Unmarked

The council’s message had been clear—clinical, final, and delivered with the kind of sterile detachment that made Andy’s blood boil.

"For the safety of public perception and to preserve social stability, Omega Miranda Priestly will remain outside of metropolitan jurisdictions until further evaluation is complete."

In simpler words: they were demanding her to return to the estate.

And so, Miranda and Andrea had returned to the estate nestled deep within nature, far from the steel-and-glass towers of New York, far from the judgmental stares and whispering boardrooms. It wasn’t house arrest, not technically—but Andy could feel the weight of surveillance pressing down on them, even in the quiet countryside. The estate, once just a weekend getaway for Miranda, had become their world for now. And Miranda, in her usual defiant grace, refused to let the forced seclusion feel like punishment.

She turned it into a production.

The shoot was Miranda’s idea—of course it was. A full editorial spread for Runway, captured entirely in nature close to the estate. “If they don’t want me in the city,” she had said with a glint in her eye, “then I will show them that I don’t need it.”

The theme she’d chosen was Wilderness and Reclamation—models draped in soft silks, fur-lined capes and earthy metallics, set against the wild tangle of early spring woods, dried golden grass underfoot, bare branches reaching toward an overcast sky like skeletal fingers. It was raw and unfiltered. Beautiful in its restraint.

It was bold. Wild. Emotional. Precisely what the upcoming Runway spread needed to remind the world that fashion could still say something—even while the world tried to mute the woman behind it.

Miranda moved through the set like she had never been away from it. Even in the muddy terrain and chill air, she was all clean lines and steel spine—her voice low but commanding, eyes flicking between camera angles and fabric flow with unrelenting precision. Nigel moved beside her, clipboard in hand, coordinating lighting shifts and keeping the models rotating smoothly. Andy followed just behind, headset on, catching notes and checking time codes, stepping in only when she saw Miranda’s brow twitch with impatience.

They had been out here for hours and Andy could see Miranda getting tired. Not visually—Miranda’s posture was immaculate, her tone as sharp as ever. But Andy saw the little signs nobody else would ever notice: the slight lean against the lighting crate when no one was watching, the short breaths that came too often, the way her free hand now rested almost constantly against her abdomen. Apart from that she could feel it in there bond, it called to her, telling her Miranda could do with some love and attention. And the she smelled different to, ever since the pregnancy Andy was able to pick up even the slightest change, to allert her when she might be needed.

“Miranda,” Andy said softly, stepping beside her just as the photographer shouted to adjust the reflector. “Come sit down. Just for a moment.”

“I’m fine.” Miranda didn’t even glance at her.

Andy reached out, gently touching Miranda’s elbow. “You’re pregnant and standing in the cold for four hours straight. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone out here.”

Miranda didn’t react “Sit,” Andy repeated, quieter, but firmer. She touched her wrist lightly. “Just for a moment.”

Miranda paused. Looked up. Andy held her gaze with quiet insistence. And something in Miranda’s expression faltered—just for a second. Then she gave the barest nod.

There was a subtle hush as Miranda allowed herself to be guided to a wooden bench someone had set up just off-frame. The crew noticed—but no one said anything. Cameras paused. Even the wind seemed to still.

Miranda lowered herself with practiced dignity, her hand still splayed protectively over her stomach. Andy crouched beside her, rubbing her palms together before cupping them around Miranda’s.

“Cold?” Andy asked softly.

Miranda gave her a look that was more fond than annoyed, though she tried to disguise it. “It’s early spring. Of course I’m cold.”

Andy smirked, letting herself look more vulnerable was not something she was ready for in public it seems. Andy sat down next to her, they sat in silence for a moment as the shoot continued in the background. Miranda’s fingers relaxed inside Andy’s. Andy could feel her sagging more and more against her.

“You didn’t have to come out here,” Andy said quietly. “You could have directed everything from inside. No one would question it.”

Miranda’s eyes flicked to the models, their flowing gowns caught in the wind like ghosts reclaiming the land. “This matters,” she said. “I may not be allowed in the city, but I’m still me. I built Runway. I built this world. And I will not be edited out of it because someone’s afraid of an Omega who knows her worth.”

Andrea chuckled, tucking a strand of Miranda’s hair behind her ear without thinking. The intimacy of the gesture surprised them both. Miranda didn’t flinch.

Nearby, someone snapped a photo. Not of the models—but of their moment.

Nigel watched from behind the lens and didn’t stop them.

Because for once, Miranda Priestly wasn’t behind the scenes. She was in it. Part of the story she was telling—of reclaiming wilderness, of finding softness again in the wild.

Andrea looked at her, voice low. “If you need to stop, say the word.”

Miranda held her gaze, something unreadable moving in her eyes. Then, softly—so softly Andrea almost missed it—she said, “Not yet.”

Andy leaned in slightly, resting her forehead against Miranda’s. “You’re terrifying when you’re like this.” Miranda’s voice softened just enough to be heard only by her. “And yet, here you are.”

Andy smiled, staying there just a moment longer—breathing in her sent and softly nuzzling the side of her  neck, steadying them both with that simple contact—before pulling back and standing up.

“I’ll get you some tea.”

“Bring Nigel one too,” Miranda added as she straightened in her chair, gaze already snapping back to the set. “He’s beginning to look like a tragic Victorian orphan.”

Andy laughed as she walked off, warm and unshakably in love with the woman she was no longer pretending to understand.

**-

The windows of Sasha Grant’s office were dark, the city skyline behind them little more than a glittering afterthought. It was well past midnight, but the lights were still on, and the war room was alive.

Three screens were lit up in front of her: one with contract scans and employment records, one with encrypted communications between her legal team and Andrea, and one showing surveillance data her private investigator had just uploaded.

Sasha sat at the center of it all, sleeves rolled, hair pinned, expression carved from steel.

A knock came—barely audible.

She didn’t look up. “Come in.”

Her PI stepped into the office, trench coat damp from the drizzle outside. Milo Darrow, ex-Bureau, ex-NSA, and the only man Sasha trusted to find dirt without making a sound.

He dropped a file on her desk and pulled off his gloves.

“You were right,” he said. “There’s something on Ravitz.”

She glanced up, sharp-eyed. “Talk.”

Milo pulled a USB from his coat pocket and plugged it into the nearest screen. “Four years ago, Irv funneled money—quietly—into a lobbying group that backed a policy draft called the Omega Reform Initiative. Same language the Bureau’s been throwing around lately: public tracking, regulated employment tiers, Alpha sponsorship revalidation every five years.”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “That draft was shut down.”

“Publicly, yes,” Milo said. “But he didn’t stop funding them. Just redirected the money through a shell corporation tied to his wife’s ‘charity foundation.’ It’s all here.”

He clicked through documents—money trails, anonymous contributions, even internal emails.

Sasha leaned forward. “That’s motive. Irv’s not just trying to oust Miranda—he’s invested in seeing Omegas stripped of autonomy entirely.”

“Exactly. He’s got skin in the game. Financially and ideologically.”

“And if we expose that…”

Milo nodded. “You discredit the whole ‘termination-for-policy’ excuse. It’s retaliation, plain and simple.”

Sasha exhaled slowly. “Good. That’s good.”

Milo raised a brow. “But?”

She swiveled in her chair, gazing out at the city. “It’s not enough. There’s more. The timing’s too clean. The Bureau moved before they had grounds. Someone fed them the trigger.”

“You think Ravitz has an inside contact?”

“I know he does,” Sasha said, turning back. “I want every name he’s spoken to in the last six months. Legal teams, Bureau liaisons, private meetings—even lunches. Anyone who could be leaking intel. Start with Evelyn Sharpe.”

Milo froze, then nodded slowly. “The DA?”

“Her family practically wrote the damn caste system. If anyone benefits from Miranda’s fall, it’s her.”

Milo slid the USB across the table. “You want a list by morning?”

Sasha smiled grimly. “I want a list by three.”

He didn’t argue.

As the door closed behind him, Sasha opened a new document and began drafting Miranda’s preliminary defense: Wrongful termination under bad faith; breach of private autonomy contracts; targeted harassment based on designation.

The war had started. And Sasha had just sharpened her knives.

**-

They returned to the estate just as the sky was turning a golden color, the last breath of sunset bleeding into deep blue. The shoot had been a success—visually stunning, logistically smooth—but the air still buzzed with residual tension.

Andrea had kept one eye on Miranda the entire drive back. While she had taken a break her and there it was evident to everyone that Miranda was bone-tired. By the time they stepped through the front doors, Andrea had already made a decision. She turned to the household staff before Miranda could say a word. “Please serve dinner to our suite in about an hour. Light, warm and  comforting.”

Miranda raised a brow. “That’s a bit—”

“No arguments,” Andrea said, already undoing the buttons of Miranda’s coat. “You were on your feet for eight hours straight. You didn’t eat on set. You’re sore. And I’m not asking.”

Miranda opened her mouth, but closed it again.

Andrea smiled. “Good. Come with me.”

Upstairs, the lights were soft and the air was warmer. Andrea led her into the ensuite bath and turned on the taps, adjusting the temperature until the water steamed perfect. She poured in a mix of oils and something that smelled faintly like lavender and moss. Miranda stood in the doorway, watching her with folded arms. “You’re being very… assertive tonight.”

Andrea moved to her, slow and sure, and reached for the zipper of her dress.

“My Alpha has this overwhelming desire to take care of you,” she murmured. “And it’s not just affection. You’re mine and you overworked yourself today so now I’m going to pull you back in. Because your mine.”

Miranda’s breath caught as the dress slipped down her shoulders. “I don’t need to be babied,” she said, but it lacked the usual snap.

Andrea pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “It’s not babying. It’s cherishing. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me.”

And somehow—somehow—that was harder to argue with. It was like she could hear her Omega practically demand her to let the Alpha just do there little happy ritual of taking care of them.

Andrea helped her step out of her clothes with gentle efficiency, folding them neatly before offering her a hand. Miranda accepted it wordlessly, and sank into the tub with a slow, relieved exhale.

Andrea perched on the edge, sleeves rolled up, one hand trailing lightly through the water at Miranda’s side. It started with a kiss, just one, to her temple.

Then another. To her cheek. Her jaw. Her shoulder. Slow and soft and claiming. A nuzzle against the curve of her neck. Fingers smoothing damp hair from her face.

Miranda let her eyes drift shut, lips parting slightly—but her spine stayed straight in resistance.

“Andrea,” she murmured. “That’s enough.”

Andrea didn’t stop. She kissed her again, this time just behind the ear, the place that made Miranda shiver without meaning to. “I want to hold you tonight,” Andrea whispered. “Just hold. No pressure. No expectations. Just you. With me.”

Miranda’s Omega stirred again—restless, aware, pulsing like a drumbeat under her skin. For a moment, she battled it, pride bristling.

Then Andrea’s hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking the edge of her cheek, and that Alpha presence wrapped around her like a silk cocoon—warm, firm, safe.

Miranda exhaled, she could practically feel Andrea pushing her scent towards her, demanding she listen and give in.

“…Fine,” she whispered. Andrea smiled against her skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“I hate you,” Miranda muttered.

“You love me.”

“That too,” she admitted, so quietly it could’ve been the steam.

**-

Later, Miranda was wrapped in one of Andrea’s oversized sweaters, hair towel-dried and face soft with fatigue. Andrea led her to the fireplace, where pillows had been arranged on the rug and a tray of food waited—warm bread, roasted vegetables, seasoned chicken, and something sweet.

Miranda moved to sit in the chair. Andrea gently tugged her toward the cushions instead.

“Really?”

Andrea sat first, pulled Miranda into her lap, and arranged them both like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yes. Now hush. You need to eat.”

Miranda arched a brow. “I’m perfectly capable—”

Andrea popped a piece of bread into her mouth before she could finish. “Mmhmm. Chew.”

Nigel would’ve fainted if he saw it. Miranda glared at her, mouth full, and Andrea kissed the corner of her lips in apology. “This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it?” Miranda asked dryly.

Andrea nuzzled into her neck, warm and content. “Every night.” Miranda leaned back against her, finally letting herself rest. And somewhere, deep inside her, the Omega purred at all the attention.

**-

The estate was still wrapped in the hush of early morning, mist curling low over the fields and sunlight just beginning to slip through the sheer curtains of their bedroom.

Andrea stirred faintly beneath the blankets, one arm stretched out where Miranda had been just minutes before. The warmth was gone.

Then— The sound. A gasp, a muffled sob, the unmistakable wet retch of sickness. Andrea shot upright instantly.

“Miranda?”

She heard it before she saw it—Miranda crouched on the floor just short of the ensuite bathroom, one hand braced on the wall, the other over her mouth. Her shoulders trembled. Andrea was out of bed in a heartbeat, bare feet hitting the floor, crossing the room in two long strides.

“Oh, sweetheart—”

She dropped to her knees beside her, rubbing slow circles between Miranda’s shoulder blades, her other hand sweeping Miranda’s hair back from her damp face.

“I didn’t make it,” Miranda choked, breath catching on the edge of another sob. “I woke up and—God, it was too fast—”

“Shhh,” Andrea murmured. “It’s okay. It’s alright.”

Tears were streaming down Miranda’s cheeks, anger and nausea mixing until she could barely breathe. She was shaking, humiliated, exhausted. Not even from the vomiting—but from the loss of control. Andrea kissed the side of her temple. “Don’t try to talk. Just breathe.”

Miranda’s body heaved once more, but the worst had passed. Her breathing slowed. She leaned against Andrea’s chest without thinking, clinging to the steady rhythm of her Alpha’s touch.

And slowly—so slowly—the nausea began to ease.

Her stomach, still twisted, began to settle. Her tears slowed. She exhaled shakily. “…This is completely unfair.” Andrea blinked, still brushing her hand across Miranda’s spine. “What is?”

Miranda turned her face, still pressed against Andrea’s collarbone. “The fact that when you’re close, the sickness fades. My stomach stops turning. My body settles. Like the twins can feel you and they just... calm.”

Andrea let out a soft breath, her heart aching in the best way. “They probably do,” she said. “They know I’m here. That we’re okay.”

“It’s infuriating,” Miranda whispered. “I hate needing you this much.” Andrea pressed a kiss to her hairline. “I love that you hate it.” Miranda huffed a laugh, wet and broken and real. “Of course you do.”

They sat like that for a while, Miranda tucked in against Andrea’s chest, the worst of the sickness passing, the tension bleeding out of her frame. Eventually, Andrea reached for a warm cloth and gently wiped Miranda’s face clean. “I’ll get you some water,” she said softly.

“No,” Miranda murmured. “Stay.” Andrea stilled. “Of course.” Miranda didn’t open her eyes, but her hand found Andrea’s and held tight.

Andrea stayed close, legs folded awkwardly on the floor, one arm around Miranda’s back as the other smoothed gentle patterns down her arm. Time passed, unmeasured.

When Miranda’s breathing had evened out and her trembling subsided, Andrea pressed another kiss to her hair and finally spoke.

“I’ll help you get ready in a bit,” she murmured. “No rush. The twins will be on their way soon—should be here by late morning.”

Miranda stirred slightly at that, her eyes blinking open. “Already?”

Andrea nodded. “I spoke with the driver last night before we went to bed. They wanted to surprise you, but I made them promise not to arrive before ten.”

Miranda relaxed against her again, a flicker of warmth moving through her at the thought of her girls. “Good,” she whispered. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

Andrea smiled gently. “They’re not going to care. But I’ll help you freshen up before they get here. You’ll feel better once you’re out of these pajamas and sipping something warm.”

“I’m not wearing that dreadful green robe again.”

“Agreed. The fluffy gray one makes you look ten percent more huggable.”

Miranda scowled, but it lacked heat.

Andrea brushed a finger under her chin, coaxing her to look up. “And once you’re settled, I thought we’d go to the library for a bit. Nigel emailed me last night—he said the layout team needs final notes on the centerpiece spread and two alternate covers. We can work on the book together. Nothing too heavy. Just quiet focus.”

Miranda blinked at her, still hazy with the aftereffects of sickness and sleep, but grounding in the idea of normalcy. “I could use a few hours of quiet.”

Andrea nodded. “Exactly. The twins will be here before you know it, and then this place will turn into a whirlwind of laughter, snacks, and sarcasm.”

Miranda allowed a small smile. “They get that from you.”

Andrea grinned. “Flattering, but you’ve got your fair share of cutting one-liners, darling.”

Miranda sighed and finally shifted, letting Andrea help her to her feet. The worst of the nausea was behind her, and the promise of hot tea, clean clothes, and quiet work helped refocus her.

Andrea steadied her with practiced ease, keeping one hand at the small of Miranda’s back as they made their way slowly toward the ensuite again.

“Shower, soft robe, strong tea,” Andrea listed softly. “Then library, Runway, and pretending like you didn’t almost collapse on me twenty minutes ago.”

“Such dramatic language,” Miranda muttered, but there was no real resistance left in her voice.

Andrea just smiled, kissed her temple again, and whispered, “Let me take care of you.”

**-

The black car rolled quietly through winding country roads, tall trees casting dappled shadows across the windows. Spring sunlight flickered in golden slants as the estate drew closer.

Caroline sat cross-legged, earbuds in, scrolling through her phone with a glazed-over look only half paying attention. Across from her, Cassidy tapped restlessly at the window, her leg bouncing.

"You're fidgeting again," Caroline said without looking up.

"I’m anticipating," Cassidy shot back. "It’s different."

Caroline pulled out one earbud. "You think she’s nervous?"

Cassidy paused. “Mom? Probably. She always gets weird before we show up. Like she thinks we’re going to walk in and stage a coup.”

Caroline smirked. “We did rearrange her closet last time.”

Cassidy grinned. “She still hasn’t forgiven us for putting her scarves by color and texture.”

Cassidy grinned. “Still the most rebellious thing we’ve done. She was traumatized.”

The driver cleared his throat softly as the gravel under the tires changed pitch—they’d just passed through a pair of wrought-iron gates, now slowly swinging shut behind them.

The girls glanced out the window at the long, winding driveway ahead.

Caroline sat up straighter. “Oh... wow.”

Cassidy leaned closer to the glass. “Okay, that is not a weekend house.”

The trees parted, and the full estate came into view—sprawling, majestic, and completely out of place in the modern world. A grand manor of stone and slate, with steep gables and wide terraces, sitting on a hill like it had always belonged there.

The grounds stretched wide in all directions—rolling green fields, orchards still kissed with morning mist, and what looked suspiciously like a pond off to the left. The house itself had at least three wings, ivy climbing one wall and blooming gardens framing the entrance in gentle bursts of color.

“Did Andrea grow up here?” Cassidy breathed, eyes wide.

“I guess so,” Caroline said. “Alpha bloodlines, remember? It’s probably been in her family for generations.”

Cassidy shook her head, still staring. “I thought we were coming to a countryside retreat, not the damn Alpha Versailles.”

Caroline finally pulled out her other earbud. “Think she has stables?”

“If she has horses and didn’t tell me, I’m stealing one.”

The car pulled around the front circle drive, tires crunching gently on gravel. Ahead, the great oak doors of the manor loomed, sunlight glinting off their wrought-iron hinges.

Cassidy glanced at her sister again, a flicker of something softer behind the sarcasm.

“You think she’s okay? Really?”

Caroline didn’t answer at first. Then: “I think she’s trying.”

They both went quiet as the car rolled to a smooth stop. And then the door opened.

**-

Miranda sat curled in one of the high-backed chairs near the window, a throw over her lap and a stack of layouts in her lap. Andrea was at the table nearby, reading off notes from Nigel’s last email, her tablet glowing faintly against the carved oak surface.

“You don’t have to finish everything today,” Andrea said gently. “He just wants direction on the lead spread and confirmation for the alternative cover series.”

Miranda hummed, eyes scanning the proofs. “If I don’t do it now, it’ll only pile up.”

Andrea smiled. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t know what the word ‘rest’ means.”

“I find rest in work,” Miranda replied, but her voice lacked its usual sharpness. She shifted, setting one page aside. “Besides... it helps me stay grounded. Especially with the girls arriving.”

Andrea looked up, softening. “You’re nervous.” Miranda scoffed—too quickly. “Of course not.” Andrea just raised an eyebrow. There was a long pause, then Miranda sighed and set her work aside.

“It’s their first time seeing me like this. Here. In... this phase of my life. Pregnant. With you. Out of the city.” She gestured around vaguely. “It’s a lot.”

“They adore you,” Andrea said simply.

“They know me,” Miranda corrected. “They’re used to me in control. Sharp. Decisive. Not... faintly nauseated and tucked under a throw like some fragile socialite.”

Andrea leaned forward on her elbows. “You’re still all those things. They’ll see it. They’ll know it.”

Miranda didn’t respond right away, her eyes flicking toward the door as if she could will time to slow. Andrea watched her for a long beat, then said, “You don’t have to be perfect for them. You just have to be you.”

Miranda looked at her, something soft flickering in her eyes.

But before she could reply—

SLAM.

The library doors burst open with the unmistakable force of twin teenage energy.

“OH MY GOD THIS PLACE IS A CASTLE,” Cassidy shouted, practically skipping into the room.

“I counted four fireplaces on the way in!” Caroline added, trailing behind her, eyes wide and bright. “And a greenhouse! Did you know there’s a greenhouse?”

Andrea blinked. Miranda straightened automatically, startled but already smoothing her throw, pulling herself together by habit.

Cassidy spotted them first. “There you are!” she beamed, dropping her overnight bag unceremoniously on the floor and crossing the room in five bounding steps. “This place is insane. I want to live here. I’m adopting Andrea’s family.”

“You can’t adopt a bloodline,” Caroline said dryly, flopping into the chair opposite Miranda. “I think that’s illegal.”

Miranda blinked, still stunned by the volume and speed of the interruption. “Good morning to you, too.”

Caroline grinned. “Sorry. We just... this place is ridiculous. I thought we were going to a country cottage. This is Downton Abbey: Alpha Edition.”

Cassidy dropped onto the rug by Andrea’s chair. “Also, Mom, you look really cozy, and we brought you tea.”

Miranda opened her mouth, but Andrea beat her to it.

“And now,” she said with a sigh of mock drama, “peace and quiet are officially over.”

Miranda just laughed—quiet, and maybe a little breathless. But genuine. And suddenly, the library felt more like home than any office ever had.