A/N: Another Monday, another chapter! This one was absolute Hell to write; I was plagued by writer's block and just real life being annoying at the worst of times. Still, here it is! Thank you for reviewing/favoriting/following, you guys are awesome!
~Naralanis
London Fashion Week seemed to whizz by in a chaotic blur. Miranda suffered through dreadful shows and was generally uninterested by even the most inspired ones. For the first time in her entire career, she could not wait for Fashion Week to be over. Well, not entirely over. Before it all ended, she desperately wanted to see what Alexandra Saxton, or rather, Andrea, had in store. More importantly, she wanted an answer from the brunette, who had religiously avoided her since their last phone conversation.
Miranda was familiar with the behaviour. Andrea was stalling for as long as possible, because she simply couldn't get over the fact that Miranda had won. She smiled inwardly; soon she'd have the girl back in her grasp, and on a tight leash. There was no way she would let go this time. Oddly enough, her subconscious seemed more excited to have Andrea around than to publish Saxton material exclusively. She immediately suppressed the thought. Honestly, the very idea.
The changes she saw in the brunette when she last met her were still disconcerting, however. Miranda couldn't help but think she had not yet seen Andrea, at least not as she remembered her. She had seen plenty of Alexandra Saxton, perhaps more than anyone in the world to date. They were the same woman, obviously, but Miranda knew there was a pronounced difference. She had seen it. Andrea's eyes were baleful and full of emotion behind them, their brown shade flickered with specks of gold. Alexandra's eyes seemed to be impossibly darker, like coffee, and they were full of fire. The Editor had been caught completely off guard when she first gazed into them. Andrea also smiled, that full, beaming smile that lit up a room. Alexandra did not smile. Miranda could guess that she smirked, maybe even developed a full-blown shark-like, malicious grin on occasion, and she knew her guess would be accurate. The first time she looked at Alexandra, it was like she was looking directly into a mirror, and that frightened her like nothing before.
Miranda had meant every word she had said to Andrea in Paris. But when she saw the proof of her observations in the flesh, the satisfaction of being right once again washed over extremely quickly. In its place grew an all-consuming feeling of dread, and, for whatever reason, grief. Miranda knew exactly how Alexandra Saxton behaved because Andrea had clearly drawn inspiration from her. She supposed she should feel flattered, but somehow all she felt was guilt, as if she was personally responsible for crushing Andrea and sculpting the Saxton persona out of what remained. As much as she knew of the extent of Andrea's ambition, she would never be the same without her bubbly personality and innocent naïveté. And Miranda supposed it was her fault Alexandra had been born in the first place.
She quickly shrugged such thoughts away. It would not do to wallow in… guilt? Miranda wasn't exactly sure, but nonetheless, it wasn't important. Not when her week was about to end in the greatest way possible: with the 'capture' of the elusive Alexandra Saxton for Runway. There was no other way about it.
Miranda took one moment for a last once-over in the elegant full-length mirror in her suite. She didn't exactly need it; she knew she looked picture perfect. It just so happened that what looked picture perfect to the laity didn't necessarily meet the standards set by the Queen of Fashion. And that's precisely what she looked like— a Queen. It was deliberate, just as Andrea had tried to show there was a new Devil in town, Miranda would show the insolent girl exactly who ran things. The Evil Queen.
She allowed herself an amused smirk. Evil indeed, she thought. The sharp, stark, yet classic cut of her custom Versace gown made her look like a fairy tale villain. A modern, devastatingly beautiful, but no less terrifying villain. It seemed appropriate. Her smirk became subtly more pronounced. It was time to face Snow White.
Although the Saxton showing had been rescheduled at the last possible minute, it was still one of the highlights of Fashion Week. Andrea— or Alexandra, had stepped on a great many toes, and quite a few disgruntled patrons were there at the very least out of curiosity; what had prompted the unexpected delay? A couple of annoyed designers were present too; Miranda had endured quite a few minutes of Donatella's heavily accented rant. The woman felt personally slighted— she had been the one supposed to 'close' London Fashion Week. Having Alexandra Saxton simply squeezing in her showing right after felt like 'un affronto personale'. Miranda smiled when appropriate, but didn't really pay much attention to the Italian. She was looking for someone who had not dared to show her face in a couple of days.
When she finally spotted Anna Wintour, she briefly thought of commending the woman for not looking desperately embarrassed. First deadline missed in over twelve years, that was big. And, for once, Miranda would gloat. With some tact and discretion, of course, but she could not resist the opportunity. She had never missed a deadline in twenty years. Not even when she had just first started, when Runway was nothing but a drowning venture many thought was destined to fail. No, like a phoenix, it had risen from the ashes, and it was by Miranda's hand. She had earned the right to gloat.
Anna seemed to feel her coming her way before Miranda had even deigned to speak with her. A tired smile was her greeting, and Miranda could not help but shoot her a snarky grin in response. She'd better be tired. She'd better be working her bob cut off her head to try to minimise the pandemonium that came with a missed deadline.
"Anna."
"Miranda."
"How lovely to finally see you. I take it you've been rather… busy."
To Anna's credit, she showed no reaction to Miranda's none-too-subtle jab.
"Oh yes. I'd say you know all about it, but you really don't, do you, Miranda?"
Miranda's smirk exposed a bit of real, vicious glee.
"No, Anna, I know nothing about missed deadlines. How aggravating it must be."
"Quite aggravating, I must say. Not an experience I'd like to repeat anytime soon. But it was worth it."
"Do enlighten me, Anna darling, what makes a missed deadline worth it?"
Oddly enough, Anna's eyes held a hint of delight. It threw Miranda off a little, but she could only suppose it was an effect of whatever tranquilizer her rival was surely on to keep herself together.
"Well, Miranda, I'd much rather have a spectacular edition than an ordinary one. Wouldn't you?"
What was the woman on?
"Naturally, darling, but usually I manage such a feat within my deadlines."
Miranda had no time to wonder why on Earth Anna seemed to remain unfazed because the lights began to dim and flicker, calling all the patrons to their respective seats. Not bothering to say anything further to the Vogue Editor, she quietly retired to her seat in the front row, between a visibly anxious Emily and a rather tense Nigel. Neither greeted her beyond a nod of acknowledgement, choosing instead to keep their gazes onto the runway ahead. Miranda sat with her usual aristocratic grace, ignoring the tension radiating from her employees.
The lights flickered for a few moments longer before dimming completely. The runway lights flashed on, and a deep, reverberating bass was heard throughout the room. Projected letters flickered onto the wall, scrambling themselves before being rearranged in order, revealing the name of the collection in bright, white font. Vicesima.
As soon as the first model walked onto the runway, Miranda was entranced. She usually was at every Saxton show, but she thought it would be different now that she knew who was behind it all. She had been wrong. This collection had a noticeably more classic feel to it, yet it felt new and refreshing, something that Alexandra Saxton seemed to accomplish with remarkable ease. Once again, the Queen of Fashion was perched at the edge of her seat, the only thing keeping her frustration at bay once a model disappeared backstage was the appearance of another. Each outfit was unique in its own right, and each was fascinating. It was so easy to forget that the woman responsible for such mesmerising creations was none other than 'Andy' Sachs. Andy 'Aw-Shucks' Sachs, the smart, fat girl who aspired to be a journalist. Miranda had a sudden and uncharacteristic urge to thank the Heavens or fate for whoever was ultimately responsible for dropping that binder on her lap. She would have never figured it out otherwise.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed that the tension between Nigel and Emily seemed to dissipate with every model that strutted in. She was not surprised; they were obviously just as enthralled as she was. Not that Miranda could blame them. The whole crowd was hypnotised. She was willing to bet that even Donatella had momentarily forsaken her Italian temper, but she would not waste her time to check; she was too busy paying very close attention to the wonderful creations parading on the runway.
Miranda could not help feeling bereft as the last model made her way back. It was all over much too soon, she thought.
Except the lights began flickering once again, and the music began to build. Everyone present began to look around in confusion. It all seemed to indicate the show was not over, yet the runway was empty.
"What's going on?" Miranda heard Emily question. Nigel shrugged his shoulders and began to open his mouth, but he was interrupted when models began to materialize en masse. Each and every one of them, in quick succession, marching like an army.
Every single model wore exactly the same outfit, a suit-like number that exposed their long legs, along with shiny black pumps that clicked menacingly on the runway. But that wasn't the most peculiar thing about it all. All of them had a strip of black material over their eyes, as if mimicking a censor strip. Miranda actually gasped once she realised they were all wearing wigs, all turned into brunettes with long brown tresses framing their faces. A shiver ran down the Editor's spine, and she could not keep her hands from trembling. The dread that settled in the pit of her stomach was almost unbearable.
The models filed in, positioning themselves so they outlined the entirety of the runway. They stopped and faced the audience with their hidden eyes, striking the exact same pose: shoulders back, heads high, legs crossed at the ankles where they stood and hands casually resting in their pockets. The whole group remained absolutely still as the music built up.
Suddenly, the music stopped, and all the lights seemed to go out completely. However, a name in a bright yellow font flashed on the wall where the runway stemmed from. Alexandra Saxton.
The name flickered on the dark space for only a few moments. What was projected next nearly made Miranda faint. Her heart palpitated, and she could swear sweat began to gather on her forehead. She balled her hands into tight fists and attempted to control her breathing, doing her best to ignore the strangled gasps of surprise that came from her employees.
Where there was a name, now there was a projection of a magazine cover. More specifically, a Vogue cover, featuring no one other than Andrea Sachs, or, as the world knew her, Alexandra Saxton. The photo showed her in the exact same position as the one the models held on the runway, down to the censor strip over her eyes. Words appeared over the picture, and Miranda was acutely aware of Anna Wintour's smug smile, even though she refused to look directly at the woman.
Alexandra Saxton: The Woman Behind the Myth
Brought by Vogue
The music began to build once again, and with it Miranda's despair. She could not believe what was happening. What was about to happen. The shock was simply too much to bear. Never in her entire life had she wished to simply disappear into oblivion. The realisation crashed upon her with a painful jolt. She had miscalculated. She had made a huge mistake. She had been bested at her own game.
The lights flickered madly along with the build-up of the music, and the Queen of Fashion was certain she was about to have a panic attack. Suddenly, it all stopped— the lights ceased, and so did the music. An ethereal voice filled the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time, Alexandra Saxton!"
Then one of the models— the one right in front of Miranda— gingerly began to move while all the rest remained as still as stone. She gracefully removed the black strip of cloth from her eyes — her deep, mocha-brown, bright with triumph eyes — and beamed an expertly calculated grin towards the crowd. She turned and waved to the entire room, which erupted in applause and disbelieving cheers.
Andrea waved once more before turning right to Miranda. The Editor was glued to her seat, her nails digging into her own palms. Her azure eyes were astonished, shocked, incredulous. There was nothing Miranda could have possibly done to prevent the whimper that escaped her lips once she looked into those brown orbs and read the message they sent in utter triumph.
Watch me, they said.
A/N: Ta-da! By the way, if any of you guys are interested, a friend of mine (the kind soul who convinces me to post even though I'm not 100% satisfied with what I write) made the Vogue cover of this chapter. It's on my Tumblr if you want to check it out (link on my profile). Thanks for reading!
~Naralanis
