Masquerade | R | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Masquerade
Prompt: A masquerade ball
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, Andy/Jacqueline, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: dragonwine
Rating: R
Word Count: 2536
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Masquerade, n. 1, a party, dance, or other festive gathering of persons wearing masks and other disguises, and often elegant, historical, or fantastic costumes. 2, false outward show; façade; pretense. There's a reason why I've saved this request for the end of my challenge: it's extremely challenging. I have no idea if I managed to pull this off or not but I can only hope I did. I had fun playing with Jacqueline, however: there are definitely not enough fics featuring her as a character. Enjoy and let me know what you think!
-
Andy Sachs knows better than to drain her second glass of champagne when she's still buzzing on the first, but she knows she won't make it through the rest of this damn party without it. The alcohol fizzes in her mouth, courses down her throat, and infuses her blood with a little more boldness than she came in with. She sets it on the tray of a passing waiter, dressed in a purple crushed velvet suit and a white mask covering his eyes. He looks like a medieval Austin Powers.
The thought makes her snort and she covers herself by forcing a cough. Luckily for Andy, everyone is too involved in the festivities to notice an underling having a laugh.
Andy bites her lip in an attempt to suppress a giggle at the absurdity of the occasion. She wholeheartedly supports Runway's dedication to raising money for charity, but throwing an extravagant party for the sake of dressing in lavish costumes?
She doesn't understand the point of masquerades. Do these adults really need an excuse to play dress up when most of them are involved in the only industry in the world where they're encouraged to dress in outrageous clothing? She thinks of Emily, with her embarrassingly wild outfits that she wears on a daily basis, and thinks of Nigel, across the room bedecked in tights, and shakes her head.
Or, perhaps the point of the masquerade is to become someone else for the evening. Irv Ravitz is elaborately dressed like a king and carries himself as though he's a foot taller than he actually is. Though he acts like he runs the place on a daily basis (which, technically, he does), he's downright giddy with his scepter. Andy fears that he may actually order someone to the guillotine.
Perhaps the mask has transformative powers.
Even Andy is wearing a mask. It's a deep midnight blue, bejeweled with elaborate gems and feathers, and matches her gown. Andy has a sneaking suspicion that this mask alone is worth more than her latest paycheck. Her long lashes tickle against the wide almond-shaped cutouts, but it gives her a little anonymity. No one can tell that her cheeks are flushed with the infusion of alcohol.
Perhaps being masked has its merits after all.
There is only one party-goer who is not wearing a mask.
Miranda.
This is hardly surprising, considering that Miranda never makes a habit of acting like anyone but herself. Despite the occasion, Miranda's refusal to wear a mask is something that Andy finds fascinating. It's almost like a challenge.
Go ahead and look. I have nothing to hide.
Except…
Andy's relieved that the mask is covering her blushing cheeks.
Miranda doesn't really need a mask. Given the design of her dress, a mask would only be an unnecessary distraction. The ivory gown is ornately decorated with jewels and lace and silk, with voluminous billows and folds that one could get lost in. Her breasts heave against the tight stays of her corseted top. She is somehow more than just a queen -- she surpasses that level entirely. Miranda holds herself like a goddess, like Athena preparing for battle, like seductive Aphrodite.
Andy finds herself staring at the criss-crossed fastenings of the corset and her fingers twitch as they long to tear them apart. She wants to have the pleasure of slowly releasing Miranda from her bindings, to strip her of her costume until she's completely naked, to worship her.
Andy sighs. She will not be allowed that pleasure.
She knows that when she reaches the townhouse tonight, Miranda will have already changed.
Staring is dangerous but Andy can't help it. In exactly three minutes Miranda will leave, and twenty minutes after that Andy will follow. They'll meet at the townhouse, and Andy will fuck Miranda until secrets and facades are forgotten.
Miranda's eyes catch her own for the briefest of moments, and the steely glint in the editor's icy orbs is not lost on Andy. Andy knows the older woman well enough to know that it's a warning glance.
Andy quickly turns to the nearest person in her vicinity. A waiter balances a tray of champagne as he glides around the throng of bodies and for the sake of distraction, Andy reaches for a glass. A third glass is a terrible idea but Andy is too horny and too buzzed to care; she needs something to focus on for the next twenty minutes.
She scans the room and notices that Miranda is gone.
Andy wonders if Miranda is already wet, if she's been waiting for this as impatiently as she has.
"Aah, Miss Sachs! Just the girl I was looking for!"
Andy nearly chokes on her drink as she turns and watches the steady approach of Irv Ravitz. His fist is curled tightly around the scepter and his cape billows behind him.
So much for hiding behind a mask.
"Oh…hello, Mr. Ravitz," Andy says brightly, hoping that her enthusiasm reads as natural rather than alcohol-induced. "This is a great par--"
"I'd like you to meet Henry Mulligan." He motions towards the heavy-set, bright-eyed man standing beside him. He's dressed as a court jester, though the large swell of his belly gives him the appearance of a magenta Grinch. "He's one of our longest standing board members," Irv says, leaning in to Andy's ear, "and he's three sheets to the wind, so occupy him until his car arrives."
Before Andy can respond, Irv tips his scepter to her and disappears.
It's not a terrible way to pass the time, but more than once Henry reaches for Andy's glass. She finally drains it herself so she can't be fired for further intoxicating an important member of the Elias-Clarke board of directors. She realizes that she's done a bad thing when the alcohol hits her like a gale of wind. She feels unsteady on her feet. Her vision is beginning to blur.
Andy hates being such a lightweight.
Henry's a pretty boring guy. Andy tunes him out and tries to scope out another waiter for a glass of water. She needs to sober up before she leaves. Miranda will kill her if she shows up drunk.
When she turns back to Henry, he's gone. She panics for a moment until she sees his retreating figure heading for the exit.
She didn't screw up. Thankfully.
She takes a step forward and sways.
Okay. She did screw up.
Miranda is going to kill her.
She stumbles towards the exit and, when she steps on the hem of her gown and nearly tumbles into the back of a particularly rich-looking gentleman, she makes a beeline for the balcony. Fresh air will do her good.
Andy walks slowly so as to not draw attention to herself. Her head is spinning. She feels confused -- really confused. She could swear that she just saw Emily smiling, but that can't be right.
She tries to remember how many glasses of champagne she's had. Three? Or was it four? Why would she ever think it was a good idea to drink tonight?
Andy remembers one occasion showing up to Miranda's townhouse after getting a drink with Lily. It was, admittedly, Lily's birthday, and Andy couldn't very well turn down having a martini with her. Andy hadn't eaten much that day, resulting in one hell of a buzz. Miranda had not been pleased. She considered Andy's drunken advances sloppy and juvenile, and then proceeded to tell her that her second husband displayed alcoholic tendencies. Though she didn't elaborate, Andy could tell that there was more to the "tendencies" than Miranda let on.
No. There is no way she could show up at Miranda's like this. She wants Miranda to respect her, not think she's just like every other twenty-something-year-old.
As she reaches the double doors of the balcony, she sees someone that makes her really confused.
Miranda.
She furrows her brow and tries not to look like she's blatantly staring but, sure enough, standing nearby is Miranda Priestly. Except now she's wearing a mask.
Andy swallows and her throat goes dry. What would be worse: being berated by Miranda the Boss in front of everyone for drinking too much, or being berated by Miranda the Girlfriend in the privacy of her home? Either way, Andy thinks she's going to be flayed alive.
Her vision goes hazy for a minute and she blinks it away, forcing her eyes to refocus on the large masked headdress that Miranda's now wearing. She can't understand why Miranda would leave and then come back in a gaudy, slightly ridiculous head thing, but Andy rationalizes that Miranda has never made much sense in her decision making anyway and she shouldn't try to figure it out in this state.
Miranda's pretty absorbed in her conversation. Andy can't hear what she's saying and she wishes she could. She needs to know if Miranda is in a mood. She steals a glance at the ornate clock and realizes that she's nearly thirty minutes past when she was supposed to leave.
She panics. Is that why Miranda came back? Because she's pissed about Andy being late? She starts to feel a little nauseas and cannot suppress the overwhelming urge to set this right. She can't screw things up.
She takes a few long, deep, bracing breaths of the crisp night air before she signals at Miranda.
Miranda doesn't notice at first. Andy's not exactly jumping up and down with her arms flailing about; she jerks her head and lets out a sigh of relief when Miranda finally looks her way.
She stares at her. Andy can't see her eyes behind the mask from this distance. She discreetly nudges her head in the direction of the balcony and then moves back into the shadows.
As she stands there, the cold night air prickling at her skin, she reaches a hand out to the brick of the building to steady herself. Talking to Miranda has always made her nervous, more so now that Andy has seen her naked and has been between her legs. She wants, more than anything, never to disappoint her.
When several minutes pass and Miranda doesn't follow, she considers the fact that Miranda may be more upset than she had anticipated. She considers trying again and feels her stomach jump into her throat when Miranda finally walks onto the balcony.
"Over here," Andy calls in a shrill whisper, frantically waving to Miranda from the shadows. Miranda slowly closes the distance between them, folds her gloved arms (were they always that color?) in front of her chest, and opens her mouth to speak. "Before you say anything," Andy says, placing her hand on Miranda's arm. When Miranda visibly flinches at the contact, Andy begins to talk faster. "I had a little bit too much champagne and I tried to get out of here right when I was supposed to but Irv cornered me and I couldn't exactly say no to your boss telling me to do something and I had to entertain some drunk board member who kept staring at my boobs and it took longer than I thought and I'm really sorry that I didn't get to the townhouse when I was supposed to but I tried, I really did, and I just needed a minute to get my bearings straight." She takes a deep breath and wishes now that they were under the light of the moon so she could see Miranda's face. "You know I never want to disappoint you and I wanted more than anything just to get to you and…why are you smiling?"
She could see the line of Miranda's lips curl into a malicious smile, her silence broken only by a chuckle. The laugh was low, cold, and not Miranda's.
Not Miranda.
This isn't…
Andy suddenly wants to throw herself off the balcony. She'll land one story down into a shrub, but maybe the branches will be sharp.
"The elusive Miranda Priestly has a secret," says the woman, her French accent laced with malevolent humor. "And what a delicious one at that."
"Jacqueline?" Andy's head swims. She feels sick and cold and hot all at once. She stammers, a string of half-words and groans falling incoherently off her lips. She knows not what to say. She only knows that her lifespan has shortened significantly.
"And to think I used to believe these silly costume parties were frivolous." Jacqueline laughs again. "Who knew a case of mistaken identity could work so effortlessly into my favor?"
The roar in Andy's ears gets louder with each word spoken by the other woman. She's suddenly never felt more sober.
"Please, you can't say anything."
"Can't I?"
"I could lose-- Miranda could-- please," Andy begs. "I'm not above getting on my knees and groveling," Andy adds. "I'll do anything…just please don't tell anyone."
Jacqueline grins wickedly, her bared teeth flashing before her. "On your knees, I think."
Miranda's rival would get off on public humiliation. She begins to lower herself to her knees but Jacqueline grabs her arm and pulls her upright. "Not here. My hotel will be better suited for what I have in mind."
Realization hits Andy like a sucker punch to the stomach. "What? No--"
"Oui. I only just arrived but I think the after party will be much more avantageuse." She licks her lower lip. "Wait outside." Andy attempts to pass by but Jacqueline stops her, grabbing at Andy's clutch. Andy is too shocked to stop it from slipping through her fingers. "No need to call Miranda," Jacqueline adds, plucking Andy's cell phone from the small purse. "Now go."
Andy does as she's told. The people around her are a blur; sounds and colors seem not to exist as she makes her way to the front steps of the large building. She looks at the limousines and town cars as they sit at the curb but she doesn't see them.
Andy feels her stomach lurch and she quickly runs to the large stone rail. Pitching her torso over the top, she throws up into the shrubs below. Ha. Take that, Jacqueline. She wants to laugh it off, wants to push the curtain aside and expose the farce, wants to wake up and realize it's all a dream.
She heaves again, realizing that she's just ruined everything.
When she stands upright, Andy feels woozy and defeated. She wishes she could hide behind her mask and be someone else. She doesn't want to be Andy Sachs anymore. She used to love who she was and now she's nothing more than a fuck up who is being blackmailed into cheating for the sake of covering up her own mistake.
Andy rips the mask off her face, carelessly scratching her cheek. It stings but it doesn't matter if she's drawn blood. She looks at the small oval shape in her hands, runs her fingers over the jewels, and sneers.
This person she's become tonight isn't Andy Sachs. She doesn't recognize herself at all.
Perhaps she's been transformed after all.
She hears Jacqueline behind her and when she's summoned to follow her down the steps, Andy drops the mask and takes off after her.
---
Prompt: A masquerade ball
Fandom: Andy/Miranda, Andy/Jacqueline, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: dragonwine
Rating: R
Word Count: 2536
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: Masquerade, n. 1, a party, dance, or other festive gathering of persons wearing masks and other disguises, and often elegant, historical, or fantastic costumes. 2, false outward show; façade; pretense. There's a reason why I've saved this request for the end of my challenge: it's extremely challenging. I have no idea if I managed to pull this off or not but I can only hope I did. I had fun playing with Jacqueline, however: there are definitely not enough fics featuring her as a character. Enjoy and let me know what you think!
-
Andy Sachs knows better than to drain her second glass of champagne when she's still buzzing on the first, but she knows she won't make it through the rest of this damn party without it. The alcohol fizzes in her mouth, courses down her throat, and infuses her blood with a little more boldness than she came in with. She sets it on the tray of a passing waiter, dressed in a purple crushed velvet suit and a white mask covering his eyes. He looks like a medieval Austin Powers.
The thought makes her snort and she covers herself by forcing a cough. Luckily for Andy, everyone is too involved in the festivities to notice an underling having a laugh.
Andy bites her lip in an attempt to suppress a giggle at the absurdity of the occasion. She wholeheartedly supports Runway's dedication to raising money for charity, but throwing an extravagant party for the sake of dressing in lavish costumes?
She doesn't understand the point of masquerades. Do these adults really need an excuse to play dress up when most of them are involved in the only industry in the world where they're encouraged to dress in outrageous clothing? She thinks of Emily, with her embarrassingly wild outfits that she wears on a daily basis, and thinks of Nigel, across the room bedecked in tights, and shakes her head.
Or, perhaps the point of the masquerade is to become someone else for the evening. Irv Ravitz is elaborately dressed like a king and carries himself as though he's a foot taller than he actually is. Though he acts like he runs the place on a daily basis (which, technically, he does), he's downright giddy with his scepter. Andy fears that he may actually order someone to the guillotine.
Perhaps the mask has transformative powers.
Even Andy is wearing a mask. It's a deep midnight blue, bejeweled with elaborate gems and feathers, and matches her gown. Andy has a sneaking suspicion that this mask alone is worth more than her latest paycheck. Her long lashes tickle against the wide almond-shaped cutouts, but it gives her a little anonymity. No one can tell that her cheeks are flushed with the infusion of alcohol.
Perhaps being masked has its merits after all.
There is only one party-goer who is not wearing a mask.
Miranda.
This is hardly surprising, considering that Miranda never makes a habit of acting like anyone but herself. Despite the occasion, Miranda's refusal to wear a mask is something that Andy finds fascinating. It's almost like a challenge.
Go ahead and look. I have nothing to hide.
Except…
Andy's relieved that the mask is covering her blushing cheeks.
Miranda doesn't really need a mask. Given the design of her dress, a mask would only be an unnecessary distraction. The ivory gown is ornately decorated with jewels and lace and silk, with voluminous billows and folds that one could get lost in. Her breasts heave against the tight stays of her corseted top. She is somehow more than just a queen -- she surpasses that level entirely. Miranda holds herself like a goddess, like Athena preparing for battle, like seductive Aphrodite.
Andy finds herself staring at the criss-crossed fastenings of the corset and her fingers twitch as they long to tear them apart. She wants to have the pleasure of slowly releasing Miranda from her bindings, to strip her of her costume until she's completely naked, to worship her.
Andy sighs. She will not be allowed that pleasure.
She knows that when she reaches the townhouse tonight, Miranda will have already changed.
Staring is dangerous but Andy can't help it. In exactly three minutes Miranda will leave, and twenty minutes after that Andy will follow. They'll meet at the townhouse, and Andy will fuck Miranda until secrets and facades are forgotten.
Miranda's eyes catch her own for the briefest of moments, and the steely glint in the editor's icy orbs is not lost on Andy. Andy knows the older woman well enough to know that it's a warning glance.
Andy quickly turns to the nearest person in her vicinity. A waiter balances a tray of champagne as he glides around the throng of bodies and for the sake of distraction, Andy reaches for a glass. A third glass is a terrible idea but Andy is too horny and too buzzed to care; she needs something to focus on for the next twenty minutes.
She scans the room and notices that Miranda is gone.
Andy wonders if Miranda is already wet, if she's been waiting for this as impatiently as she has.
"Aah, Miss Sachs! Just the girl I was looking for!"
Andy nearly chokes on her drink as she turns and watches the steady approach of Irv Ravitz. His fist is curled tightly around the scepter and his cape billows behind him.
So much for hiding behind a mask.
"Oh…hello, Mr. Ravitz," Andy says brightly, hoping that her enthusiasm reads as natural rather than alcohol-induced. "This is a great par--"
"I'd like you to meet Henry Mulligan." He motions towards the heavy-set, bright-eyed man standing beside him. He's dressed as a court jester, though the large swell of his belly gives him the appearance of a magenta Grinch. "He's one of our longest standing board members," Irv says, leaning in to Andy's ear, "and he's three sheets to the wind, so occupy him until his car arrives."
Before Andy can respond, Irv tips his scepter to her and disappears.
It's not a terrible way to pass the time, but more than once Henry reaches for Andy's glass. She finally drains it herself so she can't be fired for further intoxicating an important member of the Elias-Clarke board of directors. She realizes that she's done a bad thing when the alcohol hits her like a gale of wind. She feels unsteady on her feet. Her vision is beginning to blur.
Andy hates being such a lightweight.
Henry's a pretty boring guy. Andy tunes him out and tries to scope out another waiter for a glass of water. She needs to sober up before she leaves. Miranda will kill her if she shows up drunk.
When she turns back to Henry, he's gone. She panics for a moment until she sees his retreating figure heading for the exit.
She didn't screw up. Thankfully.
She takes a step forward and sways.
Okay. She did screw up.
Miranda is going to kill her.
She stumbles towards the exit and, when she steps on the hem of her gown and nearly tumbles into the back of a particularly rich-looking gentleman, she makes a beeline for the balcony. Fresh air will do her good.
Andy walks slowly so as to not draw attention to herself. Her head is spinning. She feels confused -- really confused. She could swear that she just saw Emily smiling, but that can't be right.
She tries to remember how many glasses of champagne she's had. Three? Or was it four? Why would she ever think it was a good idea to drink tonight?
Andy remembers one occasion showing up to Miranda's townhouse after getting a drink with Lily. It was, admittedly, Lily's birthday, and Andy couldn't very well turn down having a martini with her. Andy hadn't eaten much that day, resulting in one hell of a buzz. Miranda had not been pleased. She considered Andy's drunken advances sloppy and juvenile, and then proceeded to tell her that her second husband displayed alcoholic tendencies. Though she didn't elaborate, Andy could tell that there was more to the "tendencies" than Miranda let on.
No. There is no way she could show up at Miranda's like this. She wants Miranda to respect her, not think she's just like every other twenty-something-year-old.
As she reaches the double doors of the balcony, she sees someone that makes her really confused.
Miranda.
She furrows her brow and tries not to look like she's blatantly staring but, sure enough, standing nearby is Miranda Priestly. Except now she's wearing a mask.
Andy swallows and her throat goes dry. What would be worse: being berated by Miranda the Boss in front of everyone for drinking too much, or being berated by Miranda the Girlfriend in the privacy of her home? Either way, Andy thinks she's going to be flayed alive.
Her vision goes hazy for a minute and she blinks it away, forcing her eyes to refocus on the large masked headdress that Miranda's now wearing. She can't understand why Miranda would leave and then come back in a gaudy, slightly ridiculous head thing, but Andy rationalizes that Miranda has never made much sense in her decision making anyway and she shouldn't try to figure it out in this state.
Miranda's pretty absorbed in her conversation. Andy can't hear what she's saying and she wishes she could. She needs to know if Miranda is in a mood. She steals a glance at the ornate clock and realizes that she's nearly thirty minutes past when she was supposed to leave.
She panics. Is that why Miranda came back? Because she's pissed about Andy being late? She starts to feel a little nauseas and cannot suppress the overwhelming urge to set this right. She can't screw things up.
She takes a few long, deep, bracing breaths of the crisp night air before she signals at Miranda.
Miranda doesn't notice at first. Andy's not exactly jumping up and down with her arms flailing about; she jerks her head and lets out a sigh of relief when Miranda finally looks her way.
She stares at her. Andy can't see her eyes behind the mask from this distance. She discreetly nudges her head in the direction of the balcony and then moves back into the shadows.
As she stands there, the cold night air prickling at her skin, she reaches a hand out to the brick of the building to steady herself. Talking to Miranda has always made her nervous, more so now that Andy has seen her naked and has been between her legs. She wants, more than anything, never to disappoint her.
When several minutes pass and Miranda doesn't follow, she considers the fact that Miranda may be more upset than she had anticipated. She considers trying again and feels her stomach jump into her throat when Miranda finally walks onto the balcony.
"Over here," Andy calls in a shrill whisper, frantically waving to Miranda from the shadows. Miranda slowly closes the distance between them, folds her gloved arms (were they always that color?) in front of her chest, and opens her mouth to speak. "Before you say anything," Andy says, placing her hand on Miranda's arm. When Miranda visibly flinches at the contact, Andy begins to talk faster. "I had a little bit too much champagne and I tried to get out of here right when I was supposed to but Irv cornered me and I couldn't exactly say no to your boss telling me to do something and I had to entertain some drunk board member who kept staring at my boobs and it took longer than I thought and I'm really sorry that I didn't get to the townhouse when I was supposed to but I tried, I really did, and I just needed a minute to get my bearings straight." She takes a deep breath and wishes now that they were under the light of the moon so she could see Miranda's face. "You know I never want to disappoint you and I wanted more than anything just to get to you and…why are you smiling?"
She could see the line of Miranda's lips curl into a malicious smile, her silence broken only by a chuckle. The laugh was low, cold, and not Miranda's.
Not Miranda.
This isn't…
Andy suddenly wants to throw herself off the balcony. She'll land one story down into a shrub, but maybe the branches will be sharp.
"The elusive Miranda Priestly has a secret," says the woman, her French accent laced with malevolent humor. "And what a delicious one at that."
"Jacqueline?" Andy's head swims. She feels sick and cold and hot all at once. She stammers, a string of half-words and groans falling incoherently off her lips. She knows not what to say. She only knows that her lifespan has shortened significantly.
"And to think I used to believe these silly costume parties were frivolous." Jacqueline laughs again. "Who knew a case of mistaken identity could work so effortlessly into my favor?"
The roar in Andy's ears gets louder with each word spoken by the other woman. She's suddenly never felt more sober.
"Please, you can't say anything."
"Can't I?"
"I could lose-- Miranda could-- please," Andy begs. "I'm not above getting on my knees and groveling," Andy adds. "I'll do anything…just please don't tell anyone."
Jacqueline grins wickedly, her bared teeth flashing before her. "On your knees, I think."
Miranda's rival would get off on public humiliation. She begins to lower herself to her knees but Jacqueline grabs her arm and pulls her upright. "Not here. My hotel will be better suited for what I have in mind."
Realization hits Andy like a sucker punch to the stomach. "What? No--"
"Oui. I only just arrived but I think the after party will be much more avantageuse." She licks her lower lip. "Wait outside." Andy attempts to pass by but Jacqueline stops her, grabbing at Andy's clutch. Andy is too shocked to stop it from slipping through her fingers. "No need to call Miranda," Jacqueline adds, plucking Andy's cell phone from the small purse. "Now go."
Andy does as she's told. The people around her are a blur; sounds and colors seem not to exist as she makes her way to the front steps of the large building. She looks at the limousines and town cars as they sit at the curb but she doesn't see them.
Andy feels her stomach lurch and she quickly runs to the large stone rail. Pitching her torso over the top, she throws up into the shrubs below. Ha. Take that, Jacqueline. She wants to laugh it off, wants to push the curtain aside and expose the farce, wants to wake up and realize it's all a dream.
She heaves again, realizing that she's just ruined everything.
When she stands upright, Andy feels woozy and defeated. She wishes she could hide behind her mask and be someone else. She doesn't want to be Andy Sachs anymore. She used to love who she was and now she's nothing more than a fuck up who is being blackmailed into cheating for the sake of covering up her own mistake.
Andy rips the mask off her face, carelessly scratching her cheek. It stings but it doesn't matter if she's drawn blood. She looks at the small oval shape in her hands, runs her fingers over the jewels, and sneers.
This person she's become tonight isn't Andy Sachs. She doesn't recognize herself at all.
Perhaps she's been transformed after all.
She hears Jacqueline behind her and when she's summoned to follow her down the steps, Andy drops the mask and takes off after her.
---