Hi everybody! So the absolutely lovely tumblr blogger mxrmoreal created a gorgeous aesthetic about the Wonderland characters in a corporate world, and I took the story and ran with it! (Thankfully, she was a dear, and didn't mind.) Think of this as the Wonderlanders in the world of the Devil Wears Prada, with my own little plot and a bit more profanity. Sorry it's such a long chapter, I got a bit carried away.
I really hope you like this story, as I'm having so much fun! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments!

Enjoy.

There's a clock ticking somewhere.

Loudly.

It doesn't match the sleek glass and metal of the building.

The nostalgic sound clashes with the modern look, creating an atmosphere seemingly suspended from time.

Alice Kingsleigh twiddles her slender thumb against her camera bag, nervous, wishing the unseen clock would freeze.

This morning could make or break her, Wunder is the hottest fashion business in America—so much so it has its own magazine that's read absolutely everywhere—and the clock's infernal ticking is a shredder on her nerves.

"Alice Kingsleigh?" A high, disinterested voice calls out.

She looks up, the voice belongs to a rather short woman tottering on needle-thin heels. Her sharp brown eyes are hidden by silver-framed glasses, resting on a pert little nose. Her short bob, brown hair almost hinting at mousy if not for the frosted tips, clings to pierced ears that fall slightly on the larger side.

Alice thinks of the phrase "cute as a button," but it's quickly shattered as the woman scowls down at her.

"You're late," she states sourly.

"I've been waiting for the last half hour," Alice protests softly.

The woman just turns, strutting through the lobby without bothering to see if Alice is following.

New Yorkers, she thinks as she hurries after her. Always so impatient.

"There are a few things you need to know, blondie," the woman states, pushing the "Up" button for the elevator with one manicured index finger. "And you need to know them quick, otherwise you won't make it to lunch time."

She takes a deep breath and starts listing things off her fingers.

"You will be working for Mirana Reine as her personal assistant but you really need to look out for her sister, Iracebeth, and—"

"Wait," Alice stops her. The doors ding open; the woman taps the top button and they ascend. "I'm here for the photographer position."

"Mirana needs an assistant more. I hope you can make a decent cup of tea; you know how the British are about their tea."

"But I'm not qualified, I mean—she's the CEO."

"Half-CEO. Iracebeth's the other. You'll probably work under her too, but try to avoid that at all costs. She hates all of Mirana's assistants, they usually don't last longer than a week. But Mirana needs someone, so listen up."

She holds up her fingers again.

"One, Mirana and Iracebeth have different opinions on how to run the business and magazine, any comment you make about their decisions will be used against you, and you will be fired. Two, Mirana calls Iracebeth by a nickname and you will never use it yourself, ever, or you will be fired. Three, Iracebeth has weak R's and if you ever mention it, you will be fired. Four, you must always be early or exactly on time but never late, or you will be fired. Five, the sisters are dynamite in all their public events but you will probably see a slightly different side of them here; if you're not absolutely discreet, you will be—"

"I will be fired. Got it." Alice says, the woman just sighs and shakes her head.

"You're gonna be gone before the hour," she mutters.

Alice tries her best not to roll her eyes.

Sarcasm. Her mother always said it'd get her in trouble. But it also got her a job opportunity in New York, so it's not always detrimental.

She needs to keep it in check today though. First impressions and all that.

"So what do you do?" She asks in friendly peace offering.

"I should be the chief editor of Wunder's magazine, but instead I'm trying to find Mirana an assistant so I can stop being one." She stops for a moment, smiles thinly, strained.

Alice's eyes widen as she realizes the connection, her awe ignored as they walk out the elevator and into a busy hallway. Both men and women hurry past, racks of vibrant clothes pushed urgently to places Alice can only guess, but her attention is taken completely by the woman before her.

"You're Mallory Umpkin?"

"It's Mally, and Mally only. Don't make me fire you myself."

She winks at that, Alice smiles nervously back.

Mally is someone who can veto ever using Alice's photos, and already her hopes aren't high.

This is going to be interesting.

She gulps, and then they're treading into the boss zone.

Mirana and Iracebeth are as different as night and day.

If there was a stronger analogy to use, Alice would use that.

Logically, she knows they're half-sisters, and she's seen the photos, but somehow she'd expected more similarities.

There are none.

Where Mirana is pale and tall and a willowy grace, Iracebeth is short and curvy and commanding.

Around Mirana there's a haze, as if the air has selective focus or vignette that frames the swanlike figure. The atmosphere worships her, and it's easy to see why. She's a benevolent goddess in mortal flesh.

To look at Iracebeth, well, it feels sort of prickly. More like the abstract art in the Metropolitan—beautiful and chaotic and makes you feel some emotion you'll never be able to name.

She perceives all this, and she's only stepped into Mirana's office a minute ago. It's all white leather and fresh looking wood and glass tables.

Mirana's perched behind the desk, focused on Mally as the woman introduces Alice, and Alice can hear none of it because all she can feel is Iracebeth's stare on her face.

She sort of feels like Little Red Riding Hood when meeting the big and bad and slightly lusty wolf.

She absolutely knows she's blushing.

"Alice?"

She's knocked out of her nervous embarrassment by Mirana's gentle, lyrical voice. Mally's done and gone, and she has no idea what's happening.

"Sorry?" She asks, flustered, trying and failing not to stare back at Iracebeth's intensity.

"Racie," Mirana scolds. "Behave yourself. Stop trying to scare my assistant."

"What makes you think I'm trying to scare her? Maybe I want her for myself." Iracebeth's voice is husky, with a bit of smoke to it. Her R's are a bit weak, but her accent more than makes up for it. It's more pronounced than Mirana's, and a lazy sort of confidence layers the rasp.

"You already have an assistant." Mirana says, exasperation in the lilting tone.

"He's not half as pretty as this one."

"My name is Alice, and I'm still in the room, you know." She blurts out.

They stop, both turn to look at her.

She wants to squeeze her eyes shut and will herself away. Will herself into some deep cave that she can curl up in and die.

Five minutes in, and she's probably going to get fired.

Damn her big mouth.

She couldn't help it though, they were talking about her like she was a piece of meat, or a doll to fight over.

It makes a girl uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Alice, that was rude of me."

Mirana reaches out to her, it's like shaking hands with silk.

"Tell me a bit about yourself. Where are you from?"

"Pennsylvania."

Iracebeth snorts from her relaxed state on the pristine couch.

"What the bloody hell is in Pennsylvania?"

"Pittsburgh," Alice says defensively. Iracebeth raises a sculpted eyebrow, amused.

"You live there?"

"About an hour away, actually," she mutters.

Iracebeth smirks, and Mirana sends her a warning look.

"Don't you have a meeting to get to?" She asks from behind a blinding smile. Iracebeth checks her watch, a shiny gold thing that probably costs more than Alice's car, and hums.

"It seems so. Time to roll some heads. Ta."

She's up and sauntering to the door, her heady perfume invading Alice's nose as she passes by. A tall, black-haired man stands from the chair by the door. Alice starts, she hadn't even noticed him.

He follows Iracebeth out and a twitchy man walks up to them, rambling on as they continue walking.

Alice assumes he's Iracebeth's assistant.

Poor sucker.

"I suppose you'll meet Stayne and Twisp later," Mirana says softly, Alice's attention whips back to her. "Stayne's our head of security. Iracebeth likes bringing him along everywhere to mess with people." Her smile stays but something hides in her eyes, then she's light and airy and walking closer to Alice, her floral scent tickling the senses.

"And Twisp is her assistant. A dear man. I've never seen anyone hop around as much as he does and still have any energy."

"I'd imagine he survives off caffeine," Alice muses. Mirana chuckles, a symphony plays in the sound.

"It would seem so."

She smiles, feeling more relaxed than she has all day. Mirana has a soothing presence.

"Now Alice, I'm terribly sorry to push this on you, especially on your first day, but I need you to get some sketches from Terrence Hightopp."

"As in the designer, Terrence Hightopp?"

"Yes. I'll send Zackery with you, for today. Have him show you the ropes."

Alice just nods, reeling a bit from how the fast this day keeps changing. Mirana senses this, touches her shoulder in comfort.

"I know this has been rather confusing and I'm sure you'd rather be a photographer, but I promise it's only temporary."

"I don't mind," Alice says.

And she doesn't…too much…anymore.

"Thank you. I think we'll get on well." Mirana says with a smile, Alice feels warm and whole.

Then Zackery, an energetic young man with sandy blond hair swoops in, and they're off and running in the concrete forest that is New York City.

"So, what do you think?" He asks once they've hailed a cab, his fingers playing with his watch, the silver bracelet next to it made out of tiny linked spoons. It clinks a little, the sound's a bit maddening and sweet, in a jangly sort of way.

"About what?" Alice asks, not following the question.

"About the job, of course."

"I don't know. I've barely started, and I've no idea what I'm supposed to do. I'm a photographer, not an assistant."

"Assisting's easy. You do what you're told, answer the phone a bit, get all the gossip so you can share it with me, and above all, avoid Iracebeth."

"I met her. She seems very..." Alice isn't sure the word she wants, isn't sure she's allowed to say it.

"Meow." He says, it's generic and dimensional enough to fit.

"Sort of," she says with a laugh.

"She's volatile, yeah. Yeah... But no, have you seen her last fashion line?"

Alice thinks back, thinking through the issues she'd seen.

Ah yes, the November one.

It had seemed intentionally dark, as if to say Halloween was going to taint every month, so get used to it.

Dripping blacks and seething reds with the pièce de résistance a shimmering, oil-slicked obsidian dress that illuminated the model's skin, making it seem like there was a dragon crouching within the seams of her very being.

Jabberwocky, it was called.

Alice had ached to be the one to take those photos.

"Of course I remember. Oh, those had been raw."

Zackery shakes his head too fast, leans in a little too close.

"Those had to be refined seven times. Shooting it had been a nightmare, because Iracebeth had been there each time, stirring up trouble. At one point, she threw blood on a model."

"Real blood?" Alice asks, incredulous.

He shrugs.

"Dunno. Didn't matter. The photos were incredible."

"But I've never—"

"Didn't get printed. Too grisly, Mirana said. Iracebeth fired a tenth of the staff that day."

Alice does a quick count of all the employees in Wunder, she doesn't even know the whole number, but a tenth is a lot.

A subconscious shiver trickles down her back.

"What about Mirana, what's she like?"

He beams.

"Oh, Mirana's wonderful. She has the best bridal runs out of the entire nation. One dress, dunno how she did it, looked like liquid gold, it did. You're gonna like her," he says, flashing her a crooked smile.

The taxi stops.

"We're here!" He says unnecessarily, hopping out, nearly closing the door on Alice's face. Opens it again, apologizes, and goes back to his nearly nonsensical rambling.

"Terrence's apartment! Expensive, for sure. He had all the walls knocked out so he could put in wavy and circular hallways. Circular hallways! Says it helps him think better when he's confused where he is. Utterly bonkers, utterly genius. He likes me a great deal," he winks at her as he presses the door buzzer.

"Can't stand Iracebeth. Admits her designs are good, hates working with her anyway. No one makes him rage more. And his rages are notorious. Absolutely adores Mirana, even though he says she could use more colors."

They're though the doors and up the stairs and step into the most orderly mess Alice has ever seen.

Terrence is in the midst of it, his back to them. Ginger corkscrews all tangled and mussed in the back, as though he'd gotten up in the night and decided to sit in the middle of the room for the rest of it, pillow indent in hair forgotten.

Maybe he had.

"I swear Chester, I will have the bloody tea in a minute, but I'm working—oh. You're not him."

He's turned around now, staring up at them, his latest project still in his stained hands, kaleidoscope eyes confused as he starts to register them. It's like watching a clock wind up.

"Zackery, welcome!" He cries as he recognizes the man, standing to shake his hand vigorously and then clapping him on the back. A slight lisp softens his British accent. "And you—don't I know you?"

Alice shakes her head, shakes his hand. He's warm and smiling.

"I'm Alice, sir."

"Please, it's Terrence."

He still holds her hand as he bends over, picks up his project and places it squarely on her head. Stares a few seconds, skews it so it rests jauntily on her head.

"May I?" He asks, gesturing to the camera bag on her hip. She'd nearly forgotten she'd even brought the thing with.

"Of course."

He fiddles with the camera, then he's up close and clicking away. Alice poses a few times, Zackery laughs from the side, and it's fun.

Then she remembers she's on business.

"Sorry, but Mirana sent me for some sketches."

"On the table, I think. I don't know, Chester put it there, but he's not the most reliable, always disappearing on me... But why would Mirana send a model? And with a camera? No need to spy, love. I'm already giving you the intel."

In spite of herself, she laughs at his absurdity.

"I'm not a spy, and definitely not a model. Haven't the lines for it. I'm a photographer turned assistant."

"Ridiculous. I'd know lines anywhere, and you've got the good ones. Now," he hands the camera back to her, taps her hands away when she tries to look.

"I'd imagine being an assistant would be interesting, with the Reine sisters it always is, but it's certainly more stressful than an in-house photographer spot."

"You could say it was a rather uninformed change."

"I couldn't, but you can."

"I've got them!" Zackery interrupts, a bound folder waving about in his hand as he comes around some hidden direction.

"And I just got a text from Twisp. Iracebeth's done with the meeting, they've decided to—damn—decided to nix the spring line. They want a more integrated rotation—ah but it's hell trying to fit Mirana and Iracebeth's styles together—and they want that for Paris, too."

He pauses for a moment, still, for the first time all morning.

"Well, shit."

His hands run up and down his face, as though to wipe off the sudden stress.

"I don't understand," Alice says, looking back and forth between Terrence and Zackery. "It's barely January."

"You have so little time," Terrence says, misinterpreting her confusion. "I'll start working on some basics."

He turns to Alice, cups her cheeks with both hands. It's a nice feeling, if a little strange, and she likes it.

"Good luck."

Then he's shooing them out the door and down the stairs and back onto the lively street.

The honking cars are loud and the serenity from his creative chaos of an apartment is gone.

"All right, time to run around like mad. You ready? Looks like we'll have to skip lunch today."

And, because it knows this is a rather inopportune time, Alice's stomach growls. Zackery chuckles.

"Fine. We'll go get a scone, but then we really have to get back to work."

The rest of the day is spent in a blur of jumping in cabs and herding bird-like models off a canceled shoot and calling different designers Alice would never even dream of talking to on her own, and watching the madness that is the fashion industry speed up time.

Once, she'd had to go into Iracebeth's office in need of her approval for the next month's cover.

Very different from Mirana's office.

No calla lilies for Iracebeth, and less windows. Deep red walls with spattered splashes of gold and black everywhere, poky decorations sticking out of the walls, scary and enthralling. A cactus you know you shouldn't poke, for it pokes back, but you want to anyway.

Iracebeth had been sprawled across her desk chair, arguing with a pale German sitting stiffly across from her in the uncomfortable black chair.

He was pale, with a mutton chop beard and an honest-to-goodness man bun. He'd had the air of an inventor still lost in his work, and had the most electric blue eyes Alice had ever seen. He'd spoken shortly, slightly arrogant and agitated, and Alice had left as soon as she could.

According to Zackery, he was Timothy Zeitmann, a wealthy and incredibly successful architect. He'd designed the building, in fact. Had a small obsession with clocks, hence the ticking in the lobby.

An old friend of the Reine sisters, not quite so old a friend as Terrence, one of the main financial backers of Wunder, and retired now.

Alice had been surprised, he looked so young. She couldn't imagine not having loads of work to do. With so much time on her hands, she'd go mad for sure.

But now it's time to go home, and she couldn't be more grateful.

She leaves Mirana in her office, feeling guilty for leaving work before the boss, but is informed that Mirana is always the last to leave.

A hard working woman, to be sure.

She sighs in the cab, clutching her new work phone, relieved it's no longer ringing.

Her eyes drift in weariness, slowly landing on her camera bag.

She remembers her mini photo shoot with Terrence, reaches for the camera.

A lady she almost doesn't recognize stares back at her.

It's her, she knows it, but it's not. Her head is angled a way she never does, carefree and easy, Terrence's project completely at home on the blonde curls.

A hat, a storm of gray and blue, the gold elastics a scattered lightning shower across her left brow. It's strong and bold and completely ethereal.

She, in her minimal make-up and unpracticed face, is a tempest.

Terrence Hightopp is a miracle.

She's home now, stumbling into her bare apartment, falling on her bed unceremoniously and crashing into sleep immediately.

Exhausted, she dreams of nothing.

"Say something nice, or I'm going to throw you out," Iracebeth says from her vanity, staring at her reflection, though she's not talking to herself.

"And why is that?" Comes a slow reply.

"I deserve it, considering how long we just fu—"

"Thank you, Iracebeth. It was amazing and you are amazing, as you always are, you radiant firecracker goddess."

She smirks, pulling the silk robe more securely around her shoulders.

"That's more like it. But I could do with less sarcasm next time."

"I have something a bit better anyway."

The voice materializes into lips that kiss her shoulder, nibble up the curve of her neck, another searing kiss to her jawline. A little black box is placed on the glass dresser.

"A tribute, your highness."

"I prefer your majesty."

"Royal pain, open your damn gift."

She acquiesces, though she sticks her tongue out first, and gasps in delight.

Buffed silver earrings, mini guillotines with a severing blade that slides into gleaming rubies.

"Thank you," she practically purrs, replacing her diamond studs with the morbid jewelry. Lips a delicate moue as she admires herself. "Dear old Tick-Tock."

The voice and lips become a face and beard and disheveled hair, scrunching in distaste at the old nickname. He falls back into bed, propped up on one arm.

"I hate that."

"You don't."

"I think I'd know, Iracebeth."

"Timothy Zeitmann, are you challenging me?"

He studies her face. Cheeks still glowing with that delicious post-coital flush (over and over she's told him not to say that, finds it clinical and very geeky), her fisted hands on hips which allows the robe to spill generously open. There's fire in her eyes, but it's an amused smolder and not genuine outrage, so he deems it safe to tease.

"Do you want me to?"

She drapes herself on top of him, kisses his cheek languidly.

"What I want is for you to design with me."

He rolls his eyes. Not this again.

"I'm an architect, and a retired one at that. Not a fashion designer."

"These earrings you made speak otherwise."

"I bought those."

"You didn't. I can tell."

He sighs, wishing she couldn't see right through him and his futile attempts at pretending not to worship the very air she breathes.

"I've already done so much for you and Wunder," he says, avoiding her gaze.

She drags her painted black nails down his cheek, watches his eyelids flutter in pleasure, kisses the marks she's made.

"But just imagine. With my big brain and your ingenuity, we could rule the fashion world for years."

"You should do that with your sister."

She immediately stops her caresses, sits up in a flash of irritation.

"Bloody Mirana. Did you know she does most of the busy work herself? It's a waste of her time, that's what assistants are for."

"You like that," he laughs. "You told me so yourself, it keeps her distracted from your plans. That's why you keep chasing them off."

She shrugs.

"Doesn't stop her from butting her perfect little head in and ruining everything."

"She's nice," he says, poking her thigh.

"Nice is useless in the business world. Not that she'd know, with her silly chemistry degree."

"She minored in business," he reminds her, the angry glare he receives a warning for silence.

He kisses her palm, travels up more, and is forgiven.

"She's good for you," he mutters against her skin, she pinches his forearm.

"She's too safe and it's holding Wunder back."

"You balance each other out."

She lies back down beside him; he knows her clockwork brain is scheming. Either way, he enjoys the silence.

Deep down, he's terrified of working with Iracebeth. Loves her madly, but he knows the logistics of collaboration. She's a destructive tornado when she wants to be and often needs restraint. He's never been good at doing that. Only Mirana has ever been able to rein her in, and even then it's tricky. He does not envy her job.

No, he'd prefer to love Iracebeth in the shadows, even though she doesn't love him back.

Not quite content as friends with benefits, but content enough.

She pats his chest, kisses his chin, then stands and throws his clothes at him.

"I have an early morning tomorrow, so be a dear and kick yourself out for me, would you?" She commands, falling back in bed as he changes, eyes closed as she stretches out.

She's so much like a cat, self-absorbed and seemingly lazy even as she exerts power from those lean muscles. But he's always had a weakness for the creatures, and it seems to apply to her as well.

"Yes, your majesty." He intones.

She ignores his gibe and snuggles further into her sheets.

"Oh, and won't you come by tomorrow afternoon? I need you to drive Mirana's new little assistant away."

"Can't do it yourself?"

She barely deigns to glare at him through one eye.

"It's more fun when you do it. I don't have time for Mirana to berate me for doing it myself."

"She'll just berate you for using me."

She sighs, and he relents.

"Fine."

"Thank you, Tick-Tock."

Her smile turns devious.

"She'll be gone before the day is up."