Chapter Text
Chapter 1
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The atrium was still half-shrouded in scaffolding, the marble floors veined with dust from the ongoing renovation. Andy adjusted her hardhat and stepped into the vaulted space, her eyes drawn up as always to the glass canopy that spilled daylight across the skeleton of the room.
Even unfinished, the space hummed with grandeur. The echo of her boots trailed behind her as she crossed into the center, scanning the lines she had once sketched into existence.
She anticipated being alone, as she wasn’t supposed to share the site this morning. Her team had scheduled the walkthrough early to avoid the Runway representatives; Runway being one of their latest clients. But the sound of clipped heels and low voices confirmed otherwise.
Across the atrium, a small procession had assembled: racks of gowns, camera cases, assistants whispering logistics. And in the midst of them stood a woman tailored in black, posture razor-straight, gesturing upward with a thin, gold pen she carried like a scepter.
That must be the editor.
Andy slowed, caught off guard. She’d seen the woman’s photograph before in magazines, always flanked by designers and models, but photographs didn’t do justice to the force of her presence. Andy stood from a distance, draped by overlapping shadows made by the wide arches at the corner of the room. She couldn’t quite make out any of the editor’s features except for a luscious head of downy white hair.
“…the light fractures here,” the editor said, her voice carrying easily in the cavernous chamber. Firm, dulcet tones. “By afternoon it’ll be bronze. We could certainly drown a gown in that.”
Andy paused. Most people reduced the description of light to “bright” or “dim.” This woman spoke of it like a living texture.
The editor turned, eyes sweeping the space — the very atrium Andy had fought tooth and nail to design this way, against budget cuts and skeptical trustees.
“This isn’t just a museum,” the editor murmured, almost to herself. “It feels like it was built to last. Like permanence.”
The word struck the architect like a stone in her chest. Permanence. Her word. The principle she had carried from her thesis to every project she touched but never spoken aloud. Preferring to show and not tell.
Suddenly Andy was aware of the dust on her boots, the rolled plans under her arm, the hardhat making her anonymous in the corner. The editor hadn’t seen her. No one had.
In that moment, she wanted to step forward, to say I built this, but her voice caught in her throat. Instead, Doug’s voice broke over her earpiece, summoning her to check the new stairwell.
Andy tore her eyes away from the scene, forcing her feet toward the far end of the atrium.
The Runway team never knew she was there.
But the echo of the editor’s words — permanence — followed her up the stairs.
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She climbed to the mezzanine where Doug was waiting, clipboard in hand, sleeves already streaked with plaster dust. He didn’t notice her lingering glance back down to the atrium, where the black-clad woman still commanded her orbit of assistants.
“You see the new stair install?” Doug asked, tapping his pen against the column detail. “Contractor swears it’s flush. It’s not.”
The brunette nodded absently, her eyes flicking once more toward the floor below. The Runway team was fanning out now, cameras already angled upward to catch the light she had designed to pour through the atrium’s canopy.
“You’re distracted,” Doug said flatly, catching the tilt of her gaze. “What, the fashion people?”
“They like the space,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
Doug snorted. “They’d like a broom closet if you dressed it in enough chiffon. Let’s stay focused—this stair alignment’s gonna bite us.”
But the architect wasn’t listening anymore. In her mind, she heard the editor’s voice again: permanence. A word that didn’t belong to the fleeting chaos of fashion, and yet somehow, she had spoken it.
Andy tightened her grip on the rolled plans in her hands. She couldn’t explain it, not even to Doug, but something in that passing moment made her feel…seen.
Even if the editor hadn’t seen her at all.
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The atrium was no longer hers.
When Andy arrived for the final inspection, the construction dust was gone, polished marble gleaming under the morning light. But the space had been colonized. Racks of garments crowded the corners, cords sprawled across the floor, and a scaffolding of lights rose like a crude imitation of her glass canopy above.
She slipped on a pair of boot covers, trying not to wince as two scrawny men dragged a velvet chaise across the newly sealed floor.
“Careful!” she called, instinct sharper than her voice meant it to be. The men barely glanced at her.
And then she heard it again — that same voice from weeks before, low but edged with steel.
“If you block the light, you kill the shot. Move it three feet to the left.”
The editor stood at the center of the chaos, directing with nothing more than her gleaming gold pen. She hadn’t changed: all in black, jaw set like sculpture, her presence so complete, the room was her orchestra.
Andy felt herself pause, just long enough to hear it again — the timbre of command, the elegance in phrasing something as mundane as light.
But then: “We’ll need this area cleared for the gowns. The floor space is much too crowded.”
An assistant with long auburn hair pointed toward the cordoned-off side of the atrium — the side where Andy’s team had taped off the fresh sealant, still curing.
“No,” Andy said before she realized she’d spoken aloud.
Every head turned. Even the editor’s.
The woman’s arctic gaze landed on her with a quick, appraising sweep — not recognition, but assessment. Andy felt the load of it settle like a challenge.
“This area can’t take weight yet,” she explained, voice even. “It’s not negotiable. If you put your racks there, you’ll ruin the finish.”
A silence lingered. Assistants exchanged nervous looks.
The editor stepped closer, eyes sharp, pen still in hand. “And who are you?”
“Andrea Sachs,” she said, steady now. “Lead architect at Sachs Design Group. Pleasure to meet you.”
A beat. Then the faintest lift of a brow. “Ah. The invisible hand.”
Something in her tone was both dismissive and intrigued, as though she’d been handed a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t asked for.
Andy held her ground. “If your gowns are worth anything, I’d think you’d want a floor to match.”
For the first time, the editor smiled — not warm, but cutting, like glass catching light.
“Fine.” She turned to her assistants. “Find another corner.”
And just like that, the orbit shifted back to her.
But then Andy felt something burn beneath her skin: not just the friction of conflict, but the thrill of coming toe-to-toe with someone so alluring. Of course, up close, the editor was too gorgeous to make sense of, but there was more to it than that, Andy thought. And in that fleeting moment, the architect had readily decided that she wanted to know this woman.
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Her apartment was dark when she finally got home.
The lock clicked shut behind her, echoing faintly against exposed brick and polished concrete floors.
It wasn’t that the place was empty — she had furnished it well enough, with low modern lines and clean neutrals — but it had the kind of order that belonged to someone who lived alone. The kitchen counters gleamed, untouched except for a lone espresso machine. The sofa bore the faint indentation of her laptop, not a person. Framed sketches leaned against the wall waiting to be hung, as if she’d never quite committed to actually making the space her own.
It wasn’t unlived, exactly. Just precise. A place for sleeping, for working, for staring out at the skyline when she couldn’t bring herself to do either. Not much more.
She dropped her keys into a bowl by the door, kicked off her boots, and padded across the open-plan living room. The city sprawled beneath her floor-to-ceiling windows, lights blinking across the skyline like a thousand unanswered messages.
She tossed her hardhat onto the kitchen counter and unrolled the day’s plans out of habit, but her focus kept snagging on a different image: the editor’s smile.
Not kind. Not soft. But precise and deliberate — like she had been amused to be challenged.
Doug had only grumbled about “divas in designer boots” the whole subway ride back to the office. Lily had defended them, saying fashion people weren’t so different from architects, just “obsessed with fabric instead of steel.” Andy had nodded along, pretending disinterest.
But alone, she replayed the moment again and again. The weight of the editor’s gaze. The sharp question: And who are you? The strange satisfaction of answering it.
She’d been invisible the first time. Today, she hadn’t just been seen — she’d been measured.
And for reasons she couldn’t name, Andy found herself wanting to be measured again.
She took a deep breath, then walked straight to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grit of navigating a bustling city, revising today’s events. The editor’s smile persisted in the back of her mind.
Proudly, she considered today another success. Her firm had received confirmation that Runway would indeed be using the museum for an editorial spread. Surely, a mutually beneficial agreement. Andy and her team really went above and beyond to make every structure they produced into a timeless, functional work of art.
Once out of the shower, she pulled on a soft, faded t-shirt and a pair of black boxers, her hair damp, clinging to her jaw. Stood in front of the vast mirror in her bathroom, she studied her reflection only to get lost in thought.
Sachs Design Group had come a long way. And while they weren’t exactly a household name yet, they were making big strides in their industry.
Andy flicked the bathroom lights off as she heard her phone buzzing from the adjacent space.
Lily: You alive? Or did Runway sacrifice you to the gods of couture?
The architect smirked, thumbs moving.
Andy: Alive.
Lily: Barely?
Andy: Barely.
Lily: Doug swears you barked at a stylist for dragging a chaise across the floor.
Andy: Not barking. Correcting.
Lily: Same difference.
Andy: I was right.
Lily: You’re always right. That’s what makes you unbearable.
The brunette’s laugh echoed in the empty loft. She leaned against the kitchen counter, scrolling as Lily kept going.
Lily: Anyway. Check your email. Natasha just sent the gala invites.
Andy’s eyes flicked toward her laptop sitting on the sofa. A tired groan rose in her throat.
She carried the laptop into her bedroom and climbed into bed, the sheets crisp against her skin. The room was huge compared to what she used of it — a king bed centered against a bare wall, one lounge chair in the corner, a dresser with drawers only half-filled. Her life was portable, light, as if she’d never quite unpacked.
The glow of the screen was the only light in the room. Andy opened her email.
Sure enough: Museum Benefit Gala — Official Invitation from Natasha Chen. The formatting was neat, the message concise but thorough. Black tie, arrival window, security instructions, table assignments.
Everyone on their team played a crucial role in the firm’s skyrocketing success and Andy took great pleasure in building and collaborating with each member.
Doug was her Senior Project Manager. At forty years old, he was the eldest of the group, 12 years her senior. He was behind all structural logistics and contractor management. Doug used to work at a much bigger firm when he and Andy first met. After a decade of overperforming in his previous role, Doug had never received recognition for the value he brought to the firm and found himself frustrated and burnt out from his efforts. He decided to quit his old job and join Sachs Design Group because he saw Andy’s potential and believed in what they could achieve together.
While Doug was the one that often kept Andy grounded and helped with risk management, Lily was more the innovative one. Lily was her Junior Designer and Interiors Specialist. They’d met in college and managed to stay in contact with one another well after graduation. Years of shared triumphs and challenges has made Andy truly appreciate her bond with Lily.
And if Doug and Lily were her right and left hand, Natasha was the spine. Natasha was their operations anchor. She was twenty-five, hyper-organized, with a sharp streak of ambition Andy respected. She managed contracts, calendars, the client pipeline — all the things the architect herself didn’t have the patience or time for.
Outside work, their dynamics shifted. Doug became a grumbler at happy hours, trading barbs over pints. Meanwhile, Lily could drag Andy into conversation about anything from vintage textiles to bad reality television. Natasha, however, was more guarded. Social in bursts, but never fully relaxed around Andy. The brunette had chalked it up to respect for hierarchy. So, she never noticed Natasha’s lingering glances.
Andy skimmed the email, jaw tightening.
Galas were the part of success she hated — smiling at strangers who wanted proximity more than conversation. Still, she’d go. She always did.
A moment passed, she stared at the cursor on the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
She told herself it was professional curiosity.
Andy typed the editor’s name into the search bar.
The results filled the screen instantly: interviews, profiles, countless photographs.
The first thing that hit her was the hair. White, unmistakable, shaped into that perfect, sculptural wave. Then the eyes — piercing blue, crystalline even through a computer screen. Andy leaned closer, almost unconsciously, tracking how those eyes cut straight into every camera they faced.
In one article, a designer described her as “a storm in stilettos.” Miranda Priestly. Another called her “brilliant and impossible in the same breath.” The architect found herself smiling at that.
Then, the brunette clicked into an archived spread from the Met Gala. And there she was. The fashion editor stood on a steep showcase of steps, hand on her hip, gown meticulously saturated with Swarovski crystals. Each search result displayed the editor’s poise, accomplishments and obvious position in high society. Miranda exuded the kind of elegance born from certainty rather than trend.
Andy could simply tell that this was undoubtedly a woman that knew her own mind. And this, Andy found to be devastatingly attractive.
The architect didn’t flinch from the thought that followed. Miranda Priestly was simply beautiful. Outlandishly, distractingly beautiful.
Her laptop dimmed as the cursor blinked on the page, waiting for her next click. Andy tipped her head back against the headboard, stretching her legs under the duvet, her bare feet pressing into cool sheets.
She wasn’t unsettled by the realization. Desire wasn’t something she shied from. If anything, she sat with it, turned it over, examined it like an object of design. What she felt wasn’t vague or dangerous. It was clear.
She wanted to know this woman. Not as a face in an article, not as a reputation, but personally.
Her phone buzzed again on the nightstand.
Lily: Don’t ghost the gala, okay? Natasha’s been fussing over that seating chart for HOURS.
Andy: I’ll be there.
Lily: And try not to overthink too much.
Andy: That’s impossible.
Lily: True. But try.
She smiled a tired smile into the dark. Tossing her phone aside, she glanced back at the screen. Another headline stared back at her: Three Marriages, Two Children, and Still at the Top: The Relentless Reign of Miranda Priestly.
Andy read it twice, her chest tightening at the mention of twin girls. Although, it didn’t scare her. Moreso, it intrigued her. The architect was a firm believer that life was all about building and rebuilding, and that permanence was never about stillness, it was about surviving what shifted beneath you while you remained your only constant.
And this woman, this Miranda, had seemed to have survived plenty.
The apartment around her was silent. Tomorrow, Andy would be bombarded with meetings, deadlines, structural diagrams, Doug complaining about site safety, Lily tossing out color palettes, Natasha corralling them all with a smile and an iron calendar.
But tonight, under the soft glow of her laptop, the architect let herself linger.
The editor’s face filled her screen, staring back at her with unyielding arctic eyes. And Andy, in her crisp sheets, damp hair curling against her cheek, thought with startling certainty:
I’m going to know her. One way or another.
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The atrium no longer smelled of plaster dust and varnish. Tonight, it smelled of perfume, champagne, and money.
Andy tugged at the cuff of her suit jacket, scanning the crowd milling beneath the glass canopy. The museum trustees had insisted she attend — “visibility for the firm,” Lily had said brightly — but she felt like an intruder in her own space.
The floor gleamed under soft amber light, gowns sweeping across it as though the marble itself had been designed only for them. Quiet murmuring filled the room from the bundle of those in attendance.
“Smile,” Doug muttered, elbowing her as a photographer drifted by. “Pretend you like being here.”
Andy tried. But her gaze had already snagged on a figure across the room.
No scaffolding this time, no assistants trailing her. Just a sinful wine-red gown, cut like a rose from a garden, gorgeous and thorned, with that same straight posture. Miranda stood in a circle of men, laughing at something one of them said. The fashion maven was evidently rubbing elbows with a fraction of New York’s movers and shakers, truly alive in her element.
Andy caught herself staring. Again.
The brunette turned back to the buffet, reaching for a glass of champagne she didn’t want. Doug had wandered off, already charming a cluster of curators. Again, the architect let her eyes wander — and found them colliding once more with the elusive editor’s.
A flicker. That was all. An unreadable glance across the room. Then the editor returned to her circle, leaving Andy with the heat of being noticed.
And then the architect made a decision.
She would take her time with this pursuit. Like reading a new book, she would savor every turning page where her world intersected with Miranda Priestley’s.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed near the stage. The chatter softened, eyes turning toward the podium where a broad-shouldered man in a tailored navy tuxedo took the microphone.
“Please welcome tonight’s host,” the emcee announced, “real estate magnate, philanthropist, and proud patron of the arts — Christian Thompson.”
Applause rolled through the atrium as Christian smiled, raising a glass. Andy felt the familiar tug of recognition ripple through the room. Thompson wasn’t just wealthy; he was everywhere — magazine covers, philanthropic boards, half the skyline carrying his signature. And for Andy, there was something else: the architect knew the layouts of two of his four homes better than he probably did himself.
Christian launched into his toast, thanking the trustees, the museum staff, and the benefactors who made nights like this possible. The brunette let the words wash over her, her attention slipping back to where the editor stood, face half-lit by the amber chandeliers.
The applause thundered again as Christian raised his glass. Andy clapped politely, her mind elsewhere.
Not on Thompson, not on the donors, not even on her firm’s visibility.
Instead, on the editor’s gaze — sharp as a blade and impossible to forget.
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