57. Meeting the Inevitable

Dick is late. 

Not by a few minutes, or an hour. No, he and his lawyers have kept us waiting nearly the entire day. A meeting that was supposed to be at eight in the morning has been pushed back and back, and I can’t help but wonder if Dick’s master plan is to drive Miranda to murder. 

It’s not a bad plan. The potential has been building with every hour the meeting is postponed. Snapping at underlings, requesting one scarf, only to throw it away in disgust an hour later, and demanding more coffees than I’ve ever seen before. I’m this close to secretly switching her to decaf. It might cost me my life, but it might save the lives of so many more. 

Finally, at nearly six in the evening, with nearly everyone ducking behind their desks as if to shield themselves from a grenade, Miranda’s phone buzzes with a message. I watch her from the corner of the office, the only person who’s dared to be so close to certain death. She peers down at the message, then snatches the cell phone up, her red nails cracking against the glass with enough force that I’m sure the desk is scratched. 

“Coat. Bag.” Miranda clips, striding angrily through the office. I follow, barely having enough time to snatch my bag from my desk while Lark scurries to secure the items. 

In the elevator, Miranda taps her toes with impatience. I force myself to relax into the tense silence. There’s no need to add to the gathering storm of energy. 

The car ride is the same, tense and furious. Miranda’s breaths come out in seething exhales that remind me of a dragon getting ready to breathe fire. I have to fight back an anticipatory smile at what Dick has brought down on himself. 

Miranda is always beautiful, but when she’s angry? Otherworldly. 

When we eventually take our seats around a massive conference table, us and Miranda’s lawyers on one side, and Dick and his team on the other, Miranda is ready for war, and I’m ready to watch Dick be knocked down to size. 

I don’t let any of my morbid excitement show on my face as I pull out a notebook and pen, ready to take notes. 

The lead attorney on Miranda’s team, Mr. Reed, breaks the silence. 

“Since we’re all finally here, let’s proceed. We’re here to review the updated custody schedule your office submitted last week.”

He shuffles through the papers in front of him, but a man on Dick’s side holds up his hand. 

“We will get to that, of course. But before we discuss the schedule, there’s an additional matter that must be addressed.”

The man slides an inconspicuous, beige folder across to Mr. Reed. With narrowed eyes trained on the smirking man across the table, Mr. Reed flips the folder open. From a few seats away, I can’t make out everything, but I can make out enough. 

Photos. Dozens of photos, glossy eight by elevens in perfect focus and full color, complete with timestamps. 

Me, coming and going from the townhouse in the middle of the night. 

Me, walking out of a movie theater with Miranda and the girls. 

A shot peering into a window of the townhouse, Miranda and I sitting at the breakfast table, a plate of brownies between us. 

Us, sitting at a table in Central Park, Patricia laying at Miranda’s feet. 

Me, in an evening dress, slipping on the steps of the townhouse and clinging to the railing, Miranda gazing down at me from a few steps above. 

And the one that leaves my queasy stomach feeling like lead: Miranda and I, side by side, lit by sparkling lights in the darkness. Our arms wrapped around each other's waists. 

Emily was right. 

This is a disaster. 

“Mr. Stone,” Mr. Reed says. “This is highly irregular. What exactly are you implying?”

I can’t rip my eyes away from the photos, and I track them as Mr. Reed slides them in front of Miranda. I don’t dare try to catch her reaction. 

God, this is bad. Really, really bad. 

Catastrophic. 

Why didn’t I see it coming? 

A chair creaks from across the table, and I can only guess that Mr. Stone is leaning back in nonchalance. 

“Ms. Priestly, what we have here is a deeply concerning pattern. Your employee—Ms. Sachs—is in your home late at night, frequently present during your custodial time, and engaged in what can reasonably be interpreted as an inappropriate relationship.”

“That is a gross mischaracterization–” Mr. Reed tries to interrupt, but Mr. Stone rolls right over him. 

“We’re not talking about what is or isn’t happening behind closed doors. We’re talking about optics, influence, and stability for two young girls. A mother’s romantic involvement with a subordinate employee—particularly one so deeply enmeshed in the household—raises serious concerns.”

I can practically feel frost radiating from Miranda’s skin next to me, as she says, “You do not get to imply–”

“We’re not implying,” Mr. Stone interrupts. “We’re stating the legal position we are prepared to take before the judge.”

There’s a whisper of paper sliding against mahogany, and Mr. Stone continues. 

“Given the circumstances, our position is straightforward.” 

A freezing shiver runs down my spine.

“We believe it is in the best interests of the children,” he says, voice maddeningly calm. “To implement a temporary adjustment to the current custodial arrangement.”

Mr. Reed adjusts in his chair. 

“What kind of adjustment?”

“Until certain questions can be answered,” Mr. Stone drawls. “We propose that the girls reside primarily with their father.”

Mr. Reed sputters, finally losing some of his composure. “Absolutely not. There is no legal basis–”

“Oh, there will be.” 

I’m still staring down at the photos, but I’m not seeing them. All I can see is the memory of Cassidy and Caroline clutching their mom’s skirt, begging it to have to go with father and Mommy Bri. Their tears. Their quivering lips. Bobbing throats. 

Oh god. 

Mr. Stone is still talking, as if the world isn’t tearing apart at the seams. 

“If we bring these photos to the judge, along with testimony from the investigator who obtained them… if we frame these interactions between Ms. Priestly and her subordinate as a pattern of blurred boundaries, and if we present concerns about household stability, emotional influence, and the girls being exposed to an inappropriate environment, then the court will have no choice but to investigate.” 

Mr. Reed snaps, “You’re attempting to manufacture instability where none exists—”

“It doesn’t matter what actually exists,” Mr. Stone replies. “It only matters what it looks like.”

I can hear Mr. Reed’s teeth grinding from two seats away. 

“The court process is lengthy. Public. Messy.” 

Does Mr. Stone not get tired at the sound of his own voice? With each word, I wish I could grow claws and just tear out his vocal cords to make it stop. Anything to make it stop. 

“And profoundly disruptive to the children. You don’t want that.” Now he’s trying to come off as cajoling. “None of us want that.”

A finger taps on the paper he slid across the table. 

“This is a proposed temporary modification, to remain in effect through the official court hearings. Primary residential custody transfers to Mr. Caldwell, with Ms. Priestly retaining scheduled weekend time.”

Chairs scrape back, several pairs of shoes scuffing the floor. 

“We’ll give you twenty-hours to sign it and have a copy faxed to our offices.”

“And if we don’t?” Mr. Reed demands. 

“Then the photos go public, and the trial by the media begins.”

Shit. 

***

The drive back to Runway is just as silent as the drive to the meeting, but Miranda is no longer a fire breathing dragon, and I’m no longer amused. She’s a statue, and I’m … well, I don’t know what I am. 

Guilt plagues me up the elevator, through the halls, and into Miranda’s office. It’s nearly eight at night, and the office is alive with nervous energy. 

A man from the photo editing department comes rushing in before Miranda has even crossed to her desk. 

“Miranda, there’s a problem. The tint, it’s all wrong, and the photos are ruined, and–”

Miranda’s voice, low and icy, cuts off his babbling. 

“Get out.”

He blinks at her in startled confusion. 

“What?”

“All of you,” Miranda doesn’t raise her voice, but the entire office hears her anyway. “Get. Out.”

Panicked scrambling begins, and in less than five minutes, the entire floor is empty. 

It’s just us. 

For the first time in nearly a year, I want to be anywhere but here. With her. Knowing that I failed her more catastrophicly than any other assistant in the history of Runway. 

I stand in the corner of her office, head bowed, watching her red heels track back and forth across the carpet. Silence stretches, the ticking of the clock making it that much more unbearable. 

I screwed up so badly. I was an idiot. How in the world did I not realize Dick would hire a PI to stalk her? Me. Us. 

My gut clenches as I think back to every moment each photo was taken. The best, most thrilling, happiest moments of my life, there in glorious color … and yet they’ve ruined everything. 

No. Not them. 

Me. 

I should have known. I started Mission: Protect the Queen all those months ago to make sure Miranda could have it all. Her job, her girls, and her dignity. All I wanted was to help, and instead, I got too close and ruined it all. 

I was drawn into her orbit, into her life, into her, and somewhere along the way I stopped thinking with my brain, and let my hopeless heart take the reins. Daydreaming of happily ever after, I stopped protecting her, and became a weapon to use against. 

Goddamn it. 

I take a slow, measured breath, trying to reel in my spiraling thoughts. 

I fucked up. Royally. But I can fix this. I have to fix this. 

I force myself to think it all through. 

Dick wants temporary primary custody of the girls so he can argue in favor of the arrangement when the time comes. That’s obvious. He’s been delaying proceedings from the very beginning, barely allowing anyone any time in front of the judge. He has to know that if the girls get in front of a judge and make their preference known, it won’t go well for him. 

God, he really is a dick. 

If Miranda signs and Dick keeps delaying proceedings, he has more time to back up the case that the girls’ lives are more stable with him. Hell, worst case scenario, it looks so peachy that the judge doesn’t see a need to get the girls’ opinion. Even if the worst doesn't happen, and the girls get to tell the judge they’d rather be with their mom, they’d still be separated for months. 

It’s unacceptable. 

Miranda can’t sign that damn adjustment. 

But if she doesn’t sign, the photos come out. She gets more time with the girls, but her case becomes weaker. I don’t know how she managed it, but it’s already a miracle that news of the custody battle hasn’t been splashed on the cover of Page Six. As soon as those photos are released, it all comes out, and Miranda will be fighting a battle for her reputation, as well as for her girls. 

Miranda can’t sign. The photos are going to come out. 

The only option left is to mitigate the damage. 

Miranda hasn’t slowed her pacing. I take a deep breath and lift my head, my eyes catching hers as she turns toward me. 

“I quit.”