Chapter Text
Luxury cars are built for silence. For seamless, gliding motion. No sudden jerks, no disruptions—just an effortless, almost sterile smoothness.
But growing up in silence has left you aching for something more. A shift. A hitch. A moment of unpredictability to shake you from this hollow, numbing routine. You find yourself wishing, absurdly, for turbulence—a sharp stop, a rough turn, anything to make you feel awake.
But there is nothing. Smooth, silent, cold. It remains so for the rest of your ride home.
Perhaps it’s the melancholic French atmosphere, but you feel neither joy in returning to your childhood country nor sadness in leaving England behind. It is simply another move, another calculated shift on the grand chessboard your parents control.
Your mother had declared—dramatically, of course—that Paris, the so-called “City of Love,” would serve as the perfect inspiration for the next issue of Style Queen . And so, you are here. On your way to the Parisian Bourgeois Mansion, where your father, the mayor of Paris, awaits.
You don’t speak to your mother much. You speak to your father even less.
And yet, in front of flashing cameras, they are the picture of devoted parents. Smiles bright, gestures affectionate, voices dripping with feigned warmth. They lavish you with designer handbags, the latest phones, exclusive runway collections. They make sure the world sees how much they adore their daughter, how fortunate she is.
But it is all but a performance.
Smile for the cameras, Chloé. Look happy for the reporters. Be grateful for everything we do for you. Don't be selfish. We’re busy, darling. Can’t you, for once, see things from our perspective?
Money can’t buy happiness.
The car slows, pulling up to the grand estate. A valet rushes to open the door, and the instant you step out, a barrage of flashing lights meets you.
Instinct takes over.
You raise a hand, waving elegantly, turning just enough to give each camera the perfect angle of your face. The perfected, practiced smile slips into place effortlessly, an art you’ve mastered over the years.
Then, your gaze lands on a familiar figure.
“Daddy!” The word leaves your lips in an enthusiastic cry as you rush forward, arms wrapping around his waist. “I missed you so much...”
“Louder, the reporters need to hear.”
You know the script. You’ve played this scene before.
“So, so much!” you repeat, voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “England is awful , Daddy…”
The performance continues. The cameras click. The script unfolds as it always does.
Well-rehearsed lines. Like a stage play. Like a doll on marionette strings. Like a puppet, hanging on by a thread.
It’s going to be a long afternoon.
The sun has long since set by the time the reporters leave, and as soon as they are gone, your father predictably pulls away. You do not react, merely slipping on a pair of oversized sunglasses and heading out for a walk.
The city is familiar. You know every road, every twist and turn as if they were etched onto the back of your hand, yet you cannot shake the feeling that you are an intruder here.
It is so... serene, so peaceful. It was this way before you arrived, and it will remain this way when you leave.
There is no place for you here. Not in this city. Not anywhere.
You stop when a warm scent catches you off guard.
A bakery. You don’t remember its existence. Though, it makes sense for things to change since you were only thirteen the last time you were here.
You turn to leave, but a voice calls out.
“Excuse me, young lady?”
Surprise jolts through you, though you do not let it show. You hadn’t expected to be recognized, not with the thick lenses concealing your eyes. You turn, already prepared to either flash a polite smile for a reporter or snap at some stranger wasting your time—but instead, you are met with a warm smile.
“Sorry, miss,” the woman says. “I noticed you looking through the window earlier. Would you like to try some samples? No need to buy anything, rest assured.”
Kindness. How strange. You cannot recall encountering it in a long time. The silence between you stretches as you struggle to find a response.
“Very well.” The words come out sharper than you intend, but the message is the same.
The woman’s smile does not waver. She lifts a tray of colorful, bite-sized macarons. “We have strawberry, matcha, chocolate, and vanilla in our newest batch. Please, give them a try! My name is Sabine, by the way.”
You pick up a piece from the tray with two fingers, lift it closer to your face, and inhale the aroma before placing it in your mouth. The flavors bloom instantly—rich, delicate, dissolving upon your tongue.
Wow.
Sabine watches, waiting for your verdict. You struggle to find the right words.
“I’ll take an order of 80,” you say instead, defaulting to what you know. Practicality. Transactions. Business.
Sabine blinks. You suppose 80 is an odd number—too small for a proper pre-order, too large for a single person. But you do not correct yourself, merely holding out your black card for her to swipe.
“Miss... are you sure?”
Her question confuses you. Is she expecting you to order more? Perhaps.
“160, then.”
“Oh! That’s not what I meant.” She laughs, but you somehow know it is not mockery. “Are you sure you want 80 macarons? It’s a big order, and you haven’t even tried the other flavors yet.”
Oh.
“No need,” you say, “I’ll take 20 of each. For the workers at my... house. They would appreciate a treat. My butler will pick them up tomorrow morning at 10 am.”
Sabine smiles, and something unfamiliar stirs within you. A warmth. As if you were the one who put that smile on her face.
You shake off the feeling, retrieve your card after she completes the transaction, and step back into the night.
Perhaps Paris isn’t so bad after all.
Your butler stands at the manor door as you arrive home, his posture as rigid as the marble columns framing the entrance. Your parents, predictably, are nowhere to be seen. Jean-Luc bows his head slightly, and you toss the order receipt into his white-gloved hand without sparing him a glance.
“Pick these up tomorrow at 10.”
You turn to head upstairs, but his voice stops you.
“Miss Chloé, school starts tomorrow. Would you like me to wake you early?”
You roll your eyes. His politeness is an illusion. He respects you as little as your father does—which is to say, not at all.
“Whatever.”
You stomp up the stairs, back to your old room.
Silent. Familiar.
Shrugging off your jacket, you move to grab a fresh set of clothes for a quick shower. But as you toss your jacket onto the sofa, something slips from its pocket, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.
You pause. A small jewelry box lies at your feet.
Frowning, you pick it up. It’s unfamiliar. Maybe it’s something you bought years ago and forgot about.
But that doesn’t make sense. You brought the jacket less than a month ago. How could an old trinket suddenly appear in it?
Curiosity prickles at you as you flip open the lid.
Inside, nestled in soft velvet, is a single silver hair clip. A small bee is delicately carved at the end.
You wrinkle your nose. It’s colorless. Plain. There’s no way you’re wearing something as hideous as this.
You snap the box shut and toss it into your overflowing pile of jewelry.
Whoever picked this out has terrible taste.
The rest of the night passes without incident. By the time you climb into bed, exhaustion presses heavily on you.
Your eyes close. The room fades.
Sleep takes you, deep and dreamless.
Monday morning greets you with the same monotony as every other day.
The sun filters through your bedroom windows, casting golden streaks across the marble floor, but even its brilliance fails to excite you. You stretch slowly before sliding out of bed, moving through your morning routine with practiced ease. A crisp white blouse, perfectly tailored jeans, and the pièce de résistance—the new yellow Agreste jacket that arrived just days ago, still carrying the faint scent of designer packaging.
You smooth the fabric between your fingers. Perfect.
A final touch—your signature white sunglasses—before you make your way downstairs.
The breakfast table is already set, a picturesque spread of fine china and perfectly arranged dishes, but the moment you sit, irritation prickles beneath your skin.
Your eyes land on your plate and you swallow a grimace. French toast, glistening with an unforgivable layer of oil.
Disgust coils in your stomach.
"Who made this?" You demand, your tone sharp.
The staff exchange nervous glances.
“This is completely unacceptable,” you continue, pushing the plate away with a look of distaste.
“Way too unhealthy for my diet, and that’s not all. How am I supposed to eat fruit that isn’t even chopped? There's no way I’m getting my hands dirty peeling this grape. And garlic bread? Seriously? Do you want me to have bad breath all day? And where—” you glare around the room—“is my morning coffee?”
A new voice slices through the tension.
"The Mayor."
You turn just as your father strides into the dining hall, his posture composed and expression detached. A presence meant to command attention, though rarely yours.
"Father, perfect timing," you say, exasperation lacing your words. "Who exactly is responsible for hiring this cook?"
“I’m so sorry, Chloé, darling. Armand, take care of this. Now, Audrey, dear, why don’t you join us for a nice family breakfast?”
Jean-Armand-Luc, ever the obedient assistant, bows his head and scribbles furiously into his ridiculous little notebook. You watch him for a moment, unimpressed, before standing with an exaggerated sigh.
"Whatever. I'm going to school."
Your father barely spares you a glance as you stomp away. Outside, your yellow Lamborghini waits at the front gates. The driver doesn’t expect a greeting, and you don’t offer one.
The ride through the city is quiet, familiar, but something gnaws at the edges of your thoughts. An odd restlessness.
Without thinking, you speak.
"Stop here. I need coffee."
The driver obeys, pulling up in front of the small bakery from the night before. It was just as you left it—small, warm, unassuming. A single elderly woman sits in the corner, sipping tea. You snap on your sunglasses and stride up to the counter.
"A caramel latte with oat milk and half sugar."
This time, it is a man behind the register, his face open and kind. He offers you a warm smile, and you fight the inexplicable urge to flinch.
"Coming right up!" he says cheerfully. "You must be the young lady Sabine met last night. I'm Tom, Sabine's husband. Nice to see you!"
There it is again. Kindness.
"Nice to see you too," you murmur, the words unfamiliar on your tongue.
He hums as he prepares your drink, the melody lighthearted, infectious. Somehow, the annoyance from earlier fades.
The coffee is ready in minutes. You take it and return to the car, feeling—oddly enough—at peace.
The peace is short-lived.
The moment your heels hit the pavement, a sudden force knocks into you, sending you stumbling forward. Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup, but it’s not enough. A speck of warm liquid escapes through the opening—arching through the air in slow motion before landing, squarely, on your jacket.
Your brand. New. Agreste. Jacket.
You whirl, fury bubbling in your chest as your eyes scan for the culprit.
A girl—clumsy, frazzled—kneels on the pavement, hastily gathering her fallen textbooks. Her dark hair falls messily over her face, hands scrambling to collect her things.
"S-Sorry!" she stammers, eyes wide. "I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I tripped over my own feet—"
You narrowed your eyes. This is a disaster. And ‘sorry’ isn’t going to fix it.
“What’s your name?” You demand.
“M- Marinette.”
“Well, Marinette ,” you drawl, voice sharp, “you just ruined my new jacket.” Your gaze sweeps over her, unimpressed. “I'd think your eyes, however... plain, would be functional, at least. I see now that I was mistaken.”
“I’m s-sorry,” she mumbles again, shrinking under your glare.
You scoff. People wasting your time. You have dealt with this many times before.
You open your mouth to deliver a scathing remark, but another voice cuts in, stopping you cold.
“Cut it, Chloé. I can always get you a new one.”
You don't need to turn to recognize it.
"Out of my way, Agreste."
“You’re making a big fuss over nothing again. If it’s about the yellow jacket Father sent you from our unreleased spring collection, I can ask Nathalie to send another to your place later this afternoon.”
“You expect me to wear the same jacket twice?” You snap. “Save you prince charming tactics for someone else. My father isn’t here, and neither is the media. Don’t expect me to play along.”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. Typical.
Infuriating goody-two-shoes .
You’ve known Adrien Agreste for as long as you can remember. The two of you grew up in the limelight—your mother, Audrey Bourgeois, and his father, Gabriel Agreste, frequently collaborating on magazine features and fashion campaigns. Photographs, interviews, glamorous staged moments—you were both paraded around like perfect little dolls.
But you never hated it. Not like he did.
Mini-Gabe always despised modeling. You, at least, could put on a dazzling smile and make the best of it, but he'd always looked like some sort of depressed cat in front of the cameras.
Whatever. He deserves it. He never stands up to his father, never pushes back the way you do.
Such a wimp.
“Chloé–”
You storm off before he can finish, fury simmering beneath your skin.
And yet…
A strange, nagging feeling tugs at the edge of your mind as you walk to class.
Maybe you were too harsh on Marinette.
But it doesn't matter. It's not like you'll ever see her again.
Shaking off the thought, you stride into class and claim a seat near the back. At least here, you can have a moment to yourself.
Except, to your utter annoyance, mini-Gabe slides into the seat next to you.
You shoot him a sideways glare. “What, you’ve got no friends to sit with?”
“Hello to you too.” He says, and when you roll your eyes he sighs.
“Look, this morning…”
He gives up when you scoff and don’t answer.