Chapter Text
If life was an eternity, what would you do differently? What would you try if you could not die? Would you love or would you hate? Think before you ever answer, you see the answers you think are right? Are painful, eternity if painful.
The top office of Elias Clarke enterprises was grey and dark, elegant in the way black couches fit together with cherry wood and somber accents. An air of old money and a smell of expensive leather were always felt, Miranda’s office was at the end of the last corridor. She had a reputation for not being nice, she only drank black coffee and never ate on premises. Most people outside the board and her two private secretaries never saw her. She was a name of course, and if needed the face of the international conglomerate that her father owned but her reputation preceded her. One thing that could not be denied was that she was beautiful, in a dark mysterious way. Silver hair fell softly upon pale skin, the color of moon glow on summer nights. Her eyes had an eternal quality to them, if you looked up straight at their blue softness, she could see your soul. Her features well placed from her nose to the curve of blood red lips and the pearl white of her teeth. She had long hands where she always wore a Harry Winston cross shaped diamond bracelet, and she always wore black, red of white. She was impeccably dressed, a walking Valentino add, the cashmere cape, the bodycon dress, the impossibly high red sole stilettos that disrupted the pristine silence of the offices on the 25th floor.
“You must never ask Miranda a thing,” Regina coached Andrea the new lawyer to join Monroe and associates. They were the highest paid law firm in the tri state area, and they help the most coveted account in the city, the Elias Clarke enterprises. Today there was no criminal lawsuit, no model or author suing, instead they were expertly handling Miranda’s divorce to social media magnate Stephan Tomlin. He wasn’t putting up much of a fight and the heiress was suing for a common accord divorce. They had not children and had been married for ten years.
Miranda was never seen with her husband; in fact, she was never really seen with anyone outside of the occasional night gala and the offices. The stories of what many called the Ice Queen, or the Devil in Prada were rampart from time to time, the myths of her firing people on the spot, ruining their careers and lives sent fear to any new professional who set foot on those offices.
Elias had publishing in all areas of life, books, short stories, and magazines galore. Their most famous magazine was Runway where Miranda was often most interested and met one on one with designers from time to time. There was another interesting fact about Miranda, she had studied abroad, in fact most of the family lived abroad, in old wealth circles and secret societies that were too high up, to be rich and too rich to ever make the news. It was not clear why she had married Stephan, but it was clear whatever that was over, and the family wanted to make it quick and easy. Not much was known about her beyond that, a hazy birthday was sometimes found in articles, but it was never set on a single legal paper published.
Despite her bad reputation, Andrea found her quite agreeable. She offered everyone a round of coffee fruit, of which she only took the coffee. She explained her expectations, listened to the ideas set, and signed what needed to be signed.
“Oh, and Regina?” she said turning to the black-haired woman, “I’m leaving for Germany tomorrow, if anything were needed, I’d expect a lawyer there.”
She didn’t leave time for Regina to answer or confirm, she wasn’t asking. With the Priestly family it was always an expectation, the retainers were unbelievable, the fees quite cushiony.
“You better start packing, scout,” Regina murmurs sipping the last drop of coffee.
“Why? Do you expect the need?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure, but if she says maybe send me a lawyer, she wants one.”
The younger brunette with long wavy locks and a soft gaze takes in a deep breath, she was good at what she did, she had been offered this account after proving for three years that she could win every case in court. Leading jr. associate at this firm and the last one where she worked for two years after graduating top of her Harvard class. She was good but she had never met a client like Miranda.
“Big leagues,” Regina pulsated touching her hand, “here it doesn’t matter if your client is innocent, you fight for them to believer that they are innocent.
Andrea nods and files out the door, finding herself three days later a flight to Munich, expecting to walk down the long corridors the airport holds she wears flats and jeans. She was given an itinerary and times to be there by, not many details otherwise. A man in a black suit meets her outside the gate to her surprise with a sign reading, “Sachs.”
Andre hesitates, she wasn’t told about him, but he is convincing and takes her suitcase before she can complain adding that,” your checked in suitcase is already in the car and Mrs. Priestly would like to meet by nightfall.
The mansion is three hours away from Munich itself, a broody town with a dense forest and falling snow.
“the winter house,” the man declares as iron gates as big as mountains open, large iron decorations of dragons guard the gates and the driveways winds down more trees and rabbits.
The house is beautiful in a completely opposite way than the offices. It is old white rock and marble floors, cold and warm at the same time. Spires rise out of the masonic looking mansion and in a way, it is a strange castle of sorts. Medieval decorations line the hall, very German Andrea thinks. Behind a glass case is an homage not to Germany but to France and some papers written in Czech. The young lawyer is impressed and slightly terrified at the same time. An older quiet woman appears almost out of thin air and takes her to a room, “this is your room.”
“I had a hotel reservation,” Andrea quips.
“This is your room, dinner will be at 7:30 in the main hall room, Miranda will join you in the library at 9. Any preference of drinks?”
While most of the sentence was said in uncanny precision, the white-haired woman staring straight out the window into a great unknown Andrea could not see, the last question is posed softly, almost happily, a smile plays out on her lips and it almost has a Stepford Wives quality that sends chills down Andrea’s spine.
“Not really, wine I suppose?”
“Perfect,” the attendants says schooling her face again and walks out, dropping the heavy oaked door, letting it close on its own.