I opened my eyes and winced. It was bright white. Was I dead? Heaven? My favorite head of hair?

"Miranda?"

There was movement beside me. I turned, still blinking against the light.

"You sure know how to party."

My eyes came into focus. Nigel with his small smile greeted me. I weakly tried to offer the same.

He continued, "They got the drug out of your system before it could do anything serious."

Nigel's suit jacket was draped on the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up, and he looked tired. Hell, I felt tired.

Wait. Drug?

I looked around. Hospital room. I was lying down in a bed. White walls and a bright fluorescent light contrasted against the window still black with night.

But how did I get here? I was at the party and then—

Holt!

"Where's my cell phone?" I asked as I tried to suddenly sit up.

Nigel chuckled quietly, "Police snagged it when they noticed it was still recording in your pocket. You got his whole confession."

His words stilled my movement. I looked at him dumbfounded, still propped on my elbows.

"So…it's done?"

He firmly nodded. "James is in custody."

It worked? It actually worked?

We needed to tell the world.

I pushed forward to sit up despite my body beginning to whine at me.

"I gotta call my editor. And get my laptop."

"Andy, you need to rest," he countered lightly, placing his hand on my arm.

I shook my head, grunting as I finally sat up, "I promised Miranda."

"She's not going to mind in her current condition."

Again, Nigel's words gave me pause. I looked between him and my bed sheets.

"So, she's still…?"

I couldn't say it. He somberly nodded at my unasked question.

What had I expected? That if I figured it out, she would just wake up?

I recalled Miranda's face, poised and regal, her voice calmly advising me her final wishes.

This was my final promise. My job.

I placed my hand on top of his fingers resting on my arm.

"Nigel, we have to clear her name. Even if…even if it's just for her daughters. They need to know she didn't leave them, didn't take her own life," I muttered softly.

His eyes searched mine for a moment before he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, skewing his glasses.

"You write your story, and then you rest."

"You're the best."

He waved me off and huffed as he stood up, "I'll call your editor and get your laptop."

Before he made it to the door, he turned and sassily added, "I already called your parents to let them know, by the way, you nearly died, you're welcome."

I rewarded him with a smile for his antics. "Thank you."

He rolled his eyes but failed to hide his smirk as continued his exit.

As he opened the door, it occurred to me I had seen this combination of white linoleum floors and wooden doors before.

"Hey, wait," I called out.

He turned around once more and raised his eyebrows.

"Which hospital are we in?"

"So. Turns out it was Holt. Pretty crazy, right?"

Only the heart rate monitor beeped in response. Beep.

I continued, sitting up straighter in the chair, "I just emailed my draft to my editor. They're going to run it right away. Front page of this morning's edition. All the major newspapers and networks will catch up quick. Caroline and Cassidy are going to know their mom would never leave them."

I offered a sheepish grin to Miranda's unflinching face still covered by the mask, eyes still closed.

Beep.

I sighed, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the bed.

"It's unfair. You've been comatose, you look absolutely dreadful, and you're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Beep.

"I was afraid to say that before. When you could answer back. But now you can just listen," I muttered, scooting even closer, "I've missed you so much. I hated myself for missing you. And then you come literally haunting me in my apartment, like some messed up Christmas Carol."

My hollow chuckle fell on a hollow room. Dim light began to filter from the window, the signs of daybreak beginning to edge their way from the twilight. The seconds were quiet and still.

Beep.

I looked away from her stoic head and down to her hand. With a shaky breath, I gathered her fingers between my own.

"I love you."

I let the words echo into the corners of the room.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to admit it. Even if you don't feel the same way, please just wake up," I whispered, looking back up to face her, "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you. I never was. I never did. Don't make me now."

Beep.

Miranda didn't move.

I waited. My breathing grew more ragged and loud in my own ears.

I did it. I solved it. And yet, the lawyer would still be on their way so soon to end her life.

Beep.

Nothing. It had all amounted to nothing.

Beep.

I didn't fight or resist as the sobs started to quake through my core and erupt from my mouth. I closed my eyes shut and collapsed onto the bed, burying my face against the sheets and her hand.

My hope was shattered.

I had hope.

I could picture Miranda's refined silhouette against the backdrop of sunshine streaming through her office windows.

Beep.

Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us.

Us. My memory flashed to her almost sinister smile in the back of the town car, all for me. Then it changed to her snorting smirk as she rolled her eyes at me in my apartment. Again, my vision shifted, to her reserved, secretive grin as she closely inspected the dress on a mannequin while I stood poised with a notebook, the perfect assistant.

Miranda, past and present, haunted me as I cried.

Beep.

Miranda, strutting down the street beside me.

Miranda, delicately sipping hot coffee at her desk.

Miranda, lightly chiding my dieting habits.

Miranda, laughing at the television on the couch beside me.

Miranda, with her stinging cold words and colder blue eyes, somehow making me feel soft and warm with a glance.

Beep.

Miranda, the ghost.

Miranda, dead.

My unrequited love. My greatest disappointment.

I never left. I would never be able to say goodbye.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep.

I raised my head with a sniff, looking at the heart rate monitor. The number was slowly climbing with the frequency in pinging sounds.

Miranda's hand squeezed mine.

With a gasp, I snapped to attention and watched in absolute shock as her eyelids fluttered with movement behind them.

They slowly slid open, inspecting the ceiling.

"Miranda?"

Her eyes rolled to look upon me. Then, they looked down.

Her hand flew to her torso, and she winced as if in pain.

"Oh my God," I exclaimed, jumping to my feet, pulling the mask from her face, "What hurts? Your chest? What? Is it your stomach?"

Fuck, shit, I had to get a nurse!

"Gown."

"What?"

She swallowed, and her hand gestured down her body dressed in the hospital gown.

Her voice was quiet and scratchy as she rasped, "Gown. Hideous."

I blinked. Then, I glared at the fashionista.

"Miranda Priestly, I'm going to kill you."

"Already died once," she retorted before breaking out into a fit of coughs.

I went anxiously ridged again and asked if she needed water, still standing nearby, but she waved me to sit down as she cleared her throat. I obeyed, but not before I raised the incline of the bed to help her sit up.

When she settled, I hesitantly asked, "So…you remember everything?"

"Our personal noir film?" she mused with a tilt of her head, and when I nodded, she further murmured, "I could still hear you, in the end. The party. You almost dying…"

I shrugged off her look of concern.

"It worked. Everyone knows about Holt now. He'll be going away for a long time," I assured her with a smile.

The corners of her eyes wrinkled as her lips delicately curled upwards.

"You did it," she said softly.

My smile only grew. I was so relieved.

Miranda was alive.

Hold up. She said she could still hear me. Did that mean she heard everything I said?

I love you.

I quickly looked down at my lap and stammered, "Miranda, I—"

"No."

I froze. Rejection. Swallowing hard, I glanced back up at her to face the music.

Instead, her small, charming grin was still in place.

"Not this time. I will not force you away this time," she stated calmly, extending her hand on the bed, palm up, towards me.

Was I hallucinating after my wild encounter with drugs and alcohol?

I placed my hand in hers. Her thumb brushed against my knuckles.

"I will likely still be irritable. Difficult to please. Incredibly busy. My life will still be on public display, I'm still a divorcée with children, and perhaps, some might say, no longer young," she finished with a dramatic eye roll, earning a laugh from me.

She nodded, seemingly more to herself, as she continued, "I will certainly still be beyond insufferable. Nothing will change."

Her eyes fell to our joined hands.

"But like you said, Pandora's box is open now. Our little paradox. And everything has changed. I will not fight it any longer," she whispered, eyes flashing back to my face. To my mouth.

"So just say yes," she uttered simply.

I was drawn in, my body moving without hesitation.

"Yes."

Our lips touched, slow like a hazy dream.

Miranda was powerful, intimidating and sensual all at once with a scathing look. But now, with me, she was gentle and soft. She kissed my cheeks, and I happily touched her hair and her neck. When she sighed against my ear, I shivered. Our noses bumped, and she delicately cupped my face.

As her mouth brushed against mine again and again, I felt the sweet duality of relief and need. Her kisses brought me peace and comfort. Her touch incited the raw, selfish desire for more. Yes, a paradox. Behind each kiss was a promise of so much more to come, an oath of surrender we had fought against for so long.

Was it perfect? No. We were in a hospital. One of us had been here on her deathbed, and I could only imagine how my breath smelled after my wild night. But it was still the best kiss, or rather kisses, I ever had.

In that moment, Miranda was imperfect and flawed and vulnerable, and I loved her all the more for it. We had chosen each other as we were.

It was the kind of love that could cheat death.

I'm proud to say the heart rate monitor was beeping quite profusely at this point.

When we pulled away, she tilted her head thoughtfully.

"Miranda-girl, hm?" she hummed, bringing my hand to her lips to plant a kiss.

Swoon.

I replied with a laugh, "Long story."

"You'll have to tell me," she said airily, tucking my hair behind my ear with her free hand.

"Well, do you remember when you sent—"

"Later," she murmured, inching closer again, "Tell me later."

Her lips were on mine once more, and I didn't argue.

And so, dear reader, to quote either Miranda Priestly or Porky Pig, 'That's all, folks.'

Well, mostly.

I wish you could have seen the nurses' faces when they rushed in and saw Miranda Priestly very much not in a coma and making out with another woman.