Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, etc., etc. Prompt from tumblr (will post at the end of story, as it's a spoiler).
A/N: This story contains discussion of sexual assault and trauma, though not explicit. Possible triggers.
Chapter One
Miranda woke with a scream and frantically pushed herself up off the ground. The events of the past few hours flashed through her mind and she prayed that it was only a dream. Looking around, however, proved otherwise. It was very real. She couldn't bring herself to say the word aloud, let alone think it, but it happened. Her eyes traveled from the emptied drawers to the torn vintage Dior gown to the shattered mirror that used to hang over the fireplace to her pale skin, covered in scratches, bruises, and dried blood.
"Stephen?" she called out. Her eyes focused on the clock—it was just past midnight. Where had he gone? They had that interview with The Hollywood Reporter in the morning, and it was taking place in their suite, so that meant she would need to clean everything up. No one could know what had happened. Though her first instinct was to call her assistant back in New York, she knew that Emily couldn't help. Taking a deep breath and channeling the unfeeling redhead, she pulled herself to her feet and shakily made her way to the bathroom. Before anything, she desperately needed to brush her teeth.
She and Stephen flew out to Los Angeles at the last minute Friday afternoon. His trip to San Francisco to meet with the owners of the Trellis vineyard was cancelled, which suddenly freed him up to attend the Edith Head Retrospective opening gala. Miranda actually wanted to attend—in fact, she begged him to go with her. Stephen knew she was only asking because Nigel was unavailable that weekend, but he didn't mind. He and Miranda were at their best when they were each overwhelmingly busy with their own careers and only spent a few hours together here and there. So naturally, when his business trip was cancelled, he surprised Miranda with two tickets to Los Angeles, a suite at the Beverly Hills Hilton, and a vintage Dior gown she'd been eyeing at Christie's for the past two weeks. Nigel had it tailored, and Emily ensured it was waiting for them in their suite at the Hilton.
They spent their Saturday in Santa Monica at the beach, promising each other to take a forty-eight-hour break from work—including their Blackberrys. It was nice, Miranda thought as she walked along the sand, carrying her espadrilles in one hand and trying to hold her maxi dress in the other. It didn't matter, really. The bottom was already wet from the ocean. They ate lunch at a small beachfront cafe and sipped on Corona with lime. It was all very…California.
That evening, seeing Miranda's face light up at the wonderful exhibit curated by Richard Palmer at the J. Paul Getty Museum, that's when Stephen knew he would always be second in the fashion editor's life. Sure, they could spend a relaxing afternoon together every now and then, but her eyes would never light up for him like they did for a well-made dress or finely woven fabric. No, her heart could never burn for him like it did for that pastime she called a career. She was so enraptured by the gowns on display, she didn't even notice that he was making his way over to the bar where he saw a few other men he knew.
Miranda remembered Gloria offering her a ride back to the hotel several hours later. She didn't know where Stephen was—honestly, she hadn't seen him since they arrived. Between the Coronas at lunch and the champagne cocktails that evening on an empty stomach, she really felt she ought to turn in, even though it was only 11 o'clock. So, she took the woman up on her offer.
"Oghh," Miranda gasped, covering her mouth as she remembered what happened next. She leaned over the toilet and emptied whatever was left in her stomach. She flushed and took a hotel robe off the back of the door. She had no idea what time Stephen would return, and if she wanted to clean up the room, she would need to hurry.
Over the next thirty minutes, she neatly re-folded clothes and stacked them in the drawers or suitcases. She carefully picked up the shattered glass in front of the fireplace and threw it in the wastebasket, then rearranged the furniture just a little bit so the couch was positioned over the two unsightly stains in the pristine carpet. She hung the dress and fought back tears. It was a shame to see such a beautiful, vintage couture gown damaged beyond repair. But at least no one would notice if she hung it back inside its garment bag. Once everything was back in place and the bed was made, she returned to the bathroom and stepped into the shower.
The hot water always had a calming effect on the editor, and tonight was no different. She scrubbed her skin with a loofah harder than was healthy, telling herself she needed to exfoliate. She kept her eyes looking upward at the shower head as she scrubbed between her thighs—if she didn't look down, she wouldn't have to see the red-tinged water swirling down the drain.
Despite the soothing water, her entire body ached. When she stepped out of the shower, she wrapped her hair up in a towel and dried herself, purposely not looking in the mirror. Seeing the physical evidence would make it real, and she couldn't do real right now. She put on a clean pair of underwear and a camisole, and wrapped herself up in her favorite grey robe, which, thankfully, was left untouched. She took some ibuprofen, brushed her teeth, and applied some face cream, then crawled into bed.
There was nothing wrong. This was exactly like any other night.
As she tried to fall asleep, she thought of things like the beach, a cloudless sky, her daughters' smiling faces. Basically, anything that she could focus on long enough to rest. Just as she was starting to fall asleep, she heard someone using the keycard and entering the suite. She froze, closing her eyes and tugging the covers tighter around her neck, praying that he hadn't returned.
TBC