of her heels cutting across the room.

“I don’t recall putting you on my schedule,” he said, trying for smooth but landing somewhere near uneasy.

“That’s because I didn’t ask,” Miranda said, her voice like frost. “Gentlemen, out.”

The men at the table looked to Irv, uncertain. He waved them off with a muttered “We’ll pick this up later,” and they filed out, casting curious glances as they passed the woman now standing at the head of the table like she owned the building.

Andrea closed the door behind them and took her place just inside, silent and coiled.

Irv stood, adjusting his cuffs. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this little ambush?”

Miranda tilted her head, expression cool and unreadable. “I thought I’d drop by and see how you were enjoying my office while I was being detained.”

Irv’s brow lifted. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”

“I think you do,” Miranda cut in. “You’ve always waited for a moment of weakness, haven’t you? You must’ve been giddy when the Bureau took me in. Thought you’d finally have your chance to scrape me out of my own position and call it a ‘necessary transition’.”

He gave a slow shrug, trying for charming. “You have to admit, Miranda—optics matter. An unclaimed Omega masquerading as an Alpha? Not great for business.”

“And yet, business was thriving until you started meddling,” she snapped. “You think you can push me out, quietly replace me, and salvage the company with your oversized ego and your god-awful branding ideas?”

“You're becoming a liability.”

“No,” she said, voice dropping to a deadly calm. “You’re the liability, Irv. You’re the one who’s tanking Elias-Clarke with your desperate need to be relevant. You’re hemorrhaging talent, your board is splintered, and your best property—Runway—is about to walk unless you get out of its way.”

Irv narrowed his eyes. “Big words for someone about to be unemployed.”

Miranda arched a brow. “Is that so?”

With a flourish, Irv reached into a drawer, retrieved a file, and dropped it onto the table between them. “Consider this your final notice, we are starting the process of you termination her at Elis-Clarke. Effective immediately.”

Andrea stepped forward. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Irv said. “According to your previous employment records, Miranda, your right to hold executive status was contingent on the endorsement of your Alpha. Now that Stephen’s filed for divorce—and claiming he never gave you any kind of permission what so ever, well. That backing is no longer valid.”

Miranda stared at the folder, then slowly looked up at him, a small, dangerous smile curling her lips.

“You really think this will hold up in court?”

Irv’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m counting on it.” settling back into his chair with a smug, satisfied grin—as if he’d just won something.

Miranda didn’t even look at the papers. She just smiled. That slow, practiced, terrifying smile that had made seasoned editors cry and designers rethink their entire careers.

“You really are a disgusting little man,” she said softly. “Grasping at power you’ll never truly hold. Reaching for stars that are leagues out of your reach. You think a technicality and a temper tantrum can erase me?”

Irv’s grin faltered, just slightly. “You're not as untouchable as you once were, Miranda.”

“And yet here I stand,” she countered, her voice turning colder with every word, “while you fumble around in the ashes of your own mediocrity, hoping no one notices the empire I built is the only thing holding your name above irrelevance.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” she snapped. “I have headlines, circulation numbers, and global influence to do that for me. Runway is more than just a fashion magazine. It’s a cultural institution. And it has been—despite your interference.”

Irv pushed the file closer, a last-ditch move meant to provoke. “You’re out, Miranda. You just don’t know it yet.”

“No,” Miranda said coolly. “You’re afraid. Because you know once this goes to court, those contracts will prove I did in fact have Stephen’s permission to do exactly as I did, work. And when that happens, you won’t just lose me—you’ll lose what little credibility you have left.”

Irv stood abruptly, voice rising. “You were a risk the moment your secret came out. You want to drag the company down with you, go ahead. But don’t act like you’re the only one who's ever carried weight around here.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he glanced over Miranda’s shoulder. Right at Andrea.

His smirk returned.

“And you,” he said, voice laced with mock amusement, “you’re the Alpha in this, aren’t you? Strange, though. For all that status, you let her run the show. What kind of Alpha doesn’t take charge?”

Andrea took one slow step forward, her gaze locking onto his. She didn’t bare her teeth. She didn’t raise her voice.

But her tone could’ve shattered concrete.

“The kind who understands power when she sees it,” she said.

Her voice didn’t waver.

“Miranda doesn’t need to be taken over. She’s more than capable of running her own show. I’m not here to leash her. I’m here to back her. And when the time comes to bring out the bigger guns—” her eyes narrowed, just enough for the threat to settle in, “—I’ll show my face.”

Irv scoffed, but he took a half-step back. Just enough for them both to notice.

Miranda didn’t look at Andrea, but something in the tension around her shoulders shifted—just slightly. Like a string had loosened.

She turned back to Irv, eyes gleaming.

“This isn’t over.”

Irv gave a shallow nod, still clinging to the pretense of control. “No. I suppose it’s not.”

Miranda turned on her heel, coat flaring behind her like a battle flag. Andrea followed without hesitation, pausing just long enough to give Irv one last look—cool, dismissive, and absolute.

And then they were gone, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

**-

The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a mechanical click, sealing Miranda and Andrea into a cocoon of brushed steel. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Miranda stood with her back straight, chin lifted, eyes fixed on the numbers ticking upward. Her reflection in the mirrored surface was sharp-edged and composed, but Andrea could feel the tightly coiled energy beneath it.

Andrea didn’t speak until they passed the 19th floor.

“You didn’t have to hold back like that,” she said quietly.

Miranda’s gaze flicked to her in the reflection. “Oh, I wasn’t holding back, Andrea. That was restraint.”

Andrea smirked. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Miranda arched a brow. “You already have. Repeatedly.”

There was a flicker of amusement between them, brief but grounding. Then the elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto the familiar polished floor of the 20th.

The energy here was different—faster, louder. Assistants scurried like ants, interns with garment bags brushed past with murmured apologies, and somewhere down the hall, Serena was yelling something about a misplaced pair of Louboutin’s.

But when Miranda stepped out, the chaos stilled. Just enough to feel it.

Andrea followed one step behind, and it was like nothing had changed at all. Like Miranda Priestly hadn’t just been handed termination papers, hadn’t just stared down the man trying to erase her from the very world she built.

She walked like she owned the floor. Because she still did.

Nigel looked up from his desk as they approached. His expression shifted in rapid succession—surprise, relief, a flash of worry—and then his usual Nigel-smirk kicked in.

“Well,” he said, standing. “You’re either here to reclaim your throne or burn the place down. Either way, I’m thrilled.”

Miranda didn’t waste time.

“We need to talk,” she said crisply. “Your office. Now.”

Nigel opened the door without question, and Miranda swept inside like she never left. Andrea gave him a small shrug as she followed.

“Brace yourself,” she murmured. “It’s been a morning.”

**-

Nigel’s office was exactly as Andrea remembered it—cluttered, chic, with the faintest scent of bergamot and too much caffeine clinging to the air. Sketches lined one wall, pinned above a credenza stacked with fabric swatches and lookbooks, while his desk was a controlled chaos of tablets, espresso cups, and half-formed genius.

Miranda walked in like nothing had changed. She didn’t sit. Neither did Andrea. Nigel raised a brow but didn’t comment—he knew better.

“Well,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of his desk. “Judging by the look on your face, someone just made a very poor life choice.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Irv handed me my termination papers.”

Nigel blinked. “He what?”

“He claims Stephen told him he never gave me explicit permission to work, nullifies my right to hold an executive position without Alpha sponsorship,” she said crisply. “He’s wrong, of course. I have the legal contracts to prove otherwise. But he’s trying to force a narrative before the truth can catch up.”

igel let out a slow whistle. “That’s low—even for Irv.”

“He’s betting on panic,” Andrea added. “He thinks if he moves fast enough, we won’t have time to mount a proper response.”

“Which means we move faster,” Miranda said simply. Nigel looked between them. “And what does that response look like, exactly?” There was a brief pause.

Then Miranda, uncharacteristically, exhaled. And for a flicker of a second, she looked—not fragile, but real. The hard lines softened, the armor loosened just enough for truth to pass through.

“We’ve spent the last week at Andrea’s family estate,” she said, her tone quieter now, deliberate. “Not hiding. More like regrouping.”

Nigel’s gaze shifted to Andrea. “Your family?” Andrea gave a small nod. “The Vaelthorn family estate.”

Nigel blinked. “The Vaelthorns? The old-guard Alphas from upstate with the impossible bloodline and medieval family traditions?”

Andrea half-smiled. “They’re worse in person.”

Miranda continued, “We spoke to the Council. Negotiated terms. In exchange for avoiding a full legal spectacle, I agreed to participate in formal ‘rehabilitation.’ I’ll be stepping back publicly—but not disappearing.”

Nigel’s brows knit. “Rehabilitation. That’s… dramatic.”

“It’s theater,” Miranda said. “A performance to satisfy appearances. But behind the scenes, I still intend to run Runway—just not from this office.”

Andrea stepped in. “That’s why we’re here. We need someone we trust on the ground. Someone who understands both our personal dilemmas and what Runway needs in Miranda absence.”

Nigel gave a slow, cautious look between them. “You’re serious.”

“As a pulmonary embolism” Miranda said dryly.

Nigel dragged a hand down his face. “You want me to run Runway?”

“No,” Miranda said. “I want you to protect it. I’ll still be involved—design approvals, theme curation, overall direction. But I need someone who can translate that vision into reality here. Someone who knows what I’d want before I even say it.”

“Someone who already does,” Andrea added. “You've kept this place breathing, Nigel. We just want to give you the power to shape it.”

Nigel hesitated, clearly stunned. “Miranda… I’ve waited my whole life to be trusted like this. And I’ve never wanted to take your place. You know that.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she said, voice firm. “But I am asking you to help me hold it.”

Another beat passed.

Then Nigel’s posture shifted. Straighter. Steadier.

“You realize this puts a target on my back. If Irv finds out—”

“He won’t,” Andrea said. “Not until it’s already too late.”

Miranda gave him a pointed look. “We’ll keep everything remote and encrypted. You’ll have full creative autonomy, but we’ll remain linked. Regular calls. Quiet check-ins. You’ll run day-to-day operations. I'll direct strategy from where the vultures can't reach.”

Nigel stared at her, then let out a soft laugh. “You know, for a woman who’s supposedly lost everything, you’re still terrifying.”

Miranda’s mouth twitched. “I prefer efficient.”

He extended his hand toward her, palm open. “Then let’s get to work.”

Miranda hesitated only a second before taking it.

Andrea watched the moment pass between them—something unspoken. A bond not of power or hierarchy, but of trust earned through years of hard work and devotion.

And just as Miranda released Nigel’s hand, Andrea’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the screen—and her eyes narrowed. Miranda noticed. “What is it?”

Andrea looked up slowly. “It’s the Bureau.”

**-

Andrea stared at the screen for half a second longer, then swiped to answer.

“Agent Monroe,” she said coolly, turning slightly away from Nigel and Miranda but still within their line of sight.

“Ms. Sachs,” came the clipped voice on the other end. “We’ve received the formal documentation from the Council regarding Miranda Priestly’s rehabilitation arrangement.”

Andrea’s pulse quickened. “And?”

“We’ve reviewed the terms. The Bureau does not consider them sufficient.”

Andrea’s jaw clenched. “Excuse me?”

“There are concerns,” Monroe continued. “A quiet withdrawal to a private estate—without any form of public acknowledgment—fails to meet the standard of accountability we require for someone who falsified their designation for decades. Given the high-profile nature of her position and the current media coverage, we believe further action is necessary.”

Andrea’s voice dropped. “She didn’t falsify anything. She protected herself in a system designed to erase her.”

“Regardless,” Monroe said, “the optics are problematic. We’re requesting a formal, public statement of apology from Ms. Priestly for operating outside regulation—unclaimed, unmarked—and a voluntary step-down from her current position at Runway.”

“You’re asking her to publicly humiliate herself,” Andrea said, flatly.

“We’re asking her to restore public trust in the system,” the agent corrected. “And to ensure the Bureau is not seen as showing favoritism to high-profile individuals.”

Andrea almost laughed. “Favoritism? She’s being held to a higher standard because she succeeded without a man’s name stamped across her résumé.”

Monroe didn’t respond.

Andrea took a breath, forcing her voice to remain even. “On what grounds are you making this decision? Because as of yesterday, the Council’s ruling was meant to supersede punitive enforcement.”

There was a pause. Then: “We received a supplemental complaint from an internal party this morning. It outlined concerns about Miranda Priestly maintaining influence during her rehabilitation—specifically, continued involvement at Runway.”

Andrea went still. “What internal party?”

“I can’t disclose the source.” Her eyes flicked to Miranda. Then to Nigel. Then back to the middle distance, where realization clicked into place like a lock turning.

The timing. The sudden decision. The convenient complaint. She felt her stomach twist.

“I’m sure you can’t,” Andrea murmured. “Tell me something—how long before the Council’s paperwork hit your desk did this anonymous complaint arrive?”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

Monroe’s voice lost a shade of neutrality. “Roughly one day prior.”

Andrea’s lips parted slightly. Her voice dropped to a whisper only Miranda and Nigel could hear:

“One day.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed. Nigel straightened.

Andrea turned away again, her hand tightening around the phone. “You’ll be receiving a statement from our legal counsel soon. Ms. Priestly is under Council supervision. Until we hear directly from them about an escalation, we will not comply.”

“You’re treading a dangerous line, Ms. Sachs.” Andrea’s voice dropped, lethal. “So are you.”

She ended the call before the agent could respond. Silence hummed through the room like electricity. Nigel broke it first. “What was that about one day?”

Andrea turned to them slowly, fury held tightly under her skin.

“The Bureau got the Council’s paperwork. They’re not accepting the documents,” she said. “They want you to apologize and step down publicly.”

Miranda scoffed. “Of course they do.”

Nigel muttered, “Bastards.”

Nigel swore under his breath. “But the Council approved everything. That was supposed to shield her wasn’t it?.”

Andrea nodded. “Exactly. But the Bureau didn’t just review and decide. They got an anonymous complaint before the paperwork even landed.”

Miranda’s voice was calm, too calm. “A day before?”

Andrea nodded once, she set the phone down with a sharp clack. “But that’s not all.” She looked between them, fire starting to burn behind her eyes.

“Irv handed you termination papers today, Miranda. He already knew the Bureau was going to reject the contracts. He was waiting for them to move.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “How would he know unless—”

“He’s feeding them information,” Andrea said. “Or someone inside is working with him. That’s the only way the timing makes sense.”

Nigel blinked. “You think he filed the complaint?”

“I think he’s two steps ahead of us,” Andrea said. “And he’s not just coming for Miranda’s seat anymore. He’s coming for her legacy.”

Nigel blinked. “You think Irv has someone inside the Bureau?”

“I think,” Andrea said slowly, “we’re not just fighting him at Elias-Clarke anymore. We’re fighting a network.”

Miranda went still, lips pressed into a thin line. She turned and walked to the window. Outside, the city roared, blissfully unaware of all the turmoil that was about to unfold. They brought a fight to her place of work and it had just become personal.

“Well then,” she said softly. “It’s time we make him regret it.”

**-

The air in Nigel’s office still buzzed with the residue of the Bureau call, like static clinging to skin. No one spoke at first—until Andrea broke the silence.

“We can’t stop working,” she said, voice steady, sharp with quiet urgency. “If we freeze now, Irv wins.”

Nigel nodded slowly. “We’re already behind on three major shoots. The next issue’s theme hasn’t been finalized.”

“I know,” Andrea said. “That’s why I need you to take Miranda to her office. Start moving. Put together the book, touch base with the art team, let the clothing department com by with samples, whatever needs doing. Let people see her there. Let them feel like nothing’s changed.”

She turned to Miranda. “Go with him.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes slightly. “And what, precisely, will you be doing?”

Andrea smiled—but it wasn’t sweet. It was firm, deliberate. A thread of command stitched through velvet. “I have a few phone calls to make,” she said softly. “Some private business to take care of.”

Miranda’s gaze locked with hers. A challenge. But Andrea didn’t flinch.

Her voice dropped just enough to be intimate, but it held weight—real Alpha weight—for the first time in a very long time. “Miranda,” she said gently, “do as you’re told.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even demanding. It was however a reminder that Andrea wasn’t just her assistant anymore. And not just her mate, either.

She was the one standing between Miranda and whatever the hell was coming next. Miranda stared at her for another long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Very well.”

Nigel shot Andrea a look—half impressed, half terrified. “We’ll be upstairs.”

As they left, Miranda cast one last glance over her shoulder. Andrea didn’t move, didn’t speak—just met her gaze with calm certainty. Then the door closed. Andrea pulled out her phone, already dialing. If Irv thought today was his checkmate, he clearly hadn’t truly met her.

Andrea pulled out her phone, already dialing. Not her family. Not a Council contact. This was personal.

The line rang twice before a sharp, familiar voice answered.
“Please tell me you’re calling to confess your undying love form me.”

Andrea exhaled a laugh. “Not quite. But I’m about to throw you a juicy bone.” There was a pause on the other end. Then: “Talk to me.”

“Miranda Priestly,” Andrea said. “You know the name.”

A low whistle. “The Ice Queen, secret Omega, talk of the city? Of course, who hasn’t. What about her?”

“The you also know she’s my bonded Omega. She’s being pushed out of her position, threatened by both the Bureau and her CEO. I need someone who can tear through legal red tape like it’s tissue paper. So I’m cashing in.”

“Cashing in what?” Andrea smiled. “Remember sophomore year? Columbia Law, the Rothman case mock trial?”

“The one I won for you?”

“The one you won because of me. It was me who snuck into your professors office and got a copy of your opponent papers.”

A dry chuckle came through the line. “I always wondered when you’d come for that favor. Damn, Andy. You really know how to pick your moments.”

“I need you on this case,” Andrea said, all levity gone. “Now. Full force. I need a legal strategy airtight enough to suffocate a dragon. And I need a private investigator who can dig up everything on Irv Ravitz and whoever else he’s working with. Discreet, fast, and vicious.”

Her friend—Sasha Grant, Beta, courtroom killer, zero tolerance for bullshit—went quiet for a beat. Then: “Who else do you think is involved?”

“I don’t know,” Andrea want quite again

“Andy, who else do you think is involved?”

“I can’t tell you, not yet. It will interfere with your judgment. But the Bureau moved too fast. Irv had paperwork drafted before they rejected our Council submission. That’s not a coincidence. That’s coordinated.”

Sasha’s tone sharpened. “So you think there’s a mole.”

“I think there’s something or someone bigger than we realized. Someone pulling strings. And if we don’t find out who, they’ll bury Miranda—and they’ll use me to do it.”

Silence again. Then the clatter of a keyboard. Sasha was already moving. “You just got yourself a legal war team,” she said. “Send me every doc, transcript, comm log. I’ll get my PI in motion tonight.”

“Thank you,” Andrea said, and meant it.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Sasha said smoothly. “I’ve got a feeling you’re about to start a war and I want to be on the front lines when it happens. I get to make sure they fail.”

Andrea smiled. “Remind me to buy you a bottle of whatever costs more than your conscience.”

“Oh, honey,” Sasha said with a wicked grin in her voice. “That doesn’t exist.”

They hung up.

Andrea slipped the phone into her jeans pocket and turned toward the office door making her way to Miranda’s office. She will get to the bottom of this whole mess. One thing she knew for certain, Miranda being revealed as an Omega did not cause this whole mess but now she sure as hell is at the center of it.

**-

The private club smelled of old money and older scotch. Deep leather armchairs, low lighting, and soundproof walls—designed for men who made decisions the rest of the world would feel for decades.

Evelyn Sharpe sat perfectly still in a burgundy wingback chair, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler of something aged and expensive. Her sharp grey suit was tailored within an inch of its life. Her lipstick, deep oxblood. Her nails? Flawless.

Irv Ravitz, leaning against the opposite side of the fireplace, looked less relaxed.

He checked his watch for the second time in five minutes. “I’m just saying, Evelyn, the press cycle is moving faster than we planned. She’s still got allies inside the company, and Sachs is making noise. If we’re doing this, it needs to happen now.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And that, Irv, is why you’re the blunt instrument. You’re still thinking in headlines. I’m thinking in history.”

He scowled. “She’s dangerous. She’s manipulating people. Even the damn Council blinked when they should’ve buried her.”

“She’s not dangerous,” Evelyn said coolly. “She’s disruptive. Which is worse. Miranda Priestly has become something no Omega should ever be: aspirational.” She took a measured sip, then continued.

“My great-grandfather spent forty years dismantling Omega propaganda. He wrote the framework that keeps them in their place. Protection. Sponsorship. Bound service. He reminded the public why the hierarchy mattered. Why order mattered. He pushed them of the pedestal society made for them and he did so quietly and calculated. He build what we continued. ”

“And Miranda?”

“Is chaos,” Evelyn said simply. “She is the crack in the foundation. The black sheep we need to slaughter in full view of the herd.” Irv grimaced. “Colorful.”

Evelyn ignored him. “She’s the perfect symbol. High status, no Alpha, raised herself from nothing. She’s everything the new Omega-rights crowd worships. So we will turn her rise into a cautionary tale. Arrogance. Disobedience. Delusion. All wrapped in pretty clothes and false confidence.”

Irv shifted uncomfortably. “And Sachs?”

“She’s emotional. Predictable. She’ll react exactly as we need her to. If we control the narrative, Miranda becomes the warning—and Andrea becomes the Alpha who couldn’t keep her in line.”

He frowned. “So what’s next?”

Evelyn swirled the liquid in her glass. “The Bureau has already denied the supposed ‘rehabilitation’ proposal. Phase two begins when Miranda refuses to comply with the Bureaus demands. We’ll leak her defiance to the press, paint it as Omega entitlement. She won’t bow. She never does. And when she doesn’t…”

“She burns.”

Evelyn smiled faintly.

“Exactly. And when it’s over, we’ll write it into law. The Omega Reform Act has been sitting in subcommittee for months. One high-profile ‘lesson’ is all we need to push it through.”

Irv blew out a breath. “You’re really playing the long game.”

“I’m playing the only game that matters,” she said.

He hesitated. “And you’re sure it’ll work?”

Evelyn finally looked at him. Her eyes were cold steel.

“It has to.”