Threads of Control

Chapter 2

The room seemed to dim around them as Andrea retreated, leaving Miranda Priestly and Cruella De Vil standing face to face in the center of the Plaza Hotel's grand ballroom. The faint hum of conversation carried on around them, but to anyone observing closely, it was clear that the real event was unfolding in this small pocket of space, between two of fashion's most powerful women. The air crackled with a tension that was palpable, charged with unspoken words, old rivalries, and the bitter edge of unacknowledged truths.

Miranda, with her icy composure perfectly intact, stood with her chin slightly lifted, surveying Cruella with that signature detached gaze. Her pristine white Valentino coat hung flawlessly off her slim frame, the crispness of the fabric mirroring the sharpness in her eyes. The coat was tailored with razor-sharp precision, the high collar framing her porcelain neck and the long, structured lines falling elegantly down to her knees, barely grazing the hem of her silver satin gown. The gown, visible beneath the coat in a subtle but striking contrast, clung to her figure, its fabric shimmering like liquid mercury as it caught the soft light of the chandeliers. Every stitch, every detail was calculated, as though the very threads wove power and control into the fabric itself.

Miranda was an immovable force, unflinching, as though every word Cruella had uttered mere moments ago had rolled off her like water on glass. Her pale, manicured hands were folded neatly in front of her, not a single movement betraying the tension simmering between the two women. The glint of platinum at her wrist—an understated watch, of course—was the only accessory she allowed, a testament to her restraint and control. She was dressed for war, though she would never admit to being on the battlefield.

Cruella, by contrast, was a storm barely held in check, her manic energy simmering just beneath the surface. Her half-black, half-white hair gleamed under the chandeliers like some twisted halo, the loose tendrils framing her sharp cheekbones and wild eyes. The dark velvet of her gown, trimmed with fur, clung to her body in dramatic waves, exuding the kind of untamed power she wore so proudly. Her presence was unpredictable, chaotic, a stark contrast to Miranda's icy, controlled elegance.

"I see your tastes haven't changed," Cruella murmured, her voice low and dangerous, laced with a certain venom. She took a slow step closer, her red lips curving into a smile that held no warmth. "Always choosing the ones who burn so brightly under your watchful eye. It's fascinating to me, Miranda, how you collect people, shape them, and then discard them when they no longer amuse you."

Miranda's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the only hint of emotion breaking through her otherwise serene facade. "I don't have time for your games, 'Ella. If you're here to stir up trouble, I suggest you do it somewhere else. There's nothing for you here."

Cruella let out a soft, delighted chuckle, the sound as dark and unpredictable as the woman herself. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, darling. There's always something for me when you're around. Or should I say—someone."

She let the last word hang in the air, her eyes flicking briefly toward the corner of the room where Andrea had disappeared, before locking back onto Miranda with a glint of amusement. "Your little soldier. So loyal, so obedient. Tell me, Miranda, does she even know what she's fighting for? Or is she just another pawn in your endless game?"

Miranda's lips pressed into a thin line, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You overestimate your importance in this room, Cruella. Andrea is none of your concern."

Cruella's smile widened, taking another slow, deliberate step closer, her eyes never leaving Miranda's. "Oh, but she could be. I offered her something better, you know. Something more stimulating than what you could ever give her."

The subtle twitch of Miranda's jaw was the only indication that Cruella's words had hit their mark. But her expression remained impassive, the weight of her gaze holding steady. "Andrea is more than capable of making her own choices. If you think you can sway her with promises of chaos, you'll find she is far more discerning than you give her credit for."