Unmarked

Andrea led the way down one of the estate’s winding paths, flanked on either side by flowering hedges and ancient stone walls, her tone light and animated as she gave the twins the “unofficial” tour.

Cassidy was practically vibrating with excitement when they reached the stables. The second the scent of hay and warm fur hit her nose, she sprinted ahead, already halfway through the barn doors before anyone could call after her.

“She’s going to live in there,” Caroline said dryly, watching her sister disappear into the building.

“She can,” Andrea laughed. “There’s a loft above the stables. It has windows and everything.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give her ideas.”

Inside, Cassidy was already bonding with a grey mare, murmuring nonsense to it while stroking its mane. “This one’s mine,” she declared. “Tell your Alpha legacy to make it official.”

Andrea raised her hands. “I just inherited the estate, not a monarchy.”

They laughed, and even Miranda allowed a soft smile to stretch her lips as she leaned on the stall door, watching her daughter glow.

Later, they wandered through the greenhouse—humid and lush, vibrant with orchids and citrus trees. Caroline moved slowly, fingers brushing leaves and petals with reverence.

“This is amazing,” she said softly, the kind of tone she reserved for art museums and quiet poetry readings. “It’s like walking through a painting.”

Miranda watched her daughter for a moment, eyes soft. “You were always the one who noticed the details.”

Caroline looked over her shoulder, smiling. “You always did too. Just in a sharper way.” Andrea didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

By late afternoon, they’d spread out a blanket beneath a willow tree at the edge of the orchard. The sky was pale blue, the breeze warm and lazy. A picnic basket sat between them—tea sandwiches, fruit, little jars of chilled soup and honey cakes from the kitchen staff.

Cassidy lay on her back with her eyes closed, sunglasses perched on her nose. “I’m never going back to the city.”

Caroline was sketching the manor in a small leather notebook she’d pulled from her bag. “We could always move here and run away from expectations.”

Andrea passed Miranda a slice of peach. “Tempting.”

Miranda leaned back on one hand, face tilted toward the sun, hair catching the light in soft silver waves. “We’d go feral in two weeks.”

“We’re already halfway there,” Cassidy said without opening her eyes. The laughter that followed was easy, real. It echoed through the orchard like music.

**-

The estate settled into twilight slowly, the air cooling, lanterns glowing golden along the paths and porches. Upstairs, Miranda tucked a blanket up to Cassidy’s chin, smoothing her hair with a surprising tenderness.

“You smell like horses,” she whispered. Cassidy smirked sleepily.

Miranda kissed her forehead. “Sleep.” She crossed the hall into the other room where Caroline was already curled up with a book, light still on.

“I’ll only read for a bit,” she promised, voice soft.

Miranda sat on the edge of her bed. “Ten pages.”

Caroline raised a brow. “Twenty.”

Miranda smiled. “Fifteen and no negotiation.”

Caroline leaned forward and hugged her, sudden and strong. “Thanks for this.” Miranda didn’t speak—but her hand lingered a little longer on Caroline’s back as she pulled away.

When Miranda finally stepped into their shared room, the lights were low, a single lamp casting a warm glow across the space. The edges of the world felt softer here—muted by stone walls and deep carpets and the hush of spring night pressing against the windows.

Andrea looked up from where she sat on the bed, already changed for the evening, brushing her hair out with slow, deliberate strokes.

She met Miranda’s eyes with warmth, grounding and still.

“You okay?”

Miranda stopped just inside the doorway, her fingers resting lightly on the doorknob.

And then—she didn’t move.

Her face didn’t twist. Her shoulders didn’t collapse.

But something in her eyes fractured.

“They were so happy today,” she said, voice barely more than breath. “The girls. You. All of it. I kept thinking... this is what it should feel like.”

Andrea slowly set the brush down. “Miranda…”

“But what if I lose it?” Miranda whispered, stepping forward like she didn’t realize she was moving. “What if it’s taken away before I even get to keep it? The trial, the Bureau, Irv—what if they put me in prison? What if I’m alone, pregnant, and the world moves on without me? What if I never see the girls again? What if you—”

Her voice cracked.

Andrea stood in a heartbeat, hands reaching, but Miranda backed away before she could touch her.

“I can’t do this if I don’t know, Andrea. I can’t survive this if I’m just going to be left behind in the end—!”

“Miranda.”

“I need to prepare for the worst, I have to be ready—”

“Miranda.”

But she kept spiraling, her voice rising with panic and breathlessness, hands trembling at her sides like they didn’t know where to go.

Andrea’s heart ached.

She crossed the space between them in two steps and grabbed Miranda’s face in both hands—not rough, not hard, just firm—holding her there, forcing their eyes to meet.

And then, softly but with absolute command, she said:

“Enough.”

The word cut through the air like thunder. Miranda froze.

“Stop trying to grieve something you haven’t lost yet,” Andrea said, her voice steady but laced with fire. “Stop building the ending before we’ve even lived the middle. You don’t get to write me out of this, Miranda. You don’t get to shove me aside because you’re afraid.”

Miranda’s breath hitched. Andrea softened her grip, just slightly.

“I’m here,” she said. “Not out of obligation. Not because of instinct. Because I choose to be. I will fight for you, every day, in every way. But I won’t stand here and let you convince yourself you’re already alone. You’re not.”

Silence hung for a beat. Then another.

Miranda’s eyes welled—furious, embarrassed tears—but she didn’t look away.

She should have, because her Omega was already buckling, panicking, trying to claw its way free from the vulnerability, from the fear that was rising like bile in her throat.

“I can’t,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t do this, Andrea.”

Andrea didn’t move, not yet.

“I’m trying to protect myself—because if I lose this, if I lose you, or the girls, or this life, it will destroy me. I know it. So I have to push back now. While I still can. Before it’s too late.”

Her breath was ragged, eyes wide with fear and fury. Her Omega vibrated just beneath her skin—resisting the pull of comfort, of safety, of the bond that tethered her to this future she didn’t know how to believe in. She stepped back, Andrea took a step forward.

“No,” Miranda snapped. “Don’t—don’t come closer.”

Andrea paused, heart hammering—but her Alpha stirred. The scent of dominance rose from her skin like heat. And Miranda’s Omega flinched. Andrea saw it, could feel it but she didn’t care.

A rejection not of her—but of what Miranda was terrified to surrender to. Because surrender, this time, didn’t mean giving up control. It meant letting herself be loved, and trust that all will be well. Miranda turned, sharp and fast, like she might bolt—like she wanted to. And that was when Andrea moved.

With a low growl, barely restrained, she surged forward—pressing Miranda back against the wall before the older woman could escape her own panic. Her hands planted on either side of Miranda’s shoulders, not holding her—but caging her in. Her Alpha presence rolled off her in waves, not gentle this time. Not coaxing.

Claiming.

“Look. At. Me,” Andrea ordered, voice low, vibrating with raw authority.

Miranda’s Omega thrashed beneath her skin—panicked, torn, overwhelmed. She bared her teeth like a cornered animal. “Don’t do this. You can’t just—”

Andrea leaned in, her mouth beside Miranda’s ear, her voice dropping into something feral.

“I will do this. Because I see what you’re doing, Miranda. You’re trying to pre-empt pain. You’re trying to rip off your own skin before anyone else can. But I won’t let you.” Miranda shuddered.

Andrea stepped closer, her body flush against Miranda’s now, scent pressing into her like a physical force. Her hand gripped Miranda’s jaw—firm, unyielding, thumb beneath her chin—guiding her face back into line.

“You don’t get to run from me,” Andrea growled. “Not when your Omega is screaming to be held. Not when you need me to ground you.” Miranda’s knees buckled slightly, a whimper breaking free.

“I know you’re scared,” Andrea said, voice softer now, but still layered with Alpha steel. “But fear doesn’t excuse sabotage. You don’t get to destroy what we’ve built just to keep yourself from feeling.”

Tears spilled over Miranda’s cheeks, but her body went still. Her Omega pulsed beneath Andrea’s presence, still defiant—but no longer retreating.

Andrea felt it, that tension, that last refusal to yield. And she smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Predatory. Her Alpha sharpened.

“Oh,” she murmured, dragging her nose along the curve of Miranda’s jaw, breathing her in, “I see it now.”

Miranda flinched but held her ground.

“You’re not going to let go on your own,” Andrea whispered, nipping at the edge of Miranda’s throat. “You think if you resist hard enough, the fear will go away.”

Her hand slid along Miranda’s hip, firm, possessive.

“You’re not coming out of this mindset without a fight, are you?”

Miranda turned her head just slightly, jaw tight, tears on her cheeks but her glare sharp as ever. Andrea pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Then bared her teeth in a grin that wasn’t kind.

“Fine,” she said, voice silk-wrapped steel. “A fight you shall have.”

Her presence surged, her Alpha flooding the space between them—commanding, grounded, undeniable. And then, velvet and command all at once:

“Now,” Andrea said, brushing her mouth against Miranda’s jaw, her tone dark with promise, “you’re going to be good for me.”

Miranda’s breath hitched—but she still didn’t move. Andrea leaned back, just far enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes burned with intent.

“Take off your clothes, we are going to play a little game.”

**-

##DISCLAIMER: IF YOU DON’T LIKE ROUGH SEX/BDSM SKIP THIS PART

Andrea stood still—every part of her sharp and grounded, the steady pull of her Alpha presence coiling tighter around the room like a velvet noose.

Her Omega pulsed against Andrea’s command like a cornered animal. Not submissive—terrified. Shaking with the need to fight, because surrender meant vulnerability. And vulnerability had never felt safe. Andrea saw it in her eyes and so she gave her the final out. So she stepped back just a breath, giving her space. Not as retreat—but to offer her one final moment of choice.

“If you want nothing to do with me, if you want to run,” Andrea said, voice calm and even, “if you truly want to push me away, say the word.

Miranda’s eyes snapped up. Sharp. Wet. Unsteady.

Andrea leaned forward, so close their breath mingled.

“Cerulean.”

It hung in the air between them like a lifeline. A way out. A safe word built on memory and everything Miranda once used as armor. “If you say that,” Andrea continued, “this ends. I’ll step back. No questions. I’ll let you run. I’ll walk away”

Silence. Miranda’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. But she didn’t speak.

“But if you don’t... this stops right now. You don’t spiral, you will give me the wheel, even if you don’t know it yet.”

Andrea let the moment stretch, giving her every second she might need. And still, nothing.

The silence after the word “Cerulean” was not spoken stretched long and tight, like the moment before thunder cracks the sky. Miranda didn’t say it. She could have. The word was there—permitted, promised, offered like a lifeline. But she didn’t take it.

Andrea watched her carefully, her Alpha humming just beneath her skin, scent sharp and steady—controlled, but undeniably present. A living force in the room.

Miranda stood still. Naked now. Chin high. Tears on her face but steel in her eyes. Her Omega snarled beneath the surface. Feral, protective and cornered.

Andrea smiled slowly, a dark, dangerous edge in her voice. “Then you don’t want to run. You want to fight.” She took a step closer.

“So I’ll give you something to fight against. Something real. Something safe.”

Miranda’s Omega lashed out inside her like it was trying to tear free—writhing against the looming shift in control. Her body trembled, instinctive resistance building like a scream. Miranda’s lips twitched—somewhere between a sneer and a sob. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers curled into claws. Her breathing was ragged, shallow.

Andrea moved to the nearby armoire, pulling open a low drawer with calm efficiency. She returned with a bundle of dark leather restraints, thick and soft and broken in. No buckles that would pinch. No straps that could slip.

Miranda took a step back. “Don’t.”

Andrea’s eyes met hers, unwavering. “You could’ve said the word.”

Miranda’s breath hitched. “You think this is helping?”

“I know it is.”

The moment Andrea reached for her, Miranda lunged—with all the energy of someone who couldn’t handle the vulnerability of stillness. Her hands struck Andrea’s shoulders. Andrea caught her easily. They grappled for a moment—bodies close, muscles straining, Miranda panting and twisting, trying to break away. But Andrea was stronger. Grounded and unyielding.

She guided Miranda backward—onto the bed, pinning her just long enough to buckle the first restraint around her left wrist.

Miranda hissed through her teeth. “Damn you—!”

Andrea said nothing, doing the same with the right wrist working fast but careful. Andrea pulled the cords through the headboard—anchoring Miranda’s arms above her head, giving just enough slack for movement, but not freedom.

Both ankles next, Miranda kicking hard enough that Andrea had to straddle her thighs, pinning her until the leather looped around and clicked into place.

The final tug pulled Miranda open—arms above her head, legs spread wide and secure. Miranda lay there, gasping, sweat beading at her collarbone, cheeks flushed from the effort. Still, Miranda didn’t stop her. But she didn’t settle, either.

She fought—not with words or motion, but with everything in her posture. Her back arched too stiffly. Her Omega radiated rage and fear and fury in equal measure.

Andrea crouched beside her, one hand brushing hair from Miranda’s damp brow. brushing her fingertips down Miranda’s bound arms.

“You fought hard,” she murmured, her voice low, edged with quiet heat. “But now that we’re on the same page.”  Her eyes held Miranda’s with soft, devastating intensity.

“I’m going to help you let go. I’m going to overwhelm you,” she said softly. “Because you won’t let yourself feel unless you’re overloaded.”

Miranda’s eyes snapped towards her. “Don’t patronize me.” Andrea didn’t answer. She only smiled—and stood, walking to the other side of the room to get everything she needed.

Andrea moved with precision. Each step was quiet, methodical—her Alpha energy filling the space, now not just to dominate, but to cradle, to contain. Her presence had become the cage Miranda’s Omega had nowhere to run from.

From a lacquered box at the foot of the armoire, Andrea drew out her chosen tools: a thick black blindfold of silk-lined leather, a tray with compartments of wax stiks, a lighter and a feather wands. She placed them beside the bed like instruments before a concert.

And last, small and sleek—a remote-controlled plug, discreet in size, but devastating in purpose.

Miranda heard the shift of fabric. Her breathing deepened. Andrea approached the bed with the blindfold first, moving slow. Miranda tensed.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice low. Controlled—but barely.

Andrea paused, standing over her, fingers curled lightly around the strap.

“You don’t want to see this coming,” she said softly. “You think bracing for it helps, but itdoesn’t.”

Miranda’s jaw clenched. “I want to see you.”

“I’ll be right here,” Andrea whispered. And then she slipped the blindfold into place.

Miranda flinched—Her breath shuddered in her chest as darkness folded around her, sharpening every sound, every breath, every shift of air.

The room was quiet for a beat—only Miranda’s breath, still fast, still sharp. Andrea stood, adjusting the blindfold. “Don’t move.”

Miranda growled. “I’m tied to your bed. Where exactly would I go?” Andrea smiled and leaned down to kiss her jaw, slow and sure. “You’ll stay exactly where I put you.”

Then she left. Not far—just into the adjoining suite kitchen, where a small ice bucket sat waiting inside the under-counter bar fridge. It was there for preparing drinks of course but tonight it would serve a different purpose.

Andrea returned with the bowl cradled in one hand.

Miranda flinched at the sound of the door opening again. “What was that?”

Andrea didn’t answer, she set the bowl down beside the bed.

“Still want to see me?” she asked, voice warm and wicked.

Miranda’s chin lifted under the blindfold. “I want to know what you’re doing.”

Andrea leaned in, lips brushing Miranda’s temple. “I’ll give you what your body needs. And while I do, you’ll tell me what your mind won’t.”

She pressed a kiss to Miranda’s cheek. “That’s the deal.” Then she began. The first stroke of the feather was maddeningly soft.

It danced along the inside of Miranda’s left arm, barely there—like a breath. Down her side. Over the arch of her ribcage. Across her stomach. Her thighs.

Miranda hissed through her teeth at the tickling sensation, aching away from it.

“Stop playing,” she snapped.

Andrea said nothing as she dragged the feather up again—slower this time—until Miranda writhed, the absence of pressure more unbearable than contact.

Then came ice. A single cube, kissed down the line of Miranda’s collarbone, trailing rivulets of cold that made her arch. She twisted in the restraints, teeth bared, muscles taut.

Andrea watched her like for any sign of true discomfort, finding non she continued. Then she slid the ice cube between Miranda’s breasts. Let it melt and swapped it for heat.

A long, slow drip of wax landed just below Miranda’s navel. Her whole body jerked.

“God—Andrea—!”

“I’m right here,” Andrea said again, calm and focused, catching the next droplet on Miranda’s hip. And while Miranda’s whole body focuses on the slight burning sensation aping away, Andy slipped the toy inside her. Slowly

Miranda gasped. “Too much?” Andrea asked.

Miranda snarled. “Just another of your tricks.” Andrea turned the setting to low and leaned in.

“I don’t need tricks to get you to let go, Miranda.”

Another pulse of cold. Another line of wax. Another sweep of the feather across Miranda’s inner thighs while the vibrator hummed gently inside her—taunting, not enough, just barely there.

Andrea’s voice slipped in alongside the sensations. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Shut up.” Andrea trailed a single finger from Miranda’s sternum to her navel.

“What do you see when you think about the future?”

Miranda growled. “You don’t get to ask that, not now.”

Andrea struck—once, quick, with her hand across Miranda’s thigh. Not hard. Just sharp enough to claim her attention. Miranda gasped and her thigh shot up.

“I do,” Andrea said. “Because I’m in it.”

The wax dropped again, hotter now. The ice followed.

Miranda’s whole body twisted in the restraints, sweat beading along her hairline, muscles screaming. Still, she refused to break.

Andrea leaned close to her ear.

“What would it mean to want this?” she whispered. “To need someone? To be soft?”

“I’m not soft—!”

“You are,” Andrea breathed. “And it’s killing you.”

Miranda whimpered, furious. She bared her teeth again—but the tremble in her voice had changed. The edges were fraying. Her Omega snarled and spat, but its fury was wild and untethered now—not defensive. Desperate and most of all lost.

Andrea whispered again. “You’re not weak for needing comfort. You’re not shameful for wanting someone to stay.” Miranda let out a guttural, incoherent noise—half sob, half scream.

She shook her head under the blindfold. Her breathing had gone ragged. The vibrator pulsed again—low, insistent—against a body already shivering from overstimulation.

Feather. Ice. Wax.

Feather. Ice. Wax.

Warm wax—never scalding, but just enough to make Miranda arch and whimper—dripped in precise trails over her stomach, hips, inner thighs. Each droplet marked her, made her feel, forced her to react.

Andrea never stopped moving. Miranda’s Omega thrashed beneath it all.

“Let me go—” she hissed, more instinct than thought.

Andrea leaned down, kissed the tears from her cheeks.

“You don’t want to be let go,” she whispered. “You want to be undone.”

Miranda let out another mewling sound

“You don’t have to run anymore.” Miranda’s hips twisting, her body trembling, refusing to surrender even as it began to crack.

Andrea smiled, dark. “God, you’re beautiful even when your fighting.” she whispered.

**-

Andrea didn’t remove the blindfold. She let the darkness stay, let Miranda’s awareness remain narrowed—focused only on sensation

Miranda lay trembling, bound and exposed, her body slick with sweat, wax cooling in delicate trails down her skin. The vibrator hummed gently inside her—relentless, teasing—and Andrea reached for the remote.

Click. The vibration deepened.

Miranda’s hips jolted, a gasping whimper escaping her lips, followed by a furious hiss of breath. Her thighs tensed, her wrists pulled reflexively against the restraints. She was on the edge.

Andrea smiled quietly. “Still holding on?”

She moved to the foot of the bed and picked up two new straps—thick leather restraints designed for thighs. Gently, she fastened them in place. Miranda twitched beneath her hands, her Omega bristling, but Andrea worked with calm purpose.

“I’m going to move you now.” Miranda didn’t answer.

Andrea unfastened the ankle restraints, one at a time, and guided Miranda to roll over, her limbs weak and shaking.

“Up,” Andrea ordered softly. “On your knees.”

Miranda grit her teeth, trembling as she obeyed. Andrea helped her, guiding her bound wrists to rest against the headboard, then secured the thigh restraints to the same point.

It forced Miranda’s legs apart, held her in place—kneeling, exposed.

Andrea stepped back and just looked at her. Powerful. Beautiful. Fragile in ways she refused to name.

“Look at you,” Andrea whispered. “You don’t even know how beautiful you are like this.”

Miranda growled low in her throat, biting back a sob. “Stop it—”

“No,” Andrea said, stepping behind her. “You don’t get to tell me not to see you.”

She raised her hand. The first crack of the palm across Miranda’s ass rang out sharp and sudden.

Miranda yelped. Andrea didn’t hesitate. She brought her hand down again, the slap echoing in the stillness.

“Let go,” Andrea said.

Miranda growled, her head shaking beneath the blindfold. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

Another slap. And another. Andrea alternated impact with soft, grounding touches—stroking over Miranda’s back, kissing her spine between strikes.

“Let me take it,” Andrea whispered. “Let me have it. All of it.”

Miranda jerked in her restraints, the sting deepening, the heat blooming across her skin. Her breathing became shallow, erratic, panicked—but the edge had shifted.

It wasn’t just resistance anymore. It was fear letting go of its final foothold.

Crack. Miranda sobbed.

“Please—” she gasped, “I don’t—I don’t want to fall—”

Andrea struck again, firmer, and wrapped an arm around Miranda’s waist, holding her steady.

“You’re not falling,” she whispered. “i’ll catch you.”

Miranda’s knees buckled, her body trembling so violently the restraints were the only thing keeping her upright. The orgasm that had been just on the surface finally crashing over her giving her the final push.

A long, broken cry tore from her throat—raw, cracked open. She wailed, every inch of her resistance pouring out of her in sobs so deep they shook her ribs. Her Omega, finally to overwhelmed to care, so she yielded.

with surrender.

With need.

Andrea undid the restraints slowly, carefully, catching Miranda’s collapsing body against her chest. She pulled the blindfold free, revealing bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes—glassy, unfocused, wet with release.

Miranda clung to her, her fists trembling, her voice gone. Andrea wrapped both arms around her and rocked.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re here. you’re safe, you did so well.”

Miranda buried her face in Andrea’s shoulder and sobbed until there was nothing left.

**-

##START AGAIN FROM HERE

Miranda was trembling. Not violently—just little shudders rolling through her muscles like the aftershock of something vast. Her body had surrendered, but the adrenaline still lingered. Andrea cradled her closer and whispered, “I’ve got you.”

With slow, careful movements, she rose from the bed, keeping Miranda wrapped in the blanket she’d pulled over her, arms secure around her shoulders and under her knees. Miranda didn’t resist. She barely stirred—still hazy, floating gently in the edge of subspace, the tears on her cheeks drying into warmth.

Andrea carried her to the fireplace at the other side of the room. The hearth was still glowing—embers alive, flames dancing low and soft. Andrea lowered herself into the oversized armchair, keeping Miranda in her lap, tucked in, curled small and safe.

She rubbed gentle circles against her back, murmuring nothing words into her hair. The crackle of the fire filled the silence, the heat from the flames slowly easing Miranda’s shivers.

Minutes passed before Miranda spoke. Her voice was thick and low, barely there. “I think I’m okay.” Andrea kissed the top of her head. “Yeah?”

“I can breathe,” Miranda whispered. “Everything’s still... big. But it’s quiet now.”

Andrea exhaled, relief washing through her like a wave—but it was tangled with worry, too. She looked down, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from Miranda’s face.

“I didn’t know if I went too far,” she admitted quietly. “If I crossed a line. I kept waiting for you to say the word. I—” She paused. “I was scared you’d hate me for it.”

Miranda blinked slowly, the haze starting to lift from her gaze. She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against Andrea’s chest. “I could have walked away,” she said. “I could’ve said it. Cerulean. But something in me told me not to.” Andrea’s arms tightened around her, just a little.

Miranda went on. “Every Alpha I’ve ever had... when I got like that, they told me to take a break. Go lie down. Come back when I’d calmed down. They let me shut the door and run from it.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You didn’t let me run,” she said. “You stopped me. You dragged me through it, kicking and screaming, and I thought I’d resent you for it.” Andrea stayed still, listening, barely breathing.

“But I don’t,” Miranda whispered. “Because I think... this might be exactly what I need. When I’m spiraling. When I can’t see straight. I don’t need to be told to go away. I need someone to hold the mirror up until I look at it.”

Andrea let out a shaky breath and pressed her lips to Miranda’s forehead.

“You feel more grounded now?”

Miranda nodded slowly. “Like... I’m back in my own skin.”

Andrea smiled, just a little. “Good.” They sat in silence a while longer, the fire softening the room, the world outside forgotten. Miranda shifted, curling deeper into Andrea’s lap, her voice no more than a whisper.

“You didn’t go too far, Andrea.” Andrea’s eyes burned, just a little.

“Thank you for not letting me disappear inside my head,” Miranda said. “Even when I begged you to.” Andrea held her tighter, rested her chin on Miranda’s head, and whispered back “I never will.”

**-

Miranda sat at the long kitchen table, her silk robe cinched neatly, her hair brushed and pinned up in a loose twist. She sipped tea like nothing had changed.

Andrea sat beside her, dressed down in a soft sweater and leggings, her leg pressed gently to Miranda’s under the table. Her hand rested near Miranda’s elbow.

Across the table, the twins were locked in animated discussion over who made the better breakfast spread—Caroline with her artistic fruit arrangements, or Cassidy, who’d managed to half-burn and half-freeze a croissant at the same time.

Neither seemed to notice anything different about the women across from them.

“You’re not eating,” Cassidy accused, stabbing a fork in Miranda’s direction.

“I am,” Miranda said coolly, sipping her tea again.

“A sip of Earl Grey doesn’t count.”

Miranda arched a brow. “Are you telling me how to eat breakfast?”

Caroline snorted. Andrea bit her lip to keep from laughing. The moment was normal. Light. Effortless. Andrea reached for her phone, the news alert flashing across the top of the screen catching her attention. She opened it out of habit, expecting something dry or irrelevant.

And then she froze. Her brows lifted.

Miranda glanced over. “What?” Andrea turned the phone toward her. It was a photo. From the shoot.

Not the planned editorial spreads. Not the stylized wilderness shots. This was raw—a behind-the-scenes capture from one of the assistants, posted to socials and gone viral. Miranda stood at the edge of the forest, wind catching her coat, hand raised mid-instruction, jaw sharp, eyes blazing.

“Miranda Priestly Returns: Fashion’s Storm Queen Reclaims Her Throne.”

Below it, the subheads were a mix of awe, curiosity, and controversy:

“Is Runway’s icon rewriting the rules of hierarchy?”
“Unmarked and unstoppable—what Miranda’s reappearance says about the Omega narrative.”
“Bravo or backlash? Social media erupts over Priestly’s comeback presence.”

Andrea’s eyes scanned the comments—some praising, some furious, all engaged.

Just as they’d hoped. “Well,” Andrea murmured, leaning toward Miranda, “you did say you wanted to make a statement.”

Miranda studied the photo for a long beat. Then sipped her tea again. “Not a bad angle.”

Cassidy leaned over. “Wait—are you trending?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “She’s always trending.”

Andrea just smiled—and beneath the table, she gave Miranda’s hand a quiet, grounding squeeze. And Miranda—squeezed back.