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It had taken a major pep talk from Sabrina, $1000 worth of new clothes, and most of a glass of wine to get her there, but Chloe went to Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s engagement party.
She wanted desperately to scoff and flip her hair and sneer about how young they all were, or how irresponsible, statistically, it was to get married before 25, or really regress back to when she was 14 and insult Marinette’s hair, but she swallowed that bitter instinct. It was easier to be mean. Easier to push away any sort of vulnerability under a mask of apathy and disgust. Chloe missed being able to do that, to write off the feelings of others as weak and lesser and to just keep herself top of mind at all times.
But she’d watched those two idiots pine over each other for 7 years already, if there were such a thing as true love or destiny, Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Cheng were soulmates. Chloe knew that much at 15 when she’d figured out the heroes of Paris that she’d so desperately latched onto were the same pair of mooning dumbasses who giggled through the entire unit on gravity in Physics class. God, how embarrassing was that. All of it. The whole thing.
She was the only one who'd ever figured out their identities before they'd decided to ditch the whole thing for team members. It gave her a certain sense of satisfaction, knowing she was the only one who’d ever put 2 and 2 together and gotten 4.
So she was really more surprised than anything that they’d even waited to hit 21 before they got engaged.
And here she was, three years removed from high school, six years into therapy, facing most of the people she’d been her worst self to for years. She better give that therapist a raise. God knows she deserved it.
Kim caught her eye and Chloe smiled awkwardly, shrugging her shoulders and tipping her martini slightly in acknowledgement. Kim smiled in return and turned his attention back to Rose, who was very busy video-chatting with Juleka and shoving as many people as possible in front of the camera to say hi.
Chloe took another sip of her martini.
Maybe this had been a mistake.
These people didn’t really want her around. She stuck out like a sore thumb, diamond tennis bracelet, custom tailored slacks, designer handbag so designer that even she couldn’t have bought it herself if Marinette hadn’t filched it from the prototype room at her design house as a birthday present. Her classmates were all back in their groups from Lycee, reminiscing and laughing about good memories they shared.
And Chloe…
Chloe didn’t share those memories.
If she was in them at all, she was the one who ruined them.
She knocked back the rest of her martini instead of dwelling on that thought.
Adrien wanted her here.
She’d been with him while he went ring shopping, dragging him around to her favorite jewelers in the city as he excitedly blabbered on about the ring he wanted to give Marinette. He’d bounced around a dozen ideas, shifting the gemstones every thirty seconds and colors every fifteen. It was the first time since they’d shut his father in prison that Chloe had seen Adrien really, truly, happy. Shoulders free of their burden, form finally filled out properly instead of teetering 15 pounds underweight, eyes carefree and relaxed as he poured over engagement rings for the love of his life.
It had been nice.
Chloe poured herself a glass of wine instead of the water she really should have instead.
Marinette wanted her here too.
She’d been the first person Chloe had sincerely, wholeheartedly apologized to. (Chloe didn’t quite count Sabrina, who’d gotten an apology a little earlier but before Chloe had really accepted the whole “People didn’t have to forgive and forget” thing her therapist kept telling her over and over and Sabrina was so desperate to please she’d never turn down any apology.)
She hadn’t been first because she was Ladybug, or because Chloe’s stomach still did a little flip whenever Marinette smiled. Marinette had been first because Marinette deserved to be first.
And when Chloe came back from 6 months in the Azores sorting herself out because her mother had finally, finally decided her husband and daughter were never going to be good enough and told them both she was staying in New York permanently, there had been four people at the airport.
Marinette welcomed her back to Paris with a smile and a box of pain au chocolat. When Chloe stopped by the bakery the next week to buy more (look, losing even a shitty, absent mother hurt and Chloe had really missed French pastries), Tom and Sabine had smiled quietly and pushed away her credit card.
“Marinette’s friends don’t pay here,” they’d said.
Ridiculous.
Utterly ridiculous.
She’d slapped 20 Euros down on the counter and snapped about not being a charity case.
Not her proudest moment.
Marinette had brought the pastries over a little later that day, the box now absolutely full to bursting and the 20 euros tucked neatly in a plastic baggie at the bottom.
“I’m not sure I can forgive everything you’ve ever said to me,” she’d said, “But you were one of the only people I knew who always defended me when Lila’s lied about me, and that meant a lot.”
And if Lila Rossi had tragically and accidentally fallen down the stairs a week and a half later for daring to threaten Marinette with expulsion for the twenty-third time, it was easy to flip her ponytail and examine her perfect french manicure and lie through her teeth in the Principal’s office an hour later that she had no idea what happened but both she and Marinette were together the whole time and they saw nothing and if the Principal really wanted to argue with that she could just call her father and interrupt his very busy day about a scandalous falsehood.
Marinette could argue her methods, but she could not deny Chloe’s results were highly effective.
Chloe found herself invited to that goody-goody’s monthly girl’s night after that.
She even went, sometimes.
Someone put on a roll of that god awful movie they’d made back in college where Adrien and Marinette had almost kissed for the first time (she bet it was Alya, that girl had every piece of media ever created on that goddamn phone of hers).
She needed some air.
On her insistence, Marinette and Adrien had hosted the party in one of the ballrooms of Le Grand Paris, and thank god she had also insisted it be one of the ballrooms with a balcony. Chloe pushed herself past Ivan and Mylene with a nod, gripping her wine glass a little too tight, opening the door to the balcony with a pleasant whoosh of September air.
It was still too warm to really be refreshing, but it wasn’t stale and it came with a view of the city, sparkling below her. She adjusted the golden comb in her hair absentmindedly. With the other heroes of Paris taking the night off, she might as well spend a little extra time out here making sure the city was safe and quiet. She wasn’t avoiding the party. She was Chloe Bourgeois. She didn’t avoid anything.
Just before she gave Pollen the tap on her purse to let her know it was safe to come out, she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Beautiful night, huh?” he asked, leaning on the railing and gazing out at the city below.
He was tall, she could tell that. The balcony wasn’t very well lit (she would be taking that up with the general manager first thing tomorrow, it was downright unprofessional), but what light there was caught in his eyes and lit them on fire, dancing and swimming with life. He looked familiar in some vague way she couldn’t quite place. Maybe he’d been at some other party Marinette and Adrien had thrown. They seemed to be friends with half the people in Paris.
She nodded, taking a sip of her wine, “Hard to have an ugly one in the best city in the world.”
The man chuckled and straightened up a bit, “I’ve been away too long. I missed it.”
“How long?” she asked, biting down the urge to shut down. He didn’t know her. She was a Parisian socialite. She could make conversation anywhere, about anything. He seemed willing enough, at least.
“Three years,” he said, rapping his fingernails against the glass beer bottle in his hand, “Went touring when my band finally got a record deal.”
“Back to stay, then, or just for a while?” she asked, leaning on the rail next to him and looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t dressed for an engagement party - dark jeans, hair thrown haphazardly into a half ponytail, half bun, Jagged Stone t-shirt hanging around his frame like a sheet. She could see most of the sleeve tattooed on his left arm, a gorgeous twisting snake nestled in a bed in flowers. In every way she was overdressed, he was certainly underdressed. They both didn’t quite fit, then. She could work with that.
He sighed, flexing his open hand and shrugging, “Hard to say. Little hard to tour again when your band broke up.”
Chloe fought back a snort. She didn’t snort. It would be undignified.
“What about you, then?” he asked, eyes back to dancing.
“I’ll have a very exciting twenties full of exotic adventures and beautiful people before settling down at thirty to run the family business when my Papa decides to retire,” she said dryly, and she watched the corners of his mouth quirk up, “But Paris is home. Always will be.”
“Home indeed,” he agreed, tipping back his beer, “And what brings you out to this balcony instead of inside with the happy couple?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I said I just needed some fresh air, would you?” she deadpanned, watching as the Eiffel Tower lit up, sparking like it did every night.
“Nah,” he said, combing a bit of bang back from his forehead, “But if you want to pretend, I’ll tell you that’s my reason too.”
She let his answer hang for a moment, debating the merits of opening up to this familiar stranger with his hair dipped in teal and half his eyebrow shaved off. He obviously didn’t know who she was, so she could relish the anonymity of the conversation a little longer and then disappear into the evening if she wanted to. Then he’d see her on TV sometime in a few months as he was packing up to tour with his new band and never think much of it. She’d be Chloe Bourgeois, that girl he met at a party once, and he’d mention it to whoever happened to be watching with him and then promptly forget about her.
“I was a pretty shit person when I knew most of these people,” she said instead, eyes focused dead ahead, not daring to look back at him, “I came to congratulate Marinette and Adrien. It’s not fair of me to ask for anything from anyone else.”
There. Her therapist would be proud of her. She showed weakness to some random guy on a balcony during her friend’s engagement party like a cat rolls over and shows its belly off, begging some predator to come by and rip out its stomach.
“Hm, I think you win, then,” he said, “I just vastly overestimated my ability to hold a conversation with most of them since my normal crutch is in Bali for six months.”
Bali. Juleka Couffaine was in Bali. She’d mentioned on the class chat they still had for some reason (didn’t any of these people find new friends since graduating Lycee?) that she’d gotten a modeling contract. She was quiet, anxious, absolutely the polar opposite of someone you’d rely on to keep conversation going at a party.
It clicked into place.
“You’re Luka, then,” she said, remembering the four months he’d dated Marinette before she’d ended it one Tuesday morning before school. That was before Chloe really knew her, but she’d always gotten the distinct impression Marinette felt something like guilt about that entire relationship.
Marinette’s loss, then , Chloe mused, looking at Luka over the rim of her wine glass. He wasn’t nearly as pretty as Adrien (she doubted anyone was as pretty as Adrien), but Luka was that perfect level of messiness, tall, tattooed lean muscle and style. Adrien was cute.
Luka was hot.
Half-neon hair swept up, leather bracelets, earrings, nail polish and the barest hint of stubble on his chin, half-lidded eyes smudged in liner, sculpted brows with half of the left one razored out to an edge, he was the type of guy Chloe would have brought home to spite her mother if her mother hadn’t disowned her.
“And you’re Chloe,” he replied, finally turning toward her. She couldn’t read his tone.
“Guilty as charged,” she muttered, taking another long sip of her wine. She was almost at the bottom of the glass. Shame. The chardonnay wasn’t half bad.
He leaned back on the railing with his right side, but stayed facing her, “What makes you think they haven’t forgiven you?”
She snorted, “I wouldn’t.”
“Sounds like it’s a good thing you’re not in charge of handing out second chances, then,” Luka said all too casually, draining the last of his beer.
“Oh, is that your job?” she smirked, tipping her empty wine glass toward him and trying to fight the distinct feeling pooling in the bottom of her stomach that she was much closer to drunk and much farther from buzzed than her head thought she was.
He laughed, but she must have been a lot drunker than she felt, because she definitely missed the joke.
“I’ve been known to,” he finally said, fingers ghosting over his bare wrist, “On occasion.”
“Well, send me your criteria sometime, I’d love to have an expert’s opinion.”
Was that flirty? Oh god.
Keep it cool, Chloe, she chided herself, he definitely wouldn’t be interested in you anyway. This is the musician who dated Marinette Dupain-Cheng, you are definitely not his type.
"Sorry, can’t help you on this one,” he replied, “Gotta get through the first impression to qualify for a second chance.”
“I’m sure your sister has plenty of opinions on me, no need to withhold judgement.”
She really wanted more wine, but Luka wasn’t making any moves to leave. And considering that most people either melted away or started simpering for favors the second they learned who she was, she wasn’t in any particular hurry to end the conversation.
Plus, even though she definitely wasn’t his type and he definitely wasn’t ever going to be interested, she liked looking at him.
Sue her.
“Jules thinks you had something to do with her getting that modeling contract,” he said, that razor sharp eyebrow quirking up.
She shrugged, rolling her eyes, “She earned that contract all by herself. Believe me, those scouts don’t hire based only on some heiress brat’s name drop.”
“Did some heiress brat drop Jules’ name, then?”
“She had the look they wanted. It wasn’t charity or anything.” Chloe turned to fully face him, trying to keep her voice casual.
She was pretty sure his eyes, still dancing with fire, were some shade of blue. They matched his hair. The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smirk.
“For the record, I don’t think ‘heiress brat’ is quite the right way to describe you,” Luka said, humming, “Some sort of loftier title.”
“If you call me princess, I’m going to throw up,” she flicked a lock of hair back into place. Her head hurt.
He plucked the empty wine glass out of her hand, “I’ll keep workshopping it, then, Your Highness. White or red?”
Chloe smirked right back, “Either, but it better be dry.”
He mock-bowed and slipped back into the party, opening the door to the gentle hum and golden light of the party.
It was really a shame she’d had to meet him here, at the engagement party of two people she cared so deeply about, surrounded by history. She longed for the anonymity of a bar or a club. Maybe if they’d met in the back corner of some concert, she’d have had the guts to actually flirt with him and they could have gone home breathless and messy and moved on with life.
Alya caught her eye as the young reporter walked by the glass doors.
“Ah ha! You’re the one hiding out back here with Luka,” she poked her head out, grinning downright devilishly, and Chloe wished she was a little more sober so she could properly formulate a comeback.
“Oh, shut up Cesaire,” she said instead, trying to swallow her smile.
“I hear he’s been pretty bummed out since his band broke up, but I just heard him humming a veeeeery interesting tune as he poured himself a glass of dry white wine,” Alya mentioned, leaning against the doorframe and checking her phone idly, “Wish Nino and I weren’t such an item, I’d snap him up in a heartbeat.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t you dare-” Chloe stopped herself, unsure of exactly what she needed to threaten Alya not to do. Don’t… break up with her long term boyfriend since college? Don’t imply Chloe should make a move on the brother of one of her old classmates?
Alya wiggled her eyebrows. Chloe wished there was something she could throw at her in easy arm’s reach. Prodigy investigative journalist or not, that look on her face was absolutely unbearable.
“We’re talking. That’s all. Besides, if Dupain-Cheng was really the type of girl to tickle his fancy, I doubt he’d be interested in me.”
“Could be, could be,” Alya tucked her phone back in her pocket, grinning like a goddamn cheshire cat, “Maybe you should ask him about that song he’s humming. I’m pretty sure it’s new.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Alya winked, “That’s my job.”
Her head hurt.
She saw Luka coming back before Alya did, but Alya noticed the shift in her eyes immediately.
“Aaand that’s my cue,” she said, raising her glass to Chloe and walking back inside, taking a moment clink her glass against Luka’s in greeting, flash a smirk back at Chloe, and disappearing back into the party.
Luka looked a little bewildered when he handed Chloe her glass back.
“So, what do we toast to?” she asked, pulling the elastic out of her ponytail and letting her hair fall over her shoulders. She was about 75% sure his eyes were tracking her hand as she ran it through her hair, breaking up that unsightly post-ponytail bump.
“To being just a step out time in a social dance.”
Chloe raised her glass and smiled, tapping it against his fresh bottle of beer, “So articulate.”
“I am a songwriter,” he replied all too smoothly, “Lofty metaphors are very important in my line of work.”
“More than the music?” she asked.
“Nothing’s as important as the music,” Luka answered, “The songs in people’s hearts - they don’t have lyrics.”
There was no edge to his voice - just sweet sincerity. Just being around him made her feel like she’d gained five pounds. Her bitter, disillusioned half wanted to cut that sugar with salt so badly.
“That was cheesy,” she said, teasing, cocking her head to one side and letting her hair brush against the hand he had resting against the railing, just to see if he moved away.
He leaned in ever so slightly instead.
Oh, this was probably a bad idea on so many levels, Alya’s grins and smirks and winks notwithstanding. The very idea of dating the same guy as Marinette Dupain-Cheng once did turned her stomach a little. She’d never hear the end of it.
“Everyone has one,” he said, tapping out a rhythm on the railing.
She leaned in, close enough to smell peppermint and bergamot and the pavement of the city after a rainstorm, “Prove it.”
Luka smiled, this time hinting at teeth, “Whose would you like to hear?”
“Yours.”
That damn eyebrow quirked up again, and he licked his lips.
Ah fuck. A lesser woman’s knees might have buckled.
Chloe didn’t know anything about music - she’d started piano at 5 trying to keep up with Adrien but quit after about two weeks because she couldn’t figure out which key was which and it infuriated her. She’d eventually learned how to count music, but it was only so she could keep up in ballet class. But he whistled, smooth and sweet and tinged with a hint of melancholy, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard anything prettier.
She took a sip of her wine. Alvarinho. She wondered if he knew about her time in the Azores, or if it was just the first bottle he grabbed. Either way, it was one of her favorites.
His last note faded into the evening, and she opened her eyes, smiling again against her better judgement.
“It’s nice. I think it fits,” Chloe murmured, staring down at the rim of her wine glass, willing herself to think of some sort of snarky comment.
“High praise. I hear you’re picky.”
“I know what I like,” she replied, moving her eyes to catch his, smiling and dancing, genuine and kind and everything she was not.
But oh, god, she liked them.
“I’ll be sure to put that on the album cover. Chloe Bourgeois says it’s nice ,” he said, voice so light she wondered how it reached her ears without getting whipped away into the breeze.
She smirked, cocking her eyebrow right back at him, “You should be grateful. My endorsement is worth a lot around here. Might even make you break triple digits in album sales.”
“Now there’s a tempting offer,” he replied, humming a different tune under his breath.
She leaned in, inches from his face, closer than she’d been all night, careful to keep the smirk on her face, stomach doing flip flops watching his eyes dance, “I’m very generous. You just have to get on my good side,” she purred, batting her eyelashes just a little, glad she’d taken the time to put falsies on before leaving her apartment.
By the time she figured herself out enough to even consider a relationship with someone else, she was deep in her Master’s of Law and back to saving Paris on the evenings and weekends. She hadn’t really let herself think about it. She always figured she’d meet someone at some socialite party, probably a friend of her father’s to maximize the political benefit.
Well, it was a party, at least.
“And how does one do that?” he said back, adam’s apple bobbing.
“Sorry,” Chloe winked, pulling back slightly and taking another sip of wine, savoring the flicker of disappointment that crossed his face as she raised the glass to her lips, “A girl like me doesn’t share her secrets. Someone might take advantage.”
“That’s too bad. I wouldn’t mind knowing a few of your secrets.”
Stay cool stay cool stay cool
“Well, it’ll take more than a glass of Portugese wine,” she said, taking another sip for effect, “But maybe if you take me to dinner, I could be persuaded.”
He whistled, scratching the back of his neck, “Too bad. I’m definitely too broke to pay for the kind of dinner you’re used to.”
“I’m a cheaper date than you might think. Besides,” she said, grinning, “Who said anything about you paying?”
Luka took a swig of his beer, “I insist on covering dessert, at least. Don’t want to be accused of gold digging.”
“If you must, then,” she replied, trying not to blush too hard when his hand came back down to the railing and brushed against hers.
He hummed a few bars of melody, sharp but sweet.
“What’s that one?” she asked, recognizing it, “You were humming that before you went to get drinks, too.”
Luka stopped mid bar, tapping the railing. If it hadn’t been so dim, she probably would have been able to see him blushing, “Oh. That’s… yours.”
“Mine?” she crooned, turning her head fully towards him again, “Is that one going to be on the album too?”
He leaned in, so close he was tilting his head to avoid bumping her nose. Chloe’s stomach twisted, her lips inches away from his and this was almost certainly a bad idea.
“Depends,” he whispered, smooth and sultry, “Are you serious about dinner?”
“I could be convinced,” she whispered back, very glad for the railing behind her that she was gripping with white knuckles. It was the only thing keeping her upright. She inched forward, coming even closer to closing the distance between them but leaving a hair’s breath of distance between their lips.
He could probably smell the wine on her breath. She was glad she’d stuck to white.
A sharp rapping on the glass door shocked them both apart, and Chloe was lucky not to spill the rest of her wine.
Alya faked gagging before opening the door, grinning so wide Chloe was pretty sure her face was going to split in two.
“Haaaate to break it up,” she droned, giving every indication she most certainly did not hate to break it up, “But Marinette needs you, Chloe. Some sort of catering emergency.”
She was going to kill Marinette Dupain-Cheng. And Alya. Both of them were absolutely going to become victims of a terribly tragic accident, just as soon as she could decide who earned the honor first.
Plotting their equally gruesome deaths, Chloe straightened up, smoothed out her already perfectly smooth hair, gave Luka an apologetic look, and pushed past Alya back into the ballroom, venom in every step.
Well, this gave her plenty of time to regret every decision she’d made tonight.
Including not saying anything 30 seconds ago when she left the balcony. What, was I’ll be right back too cliche? She just left him hanging. With Alya. With Alya Cesaire grinning like a fucking fox, all shifty eyed and calculating.
Great. Peachy. Love it. Life is great. No problems here except Marinette’s fucking catering.
The young woman who was at least 35% responsible for this nightmare stood over by the dessert table, obviously agitated.
“A catering emergency?” Chloe hissed, folding her arms across her chest.
“Sorry, I panicked!” Marinette countered, throwing her hands up, “Said the first thing that came to mind.”
“Genius. Where is it?”
“Akuma, down by the Halles Georges Carpentier. I’ve been trying to get away for the last 15 minutes but apparently you’re not allowed to leave your own engagement party.”
“All the way down there? Ugh, can’t we just wait for it to get up a little further north?”
Marinette sighed, “I’ll let you take Tikki.”
Chloe downed the last of her wine and held her hand out for the earrings, checking her phone for the livestream of the akuma.
“So, what am I lugging back to this sorry party once this ass is kicked?” she asked, swapping out her gold hoops and handing them over to Marinette.
Marinette didn’t answer immediately, staring down the dessert table like her life depended on it.
“We’re out of red wine?” she offered, shrugging.
Chloe sighed.
“Of course we are. Give me a pen.”
“Huh?”
“A pen. I need a pen.”
Marinette dug in her pockets for a moment and handed one over, giving Chloe a quizzical look.
“It’s none of your business,” Chloe grumbled, turning on her heel and going back out to the balcony, ignoring the pounding in her heart and the blush in her cheeks.
Alya had disappeared, leaving Luka alone again, staring out over the city. This side of the hotel faced north. It was the better view. He was humming. He was humming her song.
Oh, she was fucked .
Heart in her throat, she walked back up to him and grabbed his arm, making him jump.
“Catering emergency,” she explained, adjusting the angle she was holding his arm at and secretly relishing that he wasn’t pulling away, “May not be back for a while.”
“I could help?” he offered.
“Nah,” Chloe said, “It’s a one-woman job.”
She scrawled her phone number on the inside of his forearm, glad she’d grabbed the arm that wasn’t covered in tattoos, finishing the last digit with more of a flourish than necessary. She was Chloe Bourgeois, after all. All flourish was necessary.
“I’d…” she trailed off, biting her lip, “I’d like to hear the rest of that song.”
“Good,” he replied, surveying the newest ink on his arm with a smile, then moving his eyes back up to hers. They were soft and sweet, shimmering with amusement, “I’d like to play it.”
Lady Luck left the hotel from a few floors above the party a few minutes later.
She felt like the name fit.