49. Statues and Storms

Dark clouds and heavy rain make the shadows in the car feel heavier. That, and the thunderous atmosphere Miranda’s had swirling around her, and me by extension, since she saved me from Christian not even an hour ago. 

Not many people would be on the streets in this weather, but if there are a few brave souls, I’ll never know. My gaze, my focus, maybe my entire being is focused on the statue next to me. 

She was already settled in her seat by the time I managed to close my door. Legs crossed, turned toward the window, eyes staring out at the rain. She hasn’t moved. Not for the entire drive. 

Not the twitch of a finger, or the tap of a toe. Not even a breath, it seems like. A piece of carefully coiffed hair fell into her eyes ten minutes ago, but she hasn’t made a move to fix it. 

I ache to brush it away. I don’t dare. 

She’s so still, a statue, and yet there’s nothing tranquil about the atmosphere swirling between us. Rumbling thunder, real and imagined, fills the car, stealing my breath. I can’t defend myself, even if I scrounge up the courage. 

“You’re more than welcome to stay and continue your dalliance.”

I swallow back the tears suddenly, unforgivably pushing at the corners of my eyes. 

It was a misunderstanding, I tell myself for the twentieth time. If I can just explain … 

My throat tightens even further, imagining that conversation. Explaining that Christian’s hands felt like shackles. That I wanted to run. That I didn’t want to cause a scene. Didn’t want to mar her reputation. 

I can see it play out so clearly in my mind. Miranda’s face, tight, lips curling into a sneer. Eyes ice cold, making me feel so, so small. Insignificant. Worthless. 

These damn tears. I blink a few times to try and clear them. I just hope my mascara hasn’t smudged yet, because that’s just what I need tonight: another humiliation. 

But … why should I be humiliated? I go through the night, short as it was, frame by frame in my head. Slimy hands, breath reeking of alcohol, and a grip on my waist tight enough to bruise. 

The more I replay it, the more my tears evaporate into steaming anger. 

I didn’t do anything wrong. I’d told him no, that he had the wrong idea. I didn’t lead him on, or encourage him to come find me. 

I didn’t do anything wrong. 

And yet Miranda made me feel like I had. 

The anger is pulsing like fire in my veins. I want to hold onto it, embrace it, scream—

A flash of lightning lights up the car, snapping my focus back to Miranda’s still form. For that single instant, her hair seems to glow, and in her profile I can just make out the tension in her jaw before we’re plunged back into darkness. 

This woman, who’s grinned down at her enemies while plotting behind their backs, who doesn’t let anyone dictate the terms of her life, is sitting here, frozen and fuming. 

Because of me. 

Suddenly there’s a montage playing out in my head of that weekend over three months ago. That weekend in Wonderland. I stare at Miranda’s profile, memories flashing by, each one calming my anger like a wave caressing the shore. 

A closet of clothes. 

Brownies for breakfast. 

The steady sound of running water as we did the dishes. 

A quiet meal in Central Park. 

This woman - Miranda - is cold and ruthless. She won’t let anyone or anything stand in her way. She holds herself above and apart from the rest of the world, and yet somewhere along the way she let me in. 

Oh, she fought it. I can see that now. The days of pointed silence, the magazine practically crumbling around us as she pushed me away. She fought tooth and nail to keep me at bay … and failed. 

Because here I am. Invited to accompany her to an event she didn’t need me for. Abruptly dragged from said event when she found Christian with his hands on me. Sitting here in tense silence, the air too thick to speak. 

This doesn’t happen between a boss and her assistant. 

That stupid, persistent puddle of hope ripples in my chest, like a stone skipping across the surface. I don’t have time to process it, because we’re pulling up to the curb in front of the townhouse. 

The statue of Runway’s Editor in Chief comes to life, straightening and swiping the errant hair from her face. 

“Take Ms. Sachs home.”

And then she’s opening her own door and sliding out, no umbrella, heels splashing on the soaked pavement. 

Oh hell no! 

“Don’t worry about me,” I reassure Roy with a quick, forced smile as I scramble to undo my seatbelt. By the time I make it out of the car, Miranda is unlocking the front door. I rush to get there before she can shut it in my face. I’m nearly to the stairs when my foot slips and I’m waving my arms like a cartoon character. Miraculously, I manage to catch myself on the railing. 

Catching my breath from the near death experience, I look up. 

 Miranda’s staring down at me from the top of the stairs. Her eyes are wide with something like shock or panic, but the expression is smoothed over as soon as our eyes meet. 

I feel kinda idiotic, hanging onto the railing for dear life, so I straighten up and try to smooth out my dress and hair. Pointless, really, given the downpour crashing all around me. 

“Well?” I barely hear Miranda over the rain and thunder. Again, I look up at her, and that puddle in my chest ripples again as I read her lips: 

“Don’t just stand there. Get in before you catch a cold and doom us all.”

Despite being soaking wet and shivering, warmth floods my veins and I can’t stop the near-manic grin that takes over my face as I make my way up the stairs. 

She’s letting me in. 

Maybe inside, safe from the raging storm, we can salvage this disaster of a night.