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At sixteen, Chloé Bourgeois was no longer Paris' number one brat. She was tossed aside.
Her mother Audrey Bourgeois had called her "useless," a flick of a manicured hand punctuating the words. Not dramatic. Not talented. Not promising. Useless.
And so Chloé was sent away. Boarding school. In London. Not the glamorous Parisian kind, but the cold, structured, "reform her" kind.
At first, Chloé tried to rule it the only way she knew. Sharp words. Commanding tone. Demanding attention. It backfired.
Girls whispered. Mocked her accent. Called her dumb. Rolled their eyes. She had been feared in Paris. Here, she was mocked and pushed aside. They laughed at her the moment she ordered them. No one had ever laughed at her before — not like this.
"My father is the mayor of Paris." Chloe shouted.
One girl looked her over with a thin smile. "Not anymore, according to him. His only daughter is Zoé Lee."
Weeks turned into months, and slowly, painfully, she realized something: she was going to stay here. Her mom would not bring her back. Her own father replace her with Zoe. Life was unfair and the world was indifferent. And for the first time, Chloé felt the truth she had never wanted to admit before: she would have to rely on herself and carve her own future.
Her father, André Bourgeois, sent money. No letters. No calls. And when she saw him smiling online beside Zoé Lee, proud. Chloe felt something shatter in her chest as she threw her phone against the wall. He could father someone. Just not for her.
Her mother's silence stung in its own way, and for months Chloé had buried herself in wearing black hoodies when she entered her dorm room.
Now, Chloé has always loved fashion. Even in the quiet, lonely hours of boarding school, she found herself sketching dresses in the margins of notebooks, imagining fabrics, colors, textures, and how they would flow on a body. Fashion was the one thing that never mocked her back, never whispered behind her, never chose someone else over her.
One day, when she was fifteen, she decided to turn those sketches into reality. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her dorm room, a pile of fabrics spread around her like a miniature runway. A YouTube video played softly on her phone, showing step-by-step instructions for stitching a scarf. She watched carefully, rewinding, pausing, trying to match each movement, each stitch.
Her hands fumbled at first. Needles pricked her fingers. Threads tangled into impossible knots. She cursed under her breath, frustrated, but she kept going. She stitched. She unstitched. She stitched again. Each loop, each careful fold was a lesson in patience, in focus, in creating something that could belong only to her.
Finally, after days of work, she held it up. Bright yellow yarn, just wide enough to drape around the neck. To a person, they would see that the yellow scarf and note how the edges were imperfect — some stitches uneven, some threads poking out. In Chloe's eyes, she saw it as a masterpiece. This scarf was something that she could call hers. Every flaw was a mark of her effort, a sign that she had made something real.
Chloé thought of her mother, Audrey Bourgeois, as she folded it carefully and placed it in a small box. Surely, this time, she would notice. Surely, she would acknowledge her talent. Surely, she would care.
And then her mind wandered — inevitably, inevitably — to Dupain-Cheng. That annoyingly perfect girl who somehow, somehow, always managed to get her mother's attention. That girl who stitched in little patterns, who smiled, who was polite, who was... acceptable. And yet, Chloé thought, so what? If Marinette could make her mother look and praise her little creations, then so could she. Chloe Bourgeois didn't need luck or charm or pleading. She just needed to do it better, louder, brighter — in a way that couldn't be ignored. If Marinette could win attention with a small gesture, Chloé could claim it with a masterpiece. She was Chloé Bourgeois. She always had been.
She mailed the scarf immediately, imagining her mother's delight, imagining praise. Weeks passed. Not a word. Not a call. Not even a criticism. Nothing.
Chloé's chest ached. But she also felt something else: a quiet determination. If her mom would not notice her efforts, she would notice them herself. She would make things for herself first. She would create, stitch, design, and shape beauty on her own terms.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed against the nightstand, sharp in the quiet dorm room.
Chloé reached for it, pulse quickening before she could stop it. For a split second, she hoped.
Nope.
Just another notification.
Still, she opened Instagram and went to his profile anyway. She told herself it was casual. Detached. It wasn't. He was a model. She follows other celebrities and models. He is not special.
Adrien had posted.
She tapped.
There he was, sunlight catching in his hair, smiling easily — and beside him stood Dupain-Cheng. She was laughing, her hand resting lightly on his arm like it belonged there.
The caption mentioned a double date.
She swiped.
Another photo: Nino and Alya grinning at the camera. The four of them together.
Marinette and Adrien were dating.
Actually dating.
Chloé zoomed in without meaning to. Adrien wasn't looking at the camera.
He was looking at Marinette.
She scrolled again.
A group photo outside the bakery. Sabrina stood near Zoé this time, smiling — not the careful smile she used to wear behind Chloé, but something softer. Zoé's arm was slung around her shoulders casually like they always been best friends.
Sabrina looked happy.
Her thumb drifted to her messages.
Adrien's chat sat there. Empty.
She had opened it dozens of times. Typed "Hi." Deleted it. Typed something witty. Deleted that too. Once, she had written a full paragraph — something halfway between an apology and a joke.
She erased it all.
She had never dared to send a single text.
What could she even say?
That she missed him?
That she was different now?
That she regretted things?
The words felt foreign in her mouth.
She locked her phone slowly, her reflection faint in the dark screen.
The truth settled in quietly.
She realized, quietly and without excuse, how she had treated people — how she had demanded loyalty, obedience, admiration, as if they were owed to her. And what had she given in return?
Control. Criticism. Conditions.
Chloé exhaled sharply and crossed the room to her wardrobe.
She stood there for a long moment before opening the wardrobe doors.
Pastels. Bright yellows. Structured skirts meant to command attention the second she entered a room. Some pieces even carried delicate honeycomb stitching along the seams — tiny golden hexagons she had once adored.
Queen Bee.
Her fingers brushed over one sleeve, and the memory hit sharper than expected.
Pollen.
Oh, sweet Pollen.
Her tiny kwami had hovered beside her with unwavering devotion, bright and hopeful, always believing Chloé could be better. She had called her "my queen" with such sincerity.
And Chloé had failed her.
Not because she wasn't powerful — but because she wasn't ready. She had treated the Miraculous like proof of superiority, not responsibility. She had wanted the spotlight, not the duty.
Pollen had deserved better.
The honeycomb patterns didn't feel empowering anymore.
By evening, white garbage bags were lined against the wall, stuffed neatly with the old version of her. She'd donate them next week. No dramatics. Just removal.
That Saturday, she went shopping alone.
She chose black first — fitted tops, clean jackets, tailored pants. Then white accents. Yellow, but sparingly.
In one store window, something caught her eye: a black Chat Noir hoodie, subtle cat ears sewn into the hood.
She stepped inside.
The fabric was soft. The design playful but restrained. She imagined it styled properly — sharp eyeliner, sleek boots. Controlled.
She bought it.
The heavy blue eyeshadow was already gone from her routine. So was the washed-out lip concealer. Now she wore precise black eyeliner and soft pink gloss.
But when designing couldn't quiet her thoughts, she went to the school pool.
She preferred it empty.
Climbing the highest diving board felt like reclaiming something. At the top, she stood tall, toes at the edge, wind brushing her face. For a second, she almost felt like Queen Bee again — untouchable.
She inhaled.
Bent her knees.
And something shoved her.
Hard.
Her body flipped. Water crashed over her, cold and suffocating. The impact stole her breath. Sound disappeared. Her chest burned.
Her eyes closed.
And then—
She gasped.
Soft pink walls.
Silk sheets.
Not her current dorm room.
Her Paris bedroom.
Chloe sat up slowly and looked down. She should be wearing her black two piece jade swimsuit.
Instead, she was wearing crisp white pants, a striped black-and-white shirt, and her bright yellow jacket. Her hair was pulled high into a tight ponytail. She raised her hand and felt sunglasses on top of her head.
No, this can't be.
Her legs felt unsteady as she swung her feet over the side of the bed. She walked toward the mirror, each step heavy.
She stopped in front of it, breath shallow, and stared.
"...This," she whispered, voice tight but steady, "...is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous."
Her hands flew to her face as she took in the reflection. Thirteen-year-old Chloé stared back at her — wide-eyed, small, and impossibly young. The shock of bright blue eyeshadow clashed with the pale concealer on her lips. Her hair, held in a high ponytail. Fashion choices she made as a thirteen year old self.
Utterly ridiculous fashion choices.
Chloé let out a frustrated scream.