Threads of Control

Chapter 1

The evening light slanted through the tall, arched windows of the Plaza Hotel, casting an amber glow over the room's curated chaos. The event was a spectacle, an exclusive preview for a new fashion campaign rumored to reshape the industry, attended by all the right people and more than a few who thought they were. Andrea Sachs stood off to the side, champagne flute in hand, though she'd barely taken a sip. Her sharp eyes scanned the room for any sign of Miranda Priestly, but the silver-haired editor was nowhere to be seen.

Andrea had grown used to waiting for Miranda, not that the woman ever truly kept anyone waiting without reason. Since the debacle in Paris, things between them had changed—personally and professionally. Andrea had stayed on at Runway not because she was dazzled by Miranda's world anymore, but because she had earned her place in it. She wasn't the wide-eyed assistant she'd once been; now, she knew the game, the players, the stakes.

But then there was Cruella De Vil.

"Miss Sachs," a voice purred from beside her, cutting through the din of the crowd like a well-honed blade. Soft, almost playful, but with an edge of danger that demanded attention. Cruella slid into view like a shadow come to life, her lips painted the same shade of crimson as the cigarette holder she balanced between two sharp fingers. She no longer smoked—not since that unfortunate "incident" that had splashed across headlines years ago—but the holder remained, an accessory as iconic as the woman herself.

Cruella was, in every sense of the word, electric. There was an aura around her, a manic energy barely contained, as if she were forever teetering on the edge between brilliance and chaos. Her hair, a stark contrast of jet black and snow white, was swept back into an impossibly smooth chignon, the colors so distinct they almost seemed painted on. Her eyes—lined in dramatic black that made them seem larger, sharper—glinted with amusement as she took in Andrea's carefully controlled expression.

"You've been standing here for ten minutes, darling, as if waiting for something... or someone," Cruella said, her voice lilting. She raised an eyebrow, the movement almost languid, but there was something deliberate behind it. "I do hope you're not expecting Miranda to make a grand entrance. She tends to disappoint when one wants her to make an entrance."

Andrea's chest tightened slightly, though she masked the reaction with a practiced smile. Cruella had a way of cutting through the niceties of the room, her words half-seduction, half-challenge. The woman was an enigma, notorious for her eccentricity, and equally famous for her fashion empire—one built on risks no one else would take. She leaned into her mythology with an almost gleeful abandon, playing the role of the unpredictable genius to the hilt.

Andrea turned to her, keeping her tone light but confident. "Miranda will be here," she replied smoothly, forcing herself not to flinch under Cruella's unnervingly sharp gaze. "She's just—handling some last-minute details. You know how she is. Thorough."

Cruella's lips curled into a slow smile, the kind that could wither most people with its sheer force of suggestion. "Oh, darling, I know how Miranda is. Perfection is her oxygen." She tilted her head slightly, her white-black hair catching the golden light as her eyes roamed over Andrea. "But surely even you must grow tired of her—precision. After all, you've been by her side for, what is it now, three years?"

Andrea returned the smile, refusing to take the bait. She had learned, through both experience and necessity, to never let her emotions show too easily. Miranda had drilled that into her from day one, and it had become second nature. "I know her habits better than anyone," Andrea replied, her voice measured. "Miranda doesn't waste time making grand entrances. She'll arrive exactly when she needs to, no sooner, no later. She's not the type to linger for effect."

"Isn't she?" Cruella purred, her gaze flicking toward the entrance as though expecting Miranda to materialize, her dramatic timing impeccable. When no such appearance came, she turned back to Andrea, her eyes glittering with something darker, more dangerous. "I find that hard to believe. She's all about control. And control, my dear, is knowing how to keep people waiting just long enough to leave them wanting more."