Chapter Text
MONDAY
Andrea Sachs is sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet of Emily Charlton’s aggressively curated walk-in closet, holding a pair of strappy beige heels like they’re weapons of war. The room smells like fresh hydrangeas, expensive leather, and thinly veiled tension.
Outside, the New York sky pretends it’s spring. Inside, it’s full-blown combat season.
Years have passed since their Runway days, since they were Miranda Priestly’s assistants with too-thin wrists and too-little sleep. Now? They were almost unrecognizable.
Andy had left journalism, but never storytelling. She'd traded headlines for campaigns, breaking news for global branding. Now, she runs Ampersand Studio , one of Europe’s most in-demand creative firms, spearheading everything from editorial visuals to film fashion campaigns. Milan was home, so was her calendar, and so were her tightly tucked-away memories.
Emily, meanwhile, had done what Emily always did—clawed her way to the top with pointed heels and PR strategy sharper than scalpels. She ran the biggest PR firm in New York now, booked two years in advance, terrifying every junior assistant with a flick of her perfectly manicured hand. And somewhere along the way, in between Cannes trips and crisis control, she’d fallen for Serena.
Yes, that Serena. The blonde, unsettlingly intelligent, art-world darling, model-turned-beautician Serena. Against all odds, they had forged a relationship that worked well enough, in fact, to orchestrate a wedding. In Lake Como, no less.
And that, ultimately, was what led them to this moment. Packing. Prepping. Suffering through it all.
“What’s wrong with them?” Andy frowns, wiggling the shoe for emphasis.
“They’re beige,” Emily snaps, emerging from the other side of the closet with a garment bag slung over one arm and vengeance in her eyes. “You cannot wear beige to a lesbian wedding in Lake Como. You’ll look like a forgotten breadstick.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Pretty sure you’re contractually obligated to be nicer to your maid of honor.”
Emily drops the bag with a thud. “You’re lucky I didn’t ask Serena’s sister to do it. That woman made us hand-stamped napkin rings.”
“Ah yes, the true measure of bridal loyalty, stationery arts .” Andy said with spite in her voice.
Emily flops down beside her, sighing heavily, her eyeliner still perfect despite the hour. "I’m getting married in five days."
Andy looks at her. "I know."
"To a woman. Me. Emily Charlton. In Vera Wang couture. With guests. Who knows me." Emily said, sounding like she can't quite believe herself.
"You love her," Andy offered, her tone gentle and reassuring.
"I do," Emily affirms, quiet and certain. "I just never anticipated it would feel like... being on top of a very tall building in heels, fervently hoping the wind doesn't start flinging tabloid headlines at you."
Andy smiles. "That, my dear, sounds precisely like your version of love."
Emily slumps a little, resting her head against a clothing rack. "What if I ruin it?"
"You won’t."
"You’re sure?"
Andy nudges her shoulder gently. "I've witnessed you navigate a broken zipper, talk your way out of a full-blown PR scandal, and even survive an influencer feud that somehow involved ketamine and a pug. You will be fine."
Emily exhales, a long, shaky breath, the sound echoing slightly in the luxurious, silent room filled with her quiet panic.
After a moment, Emily speaks, her gaze fixed on something distant. "You know she’s coming, don't you?"
Andy stiffens. "Who?"
Emily merely raises a brow. "Serena extended the invitation," she adds, her tone gentle. "And Miranda RSVP’d. Naturally. She has a perfect attendance record for power unions."
Andy becomes unnervingly still. "Cool," she manages, her voice devoid of inflection. "Fantastic. Just the kind of fun little ghost one enjoys packing for."
Emily turns, her voice softening further. "Are you alright?"
Andy shrugs dismissively. "It happened years ago. I've moved past it."
Andy didn’t move and looked up instead. The ceiling, a meditative shade of eggshell white, offered zero answers. She’d take existential clarity, or even just a warning. A crack in the drywall that said: Danger ahead. Turn back now.
Emily knelt in front of her, rifled through a storage drawer, and pulled out a garment bag. She didn’t hand it over. She just looked at Andy and said, “You’re wearing this.”
Andy narrowed her eyes. “What is that?”
“You already know,” Emily said, unzipping it slowly.
Inside was the dress. This dress was something else.
A dark teal silk slip with sculpted seams and a dangerously low back. They’d found it two years ago, in Paris, when Emily visited Marco and Andy for a long weekend of wine, shopping, and pretending they weren’t all high-functioning workaholics.
They hadn’t planned to buy anything. Then Andy tried this on. Marco had stared at her like she’d invented seduction. Emily declared it illegal not to purchase it.
Andy had forgotten it existed. “You’re not serious.”
Emily raised a brow. “Do you really think I’d let you show up in linen and denial?”
Andy groaned. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m your best friend. How I wish Marco was here to hear that,” Emily corrected. “Anyhow, you’re going to wear this dress, drink too much prosecco, and make her sweat.”
Andy didn’t answer right away. The dress gleamed faintly in the light, draped over Emily’s arm like a promise and a threat.
She looked away, focused on the ceiling.
The silence settled over them, heavy and unyielding.
Seven days.
Andy could do seven days. She could do seven days.
Seven days of speeches, alcohol, seating charts, strategically avoiding the woman who once touched her like she meant forever and disappeared before morning.
Just survive the wedding week.
She stood, slowly. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if she says one condescending thing about what I’m wearing, I’m pushing her to the lake.”
Emily smiled, victorious. “Atta girl.”
TUESDAY NIGHT
The thing about destination weddings is that they demand a particular kind of surrender—of time, of dignity, of the illusion that you can emotionally prepare for what’s waiting on the other side of the ocean. Andy was not prepared.
She was, however, dressed in an oversized blazer, white tee, jeans, sunglasses big enough to disguise a hangover and half of her emotional range. Boarding pass in hand, passport ready. Luggage already tagged with “Milan.” She stared down the boarding gate like it was a portal to hell.
"Deep breaths," Marco murmured beside her, sipping his green juice with an air of irritating serenity. "You're not being sacrificed. It's a wedding, Andy, not a mortal duel."
Andy's glare cut over the top of her sunglasses. Had Marco not been so relentlessly charming and brilliant, she might have seriously considered tossing him out the nearest window. But he was, in fact, genuinely great, and Andy simply couldn't afford to lose him.
Marco De Luca had been a columnist in Florence when Andy met him. Brilliant, too sharp for his own good, fired for being “too political” and “too queer” in the same week. Andy had offered him a writing job. He’d said no and asked for creative control instead.
Now, years later, Marco was Ampersand’s Creative Associate Director and Andy’s closest thing to family—aside from Emily, of course. He designed campaigns, torched bad copy, mixed negronis with terrifying efficiency, and was probably the only person on earth who could tell Andrea Sachs she was spiraling without getting throat-punched.
Most assumed they were dating. Some thought they were married. Others shipped it loudly.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not about to be locked in a villa with a ghost.” Andy said with an obvious sting in her voice.
Marco arched his brow. “Still calling her that? Dramatic.”
Andy rolls her eyes before saying, “I’m not calling her anything. I haven’t seen her in years.”
Marco leaned in, conspiratorial. “That’s what makes it delicious.”
Andy turned away. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You pay me very well and secretly value my friendship.”
“You’re lucky I didn't throw you in the cargo hold.”
Their boarding group was called. Marco stood, looping his bag over his shoulder. “Come on, Sachs. To Italy, to lesbians, and to the impending collapse of your emotional neutrality.”
Andy groaned. “I should’ve just sent a gift and a poem.”
“You are the maid of honor, cara. That ship sailed when you planned the menu tasting and threatened the florist.”
She boarded in silence. Took her seat by the window in first class. Tried not to think about what lay ahead.
But thoughts—like ghosts—have a habit of ignoring boarding instructions.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
The cabin was quiet, dimmed to simulate sleep. Marco had his eye mask on, listening to a podcast about 1960s Italian film scores because of course he was.
Andy, however, remained semi-upright, her laptop open but untouched, the blank Word document a stark contrast to her racing mind.
She could already conjure the lake in her thoughts. Not the actual Lake Como just yet, but its essence. Rolling vineyards. Elegant villas. The whisper of soft jazz across sparkling water. A guest list meticulously chosen. Emily’s inevitable pre-wedding meltdown. Serena’s steady hands, gracefully resolving it.
And undeniably, somewhere amidst this entire tableau… Miranda Priestly.
The woman who had vanished from a hotel bed five years prior, without a call, a text, or an explanation.
Simply gone. Simply Miranda.
Andy let out a sharp exhale. She snapped her laptop shut and turned to face the window.
Years had passed. She was now older, sharper. She had made something of herself, built something for herself that could match Miranda's lifestyle.
Yet, the undeniable truth lingered: she was mere hours from being in the same location, within the same villa, perhaps even inhaling the same air as the woman she had once loved.
Loved boundlessly. Loved entirely.
And she didn’t know if she wanted to punch her, kiss her, or throw her in the lake.
Maybe all three.
The moment they arrived at the Milan airport, the sun was high and golden. The private shuttle waited with white ribbon tied around the mirrors. The wedding planner was already there, barking into a phone.
Andy stepped onto Italian ground with a deep breath and a well-practiced expression.
Behind her, Marco yawned. “God, the light here makes you look like a cinema goddess. No wonder if she’ll combust.”
Andy turned. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, slinging his bag into the shuttle, “if she so much as blinks at you wrong, I’m dragging her into the vineyard and telling her everything.”
Andy followed him in, sunglasses back on. “Fine. Just let me film it.”
After almost two hours, they arrived at Lake Como. The gates opened. The villa rose before them like a dream. The air smelled like cypress and old money.
Andy stepped from the car, her heels clicking on the warm gravel. She exhaled, a mix of anticipation and regret, and took in the estate: soft stone, perfectly manicured hedges, and floral arrangements so elaborate they could only scream, "Emily Charlton invested five figures in this vibe ."
Before she could truly absorb the scene, another car, sleek and silent, glided to a stop across the drive. A black one.
And then she emerged.
Miranda Priestly.
Hair silver and sleek, as though she'd aged by design. Sunglasses like armor. A silk wrap cinched around her waist, shifting gently with the breeze as if even the wind understood not to disrespect the silhouette of custom Dior.
She didn’t walk. She glided.
Andy became still. The twenty feet, perhaps less, separating them stretched into what felt like an entire decade.
Miranda lifted her head, precisely on cue, as if she'd detected the atmospheric shift her presence had caused. Her head tilted, a barely perceptible movement. There was no surprise, no hint of curiosity.
Recognition and something unreadable behind those shades.
Andy didn’t blink.
Her stomach dropped through the limestone driveway like a stone into water, sending ripples of old, unwanted memories outward. Ones she’d buried under creative briefs, long-haul flights, dresses, and impossible timelines.
Across the gravel, Miranda stood still. Poised, regal, and absolutely untouchable.
Behind Andy, Marco stepped out of the car and moved to her side. He circled casually, brushing invisible lint from her shoulder with a practiced hand which was far too casual to be unintentional.
Andy leaned slightly toward him, voice low and steady. “Remind me why I came?”
Marco grinned like the smug little bastard he was. “To ruin her entire week.”
Andy’s mouth curled at the corner. Just barely. “Right.”
Because if Miranda Priestly was here to haunt her… Then Andrea Sachs had shown up to haunt her right back.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
By the time Andy finished unpacking, the villa had transformed.
Florists had colonized the entrance, winding peonies and wild jasmine around arched doorways like a fairytale in progress. Champagne popped somewhere down the hall. A harpist floated by, looking half-dazed and fully overdressed.
Andy stood in front of her mirror, fighting with a stubborn earring and trying to forget what it felt like to see her again.
Miranda hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t even gestured. Just looked. Like she'd expected Andy to be there. Like nothing had ever been broken.
Andy slipped the earring into place, drew a slow breath, and stepped into the dress.
The dress. Dark teal silk, cut on the bias. Bought in Paris with Emily and Marco during a weekend that still smelled like espresso and cobblestones. Serena had once called it her weapon dress.
Andy didn’t believe in fashion as armor, funny coming from an almost ex-lover of the Fashion Queen, right? But tonight, Andy made an exception.
She opened the door to find Marco waiting in the hallway, dressed in cream linen, espresso in hand, looking offensively relaxed.
He glanced up. And blinked once. Then again.
“Are you trying to kill her,” he asked, voice low, “or just make her regret everything she’s ever done?”
Andy smoothed the front of the dress and smiled. No teeth. Just war. “Yes.”
Marco offered her his arm with a dramatic sigh. “God, I love when you get like this.”
They headed down the staircase together, the soft clink of silverware and distant laughter drawing them toward the garden where the welcome dinner had already begun.
Just as they reached the patio doors, Marco leaned in. “I saw the place cards.”
Andy narrowed her eyes. “And?”
“You’re seated next to her.”
Andy stopped in her tracks. “You’re lying.”
“Would I lie about social terrorism?”
She turned toward the garden with all the serenity of a lit fuse and said, “Goddammit, Emily.”
The welcome dinner was already in full swing. String lights glowing overhead, candlelight flickering off crystal, guests swanning in shades of ivory and champagne (exception for the maid of honor, of course). Emily had gone full old money lesbian editorial spread with the aesthetic, down to the live jazz quartet.
Andy took her place at the long table. Looked down.
Andrea Sachs — Miranda Priestly
Of course.
She didn’t even have time to swear before the murmurs shifted.
Marco leaned in. “Don’t turn around.”
“Why not?”
“She’s here.”
Andy turned anyway. And there she was.
Miranda. In black silk. High collar. Hair coiled like a weapon. She moved like gravity bent to her. A glass of white wine in her hand, posture that hadn’t softened in twenty years.
Her eyes scanned the table. Landed and held on Andy. Then she walked forward like the world was holding its breath.
Andy gripped the edge of the table. “Act normal,” she hissed to Marco.
Marco sipped his drink. “This is my normal.”
Miranda reached their place. She didn’t sit. Not yet.
“Andrea,” she said.
Not Andy. Not Ms. Sachs. Just—Andrea. Like the echo of a door that had once slammed shut and was now… slightly ajar.
The sound of it, the sound of her name in that voice hit like memory and thunder.
Andy almost felt her heart leap. Almost.
She rose. Because of manners. Because somehow, this was about survival.
“Miranda.”
And there it was.
The first word exchanged since London. Since that night. Since that goddamn morning in a five-star hotel suite, when Andy had woken to an empty bed and the silence of what could’ve been .
Miranda’s eyes flicked to Marco. Cool, assessing. “You must be the infamous Marco.”
Marco smiled like a shark in tailored linen. “Guilty. And you’re the ghost.”
Andy nearly choked on air.
Miranda, perfectly unbothered, took her seat beside Andy.
Andy sat too, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drink herself into unconsciousness.
The dinner carried on without them. Forks scraped. Glasses clinked. The jazz band played something moody behind the hydrangeas. Conversation bubbled around them like champagne.
But Miranda was right there now. Too close. Her perfume is unmistakable, something expensive and deliberate. Something Andy had once inhaled, pressed into pillowcases and skin.
Andy stared forward. She did not look. Did not remember. Did not feel the weight of every word they’d left unsaid.
Marco kicked her under the table. Hard.
She kicked him back. Harder.
Then, Miranda leaned in, her voice low, meant for no one but her. “You look well.”
Andy didn’t turn. Just smiled, sharp as cut glass. “I do well. I look expensive. Get it right.”
A pause. Then, Miranda’s lips curved into almost a smile.
And Andy hated the way her heart reacted. Like it remembered softness. Like it had forgiven the woman without her permission.
The sky was navy velvet, scattered with stars. The long table stretched across the garden like a set piece from a dream. Serena had gone full modern Renaissance lesbian , and it was working.
Andrea Sachs sat in the center of it all, flanked by a man who would gladly commit crimes for her and a woman who had already broken her.
She tried to focus on the food. The silver plate before her held handmade agnolotti in sage butter, garnished with microgreens too delicate to be real. She took a bite.
It tasted like regret and basil.
“Still a picky eater?” Miranda’s voice was low, smooth, utterly uncalled for. It slipped in like smoke.
Andy didn’t look up. “Still policing dinner conversations?”
Marco choked into his wine.
Miranda, of course, didn’t flinch. “I was making conversation.”
“You never just make conversation.”
“I never waste it. No.”
Andy turned then. Met those pale, perfectly blank eyes. “How’s the risotto, Miranda? Taste like control issues?”
Across the table, Emily cleared her throat in warning. Serena reached over, gently squeezed her fiancée’s hand.
Miranda offered the faintest smile. “I’d say it tastes like taste . But by all means, keep seasoning yours with passive aggression.”
Andy stabbed another piece of pasta. “Didn’t know you liked spice.”
“Oh, Andrea,” Miranda said, almost purring. “You used to know exactly what I liked.”
The fork clattered from Marco’s hand.
Emily dropped her linen napkin.
Andy didn’t blink. She chewed. Swallowed. Took a long sip of wine and said, evenly, “I must’ve blocked it out.”
Silence fell and Miranda blinked once.
Marco shot her a look: Holy shit, are we doing this?
Andy tilted her head, syrupy sweet. “I think you’re sitting on my napkin.”
Miranda leaned in, didn’t move an inch. “You’re welcome to take it back.”
Andy didn’t flinch. “I’m not touching anything that belongs to you anymore.”
They stared at each other, heat and history simmering beneath chandeliers and candlelight. Tension wound tight enough to snap.
Then Miranda—because of course—sat back. Lifted her glass and took a delicate sip.
“Pity,” she murmured. “You always had good hands.”
Marco squeaked. Emily downed the rest of her spritz in one long, desperate gulp.
Serena leaned over and whispered something. Emily nodded furiously and whisper-shouted, “I told you this would happen!”
Andy turned away, face hot, bones buzzing. She could feel Miranda beside her like a live wire. Every breath, every shift of silk, every unspoken sentence crackling between them like dry leaves.
The second course arrived: roasted sea bass with charred fennel and grilled lemon.
Andy didn’t taste a damn thing.
Dessert was limoncello tiramisu. Espresso appeared. Cigarettes flickered to life, summoned like magic. The string quartet shifted into Ella Fitzgerald, smooth and unhurried beneath the night sky.
Laughter drifted down the long table. Someone popped another bottle. Then someone yelled.
“Sachs!” Emily yelled across the linen. “Don’t forget you promised a toast!”
Andy blinked, mid-sip. “I did what now?”
Marco smirked, slow and merciless. “She did. Right after her fourth Prosecco at the planning dinner. I have the audio recording.”
Traitor.
Andy stood, reluctant, glass in hand. She could feel Miranda beside her, not looking at her wasn’t the same as not feeling her. That quiet weight. That presence like a second skin.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve known Emily for longer than she’d like to admit. We started out hating each other. She thought I was weak. I thought she was terrifying.”
Emily nodded, smug. “Both correct.”
A ripple of laughter.
“But somewhere between yelling about Hermes samples and nearly dying under… someone’s watch, she became one of the fiercest, most loyal people in my life.” A pause, then Andy’s gaze shifted.
“And Serena—” her smile softened at the glowing woman beside Emily, “—is the only person I’ve ever seen make Emily Charlton blush and shut up in the same breath. Which, let’s be honest, deserves a Nobel.”
Laughter broke like champagne foam across the table.
Andy raised her glass. “To love that makes you brave. To women who always knew better. And to the absolute audacity of planning a destination wedding with assigned seats.”
More laughter, a few toasts echoing back, the clinking of crystal.
Andy sat. She didn’t look at Miranda. She didn’t need to.
But Miranda leaned in anyway, voice low, silken and undeniable. “Still a writer, I see.”
Andy kept her eyes forward. Sipped her wine. “I just know how to finish what I start.”
And for once, Miranda had no reply.
Somewhere between the tiramisu and the digestifs, the wedding guests had migrated.
The long table now sat abandoned. Heels kicked off beneath it, jackets flung over chairs, half-empty glasses glinting in candlelight. The party had spilled toward the villa’s glowing pool terrace, where string lights shimmered like stardust on the water.
Someone had queued up a playlist titled ‘Eternal Gay Wedding’ —Fleetwood Mac, Robyn, Florence. Emily’s taste, obviously.
Andy found herself barefoot, a wine glass in one hand, the other slung around Serena’s shoulders as the bride-to-be guided her toward a lounge chair like a lifeguard shepherding a drunk dolphin.
“You,” Serena said, laughing, “are the only person I’ve ever seen sass Miranda Priestly and walk away without a casualty.”
“I didn’t walk away,” Andy muttered, eyes a little glassy. “I’m still emotionally bleeding out.”
Serena snorted. “Not even a little subtle.”
From the daybeds, Emily groaned. “Stop talking about her. For one night, can’t it just be about me ?”
“It’s always about you,” Andy called back, flopping onto the chair.
Emily sat up dramatically, champagne in hand, her hair slightly windblown and eyes full of wicked delight. “As it should be. I’m getting married in seventy-two hours to a woman who knows what serum I use and still loves me.”
“That is brave,” Serena muttered.
Emily beamed. “I know.”
Marco reappeared like a ghost with a bottle of wine and three undone buttons. “I heard lesbian slander. What did I miss?”
“You missed Andy trying to process five years of abandonment over a pool chair,” Serena quipped, kicking off her shoes.
“Oh, perfect , ” Marco said, settling beside Andy. “Let’s unpack that like it’s carry-on luggage.”
Andy flipped him off without looking.
Emily, ever the queen of chaos, raised her glass. “To exes at weddings. May their mouths stay shut and their dresses too tight.”
They all drank. And for a fleeting moment, laughter drowned out the history.
The playlist was now in full millennial queer mode—Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” echoing over the water, wine bottles half-drained, and the air warm with laughter.
Emily was sitting cross-legged in the grass, Serena behind her, braiding her hair with alarming skill. Andy had migrated to a low stone bench, sipping something she didn’t recognize and didn’t question.
Marco had taken to performing dramatic reenactments of their most unhinged work presentations, complete with fake client voices and imaginary slides. “And then she said,” he bellowed, deep-voiced, “I don’t think Gen Z wants fashion that talks about feminism.”
Emily hurled a throw pillow (or a rock) at him without looking.
Andy laughed so hard her eyes watered. She wiped at them quickly, hoping no one noticed.
This. This was why she came. This was why she stayed. The people who knew all her sharp edges and never flinched.
Serena wandered over, glass in hand, and passed Andy a refill without asking. “You okay?”
Andy blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Serena gave her that look. Kind, sure, but devastating in its precision.
Andy sighed, slow and uneven. “Yeah. No. I’m fine. It’s just…” She looked down into her glass. “We’ve all changed. And then you see someone you used to know—used to love —and it’s like the old parts of you come back. They knock on the door and ask if they’re still welcome.”
Serena sat beside her, tucking her legs up under herself. “You don’t have to let them in.”
Andy swirled the wine. Watching it catch the light like a memory. “I already did once.”
Somewhere across the villa, Miranda Priestly stood alone on the second-floor balcony, watching the party unfold below.
She saw Andrea. Glowing, beautiful, and unburdened in a way Miranda had never known how to allow. Surrounded by people who knew her. Who touched her freely. Who made her laugh like that.
Something twisted low in Miranda’s chest, familiar and uninvited. It had lived there for years. Dormant. Waiting.
It had been years. It felt like yesterday.
She turned from the window, the hem of her silk robe whispering against the floor. It wasn’t time yet. But soon.