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Trap The Storm

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It was a cold early Wednesday morning in New York when Andrea Sachs – Andy, please – had decided to jog in Central Park. 

 

It wasn't fair that she had to run to improve her health, after she had been outrun by one of the journalists to gain an impromptu quote from an actress. It wasn't even a politician! An actress who recently decided to take the media by the storm for something Andy doesn’t even remember.

 

Since then, the twenty eight year old Senior Reporter for New York Times had been running and improving her cardio so that next time, she would beat any other reporters for an important shot.

 

But right now, when she was sweating through her under armor shirt, she genuinely felt like dying just to be done with it. Why was it so bloody hard? Six kilometers a day was hardly a lot. But still, with so much sweating, where she has to wipe her face with the little towel tucked in the waistband of her shorts, it seems like she has run all over New York.

 

The dense trees surrounding her and slightly uneven trail she was running on, were the only things she was paying attention to, not the Charlie Puth playing in her Sony MP3 player.

 

By the time she reaches the familiar bench, instead of watching her footing, Andrea steps on a bunch of spread-out leaves and promptly slips on it.

 

“Shit, seriously? I just-” realizing something just dug painfully in her palm she cries out and curses when a little bit of blood leaks with the leaf.

 

What kind of leaves hurt a living solid human being? Slowly removing it from her palm, she realizes that she has hurt herself on a thin piece of jewelry.

 

“-did laundry yesterday.” Andy continues and stops. “What the chocolate mint ice cream, is this?”

 

Thankfully only the pendant has dug in and not the whole chain but it looks old and pricey, and is definitely antique.

 

“Please tell me it’s not cursed.” Horror dawns over her. “I swear if a ghost follows me, I’m going to start smacking people.”

 

Pulling the little water bottle from around her waist she makes a quick work of cleaning the wound and the necklace. Squinting her eyes, there’s a name on it.

 

“Priestley.”

 

()

 

“I don’t care where you accidentally dropped it Caroline, I want the necklace back, if you had enough gall to take it from my bedroom, and then you can find and return it. You are grounded until it’s found.”

 

Miranda tosses the office wireless phone back to Emily, who catches it clumsily and hurries out before the devil herself gouges her eyes out.

 

Of course, there couldn’t be one day without drama; not in her home or at Runway, where she could simply work without any incompetent assistants, useless designers, or flesh hungry press. Perhaps that was the reason why by the time she had hit her forty-eighth birthday, all her hair had gone white; mother to a set of twelve-year-old girls and an ex-wife to a spineless reptile may do that to you.

 

The necklace was an heirloom passed on from generation to generation in the Priestley family and she should’ve known something like this would happen after Caroline had shown her interest in it. She should’ve locked it away from her troublemaker daughter but Miranda had no idea that Caroline might take something right from her bedroom and wear it, and for what? To go running?

 

She shudders.

 

“Sebastian? Find out where my daughter could’ve dropped the necklace today and get it back to me. If I don’t get the necklace back, I will be….” She licks her lips and purses them, “Disappointed.”

 

Before he can say as much as ‘yes mam’, Miranda has hung up and continues firing off a couple of clackers, calls Nigel for his ideas and gets her coffee through the newly hired second assistant.

 

Miranda can already feel a headache coming on. The necklace was important and priceless, and it was said that the necklace always followed its true master. Miranda sincerely hopes that a pigeon will drop it off on her balcony.

 

By the time the clock strikes 12, Miranda has already fired four clackers. For walking too noisily, for strutting around like she owns the place; she doesn’t, this is Miranda’s Runway. She fired one for looking like a villain in a horrendous ensemble and the last one just because she wore an obvious knock-off Balenciaga in her office. How dare she?

 

This was not the place for cheap imitations. This was the place of the greatest fashion houses in the world; Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel, Manish Malhotra, Jimmy Choo’s and Valentino – not a fake Balenciaga.

 

“Excuse me, you cannot enter-” Emily’s voice filters through and Miranda sighs. What did Irv want now?

 

“Are you Miranda Priestly?” A calculated, smooth voice is what makes Miranda scrunch her eyebrows. That’s not Irv, she thinks and tilts her head. A scoff can be heard. “You’re too thin to handle the weight of a worldwide company. Careful when you go out. Don’t want air to whisk you away.” 

 

Miranda snorted.

Not untrue.

 

“Can you tell her I have a necklace that belongs to her?” Miranda’s eyes widen and she pushes her chair back.

 

Emily scoffs, “Nice trick, but reporters like you-”

 

“Let her in.” Miranda crosses her legs elegantly and runs a delicate hand through her white bob, ready to face this woman. A reporter, huh? Miranda wonders what she will ask in return for that necklace.

 

An interview? Dirt on someone? Blackmail? Or God forbid, help getting a promotion.

 

Miranda levels her gaze evenly and waits for the woman to enter her office. Miranda has to play this well, she couldn’t lose the necklace.

 

At first, a strong yet feminine hand opens the door and Miranda’s breath catches in her throat when a set of doe like brown eyes meet hers. Her hair tied in a ponytail and soft curls framing her face. The girl was wearing an ocean blue shirt tucked into well-fitted pants and a pair of – Miranda hid her wince – Chelsea boots.

A black leather belt completed the outfit, with a reporter badge clipped on her hip.

 

Miranda finds herself gazing at the figure with the excuse of reading the name off the ID.

 

The woman smiles a half smile at her and Miranda gives the woman a voluntary once over with her knuckle under her chin. Usually this makes models fidget and people sweat but the woman stands unbothered and lets her gaze.

 

“Do you have a necklace missing with Priestley written on the back and an amethyst stone?”

 

Reporter indeed, Miranda’s lips twitch.

 

The games on.

 

“Do you have a picture, so I can confirm that it indeed belongs to you?” The audacity.

 

“I don’t know who you are-”

 

“Andy Sachs.” The woman pipes helpfully and Miranda grinds her teeth but continues as if this reporter – Andy – hasn’t interrupted her. What kind of name is Andy, anyway?

 

“I’m sure you went to college with English as a subject, did you not?” Miranda doesn’t let the little furrow in between the eyebrows bother her. “Then you will notice that there is only one Priestly and that is me.”

 

“Sorry, but unless I see a picture, I am not giving it to you.”

 

The girl had balls.

 

“I could call security and tell people you stole something precious of mine.” Miranda challenges.

 

“Go on. But what are you going to tell them when they ask you what I stole? I don’t have the necklace on me.” Andy tosses back at her.

 

“I could have you sacked.”

 

“I have a tenure. If you sack me, you will have several reporters as your enemies.” Andy smirks, and Miranda almost smiles.

 

“I could put you in jail.”

 

“Plenty of people who’d love to kill me. Sure, you want my murder on your conscience on top of carrying the whole magazine on your back?”

 

Miranda’s cheek twitches in a half smile and she gives a single nod.

 

“Emily.” She speaks normally and watches her assistant tumble inside, Miranda’s blue eyes don’t scatter from doe brown eyes, which are looking so unflinching at her. 

 

She likes it.

 

“Call Cara and tell her to send a picture of the necklace.” 

 

Andy tilts her head, contemplating and Miranda really wishes to know what she’s thinking. “I want the picture in the next three minutes. That’s all.”

 

Andy hears the Brit squeak and run out in her six-inch Louboutin’s, and she looks back as the woman tosses the notepad and dials maniacally. Andy is impressed, absolutely enthralled with the kind of power Miranda holds. The girl didn’t even ask what necklace it was, surely a woman like Miranda had a countless amount of jewelry.

 

“Have a seat.”

 

Andy does and Miranda’s eyes fall on the bandaged hand, a little dip in her eyebrows and she answers, trying to talk to her. 

 

“Accidently cut myself on the necklace. That’s why I am late, I had to go to the doctors.”

 

“Drink?” Miranda’s eyes motion somewhere and Andy doesn’t want to look away from her.

 

“No, thank you.”

 

Another assistant runs in and fills a glass with carbonated water from a can in record time, and puts it in front of Miranda.

 

Andy smiles and nods, understanding how the woman was playing games with her.

 

Miranda: 1, Andy: 0

 

“You should choose a better private investigator. Sebastian wasn’t a good choice.”

 

Andy can see Miranda is surprised with the widening of beautiful eyes. That was the prettiest shade of blue she had ever seen.

 

“Sebastian isn’t a private investigator.” 

 

He’s a fall guy. Andy can read in between the lines; she sits back and watches this woman who is so intelligent and knows exactly how to play the cards. Andy respects that.

 

Andy was about to say something but there is a click of fearful heels, and an assistant flashes an iPhone in front of her face. Sure enough, there on the screen, was indeed the necklace in question.

 

“Satisfied?” There’s a challenge and glint in those eyes, that Andy wants to see from a  much smaller distance. The assistant keeps the phone on the table and scurries off.

 

“Not yet.” Andy mutters softly. 

 

Miranda’s pupils dilate just a fraction.

 

“What do you want in return for my necklace?”

 

Standing up, Andy reaches into her pocket and pulls out her card. Writing something on the back, she places it on the table and with two digits, slides it towards the edge where Miranda sits.

 

The gall to touch her personal space. Miranda simply raises an eyebrow but doesn’t touch it.

 

“I’ll bring you the necklace after lunch. That’s my phone number. And on the back is what I need.”

 

The way Andy says need makes Miranda shiver.

 

“Have a fun day.” Without breaking eye contact, Andy leaves her office and Miranda watches her saunter to the elevators. Even models sidestep her but Andy’s stride doesn’t break anywhere. Miranda likes the confidence; Miranda likes the charm.

 

Leaning forward she reads, “Andrea Sachs, SR”

 

Feeling her fingers twitch to find out what exactly this smart reporter wanted, Miranda flips the card and her breath hitches.

 

Go on a date with me? :)