"So, if you'll turn to page three-oh-two…"

Bing.

Miss Bustier was facing away from the class, but she flinched all the same. Bad enough that her students were texting in class, again, they weren't even bothering to be subtle about it today. They needed to at least have the decency to go to silent, dammit!

Bing. Bing. Bing.

As if the first message had opened the floodgates, a barrage of notifications was hitting now. Bing bing bing bing bing… Five minutes left in the lesson and they couldn't wait!

Turning around, feeling a dangerous heat in her chest, Miss Bustier focused on the biggest offender. It was Chloe—her phone was the one giving off the most noise, to the point the other students were laughing about it. For her part, Chloe had the phone openly in her hand, and was nonchalantly flipping through it.

"I thought we'd talked about this," said Miss Bustier, voice shaking with anger. She stomped her way up to Chloe. "Phone," she demanded.

"Going to read my messages, Miss Bustier?" said Chloe in devil-may-care tones.

"I think I will," Miss Bustier hissed.

"Fine," said Chloe, thrusting out her arm and looking away in the same motion. "Be sure to start with number fourteen, then."

"You're not in a position to demand anything," Miss Bustier said—but the odd instruction gave her pause. Feeling that this had to be a trap, she scrolled to the fourteenth text message Chloe had received recently.

It wasn't a text, it was a picture. A picture of a poem, she realized.

Not just any poem, either: it was An Ode To a Patient Teacher.

She recognized the style even as she read; this was a modern thing, possibly even from the current poet laureate. She'd never seen it before. Was this something new? Something… for her?

Closing the picture, her hand trembling slightly, Miss Bustier scrolled up. The next message was from Sabrina. "We love you, Miss Bustier!"

The next, from Alya: "You're the best, Miss Bustier!"

She knew she'd been had. She knew this was a setup. That didn't make it less effective. Text after text in the same spirit filled the screen. She couldn't stop reading them. She drank in the messages of thanks and appreciation until her eyes blurred with tears, and she kept trying until she hunched over with emotion.

Then one of the students stood up and started clapping. Another followed, and soon the whole class was pouring out their gratitude, all of which left her a sobbing wreck.

Unseen to her, Marinette caught Chloe's eye. The bluenette mouthed "You did good" at the blonde. The blonde threw her head as she so often did, as if to say, "Of course I did"—but a slight smile came over her as she continued her dignified golf claps for their teacher.

Miss Bustier found it very difficult to be objective when grading their tests that day.

The garden was beautiful.

Emilie had never seen it, of course. For Gabriel, it was like a mix between a love-gift and the Taj Mahal. It was a monument to his love for his wife, and a present for her, if ever she could receive it.

Some days it felt more like one. Others, more like the other. Lately it seemed increasingly like a mausoleum.

His thoughts were going in darker and stranger places than ever these days…

"Sir?"

It was a questioning, cautious voice behind him. "You're not supposed to be here," Gabriel growled at Nathalie. "This is private."

"Yes, sir," she said submissively, but she didn't leave.

For a moment he felt his wrath rising up in him, and started working up the words to order her out. Maybe throw her some invective as a parting shot.

It fizzled. He was finding it hard to be that angry, even when he was supposed to be. He decided he'd rather her be here.

"Nathalie," he said heavily, "have I been wrong, all this time?"

"I don't understand the question."

He looked at his wife, preserved under glass in the center of the garden, frozen in time from the moment of the… he shook his head. The painful longing seeped through him again. She was so very beautiful. Suspended, like nothing had ever happened, like at any moment she'd wake up and everything would be as it was…

I want our baby to have a grandfather.

It had been so long.

So long since he'd held a baby… so long since he'd seen her smile…

"I never dreamed it would be this long," he said. "I thought for certain I would have found a way by now."

He stretched out a hand. It didn't reach her. It couldn't. The glass stopped it.

"I was supposed to wish it better," he said, and the longing had spread up his throat by now so he could taste it, sharp and bitter. "One wish, and things would be back to normal. I'd have my wife again. My son would have a mother. We could be a proper family, then, the way I'd wanted.

"I told myself that, at the beginning. If I didn't have time to be a good father for Adrien, I'd make it up to him by giving him his mother back. That would make it worth it. All I had to do was keep him safe until I'd fixed it…

"I thought that a few times at the beginning, and then I just… assumed it, from then on. I never thought about how much I was pushing him away. I didn't realize how distant he was getting. It never occurred to me how much time I was wasting, how many opportunities I was missing…

"And now he's gone. Now I have no wife, and also no son."

"He's still out there," Nathalie said resolutely. "We'll find a way to bring him back."

"No we won't," Gabriel said wearily. "He's with Ladybug now. She's too strong, and their love is real. I can't break that. Even if I could, he'd know it was me, and hate me for it. Of course he should abandon her and return to me, of course that would make sense, but you can't make someone see sense who doesn't want to see it, and his eyes are too full of her to see anything else."

He balled up his fist and hit the glass encasing his wife. "Like mine were," he said, throat trying to choke the words. "For so long."

"She's not too strong for you," Nathalie denied. "Inducing negative emotions is your modus operandi. Splitting Adrien from Marinette is the sort of thing you excel at. There are so many ways to do it, too. The easiest would be to make it seem like she's having an affair, and…"

"Stop it!" he ordered.

"…I don't understand." Her voice was a plea. He believed her.

"Imagine we do that," he said, his voice empty of passion. "Imagine that I drive Adrien to divorce. Imagine, even, that he never gets wind that I was behind it. Do you think he'll be happy to lose his wife and child?"

"No, but… then he gets you back. And he'll be able to find a new wife, and have as many children as he wants with her. He'll be happier in the long run."

"Will he, though?" His hand traced Emelie's outline; he felt nothing but the glass.

"Eventually."

Gabriel was struck by the certainty in her voice. He felt none, himself. I hope you let love win… Damn. "If he comes back at the cost of his wife and his child… if he's anything like me, that would shake him apart."

"It didn't shake you apart," she said fiercely. "It made you more yourself than ever."

The longing was getting stronger. He felt it in his chest, as if it had taken over his heartbeat; it was rattling like a wild animal in a cage, trying to get out. He'd given up so much for her, had been willing to commit any crime if it meant seeing her smile again…

And if she came back and didn't smile? What then?

The thought made him tremble.

"If it really causes Adrien that much distress," Nathalie proposed, "then akumatize him. It would trivialize you getting his Miraculous, too."

"What kind of plan is that?" he said. "How long would I need to keep him akumatized? Forever? Could I face my wife like that? Could I tell her that I brought her back by destroying her son's family and mind-controlling him?"

"Of course you could, because she of all people would understand!" said Nathalie, her voice even more heated, so much that Gabriel had to turn to look at her. The sight surprised him. Nathalie's normally composed face was pale and sweaty, as if speaking with this much force was costing her dearly. Her shoulders were heaving with each rapid breath she took.

"She knows you the way I do," Nathalie went on. "She knows how much devotion you have, and how much you're willing to give. She knows you'll become the devil itself if that's what you have to do to help her. It's inspiring. It's what she loved about you, I'm certain of it. I would know."

Gabriel blinked in surprise.

"And if your son can't see that," Nathalie spat with a new viciousness in her voice, "then fuck him. He doesn't deserve a father like you. He doesn't deserve a father who will do literally anything for the ones he loves."

Her eyes fluttered; she swayed on the spot. Gabriel's alarm spiked. "You deserve that kind of devotion in turn," she swore. "You deserve people to show you as much commitment… as you've shown her… you should get as much as you… give…"

Nathalie's eyes rolled up in her skull. She toppled. She made no move to break her fall and landed hard.

Gabriel staggered back as if struck. "Nathalie?" he called. "Nathalie!"

Of course she didn't answer. It was happening again. He'd seen this before—he'd seen a woman in his orbit crumpled lifeless at his feet, paying the price for his ambition.

He blinked, and Nathalie became Emilie. He blinked again, and it was Nathalie. Past and present collided and merged—it was happening again—another woman who loved him, burning up her life as fuel for his—it was happening again—

All these years gone past and he'd learned nothing, he'd accomplished nothing, all he'd done was draw in a new woman to sacrifice on the altar of his pride and it was happening again.

"No—not again! Not again!"

Armand D'argencourt stood beside his protégé, and looked to the side to speak. "All our hopes rest on you, today."

"I know."

"You have the potential to bring great honor to our school."

A roll of the eyes, hidden by the facemask. "Yes, sir."

"Try not to be nervous," said Armand, wringing his hands together behind his back.

"I'll try."

He half-turned. "Whatever happens," he said, his voice barely concealing its panic, "I'm proud to have been your teacher all these years."

"I won't let you down."

All around them were dozens of fencers. Each was yearning for the same thing: to represent France as part of her national team and extend the country's edge in the sport. It would be a (hopefully not literally) cutthroat competition amongst the cream of the country's competitors.

"This truly is a brutal field," fretted Armand.

"I thought we weren't being nervous."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Armand.

"But you know, I have an advantage over the field."

"You do?" said Armand, surprised.

"Yes."

"And it is…?"

"None of them are Adrien Agreste," Kagami said with relish. "I've already won."

"Marinette? Hey, Marinette!"

Hearing her name being called, the woman took her headphones off and turned away from her computer monitor. "What's that?"

Adrien was giving her a bemused expression. "Was it the song or the volume that made it impossible to hear me?"

"Probably the volume," she said. "This song isn't that bouncy."

Adrien leaned in. "'The Song of Depression'? Again?"

"It's good," she said defensively. "I like it."

"I still can't believe that's the title."

"Well, the title is the only thing wrong with it. I downloaded the whole album! Kitty Section really hit it out of the park, I heard they're getting mainstream recognition for it. Which reminds me… I was going to make a call about that…" she made a note to herself.

Adrien regarded her. "Marinette," he said slowly, "you do know what that album's about, right?"

"Sure," she said. "It's a concept album about the stages of grief."

Adrien's mouth was open to correct her, to point out that it was the stages of grief of a very specific failed relationship—and he couldn't do it. Nah. There was no profit there. "And how's the little girl doing?" he said with a glance at Marinette's now visible belly bulge.

Marinette gave a look that was equal parts annoyed and indulgent. "We're doing fine, thanks. That's not what you came up here to ask, though. I can tell."

Adrien's face fell. "Have you heard anything from my father lately? It's been a couple of weeks since we saw him."

"I haven't," she said with a frown, "but since you brought it up, I saw this article recently…" She swiveled back around and pulled it up.

Adrien read aloud. "'Paris' top fashion designer, Gabriel Agreste, continues his conspicuous absence. His brand has now missed submission deadlines for several fashion shows, and there have been no sightings of him in over three weeks. While Mr. Agreste is famously reclusive, the lack of new designs is unprecedented, and has left outside observers wondering about his health and status. There have been no official statements of any kind from brand spokesmen.'"

"I guess we're not the only ones who haven't heard from him," Marinette said.

"I hope he didn't do anything drastic," Adrien said. "After I just talked Chloe off the cliff…"

"Don't go feeling guilty," Marinette cautioned him. "If it was anything like that, there would be some kind of statement, wouldn't there? It wouldn't be a mystery anymore. Nathalie would be able to say something about it, at least. Now that I think about it…" Marinette frowned and scrolled through related articles. "In the past Nathalie acted as his voice at times like these, and I don't see any references to her, either."

"Huh," said Adrien as his hands wandered over to her shoulders.

"What are you… mmph." Her eyes shut involuntarily as he started working his fingers into her shoulders. It was a clumsy, amateurish attempt at massage, but as tightly wound as she'd been, it still worked for her. "I might have to ask you to stop in a year or two."

He smiled. "As long as my lady…"

"Nope! Not there. Back up."

"Sorry," he said, repositioning his fingers.

"Therrrrre we go," she purred, her head dipping forward. "I get the feeling I'll be asking you to do that more as I swell up."

"No. Please. I could never."

"Here I thought sarcasm was beneath you. I should've known better."

"...I still hope he's okay," Adrien said.

"Me too. Although…" She bit her lip.

"Although what?"

"It has created a bit of an opening," she said. "I feel bad for saying this, but… If Agreste is out of the running this season, it opens up market share for everyone else. I'm getting a lot of traffic from other firms about my portfolio."

"Oh, is that what all this is?" he said, using one hand to gesture at the screen.

"Yes. And I've been getting some sniffs."

Adrien put his nose in her hair and breathed in. "All I smell is conditioner. My conditioner." He looked down at her with a frown. "You've been using my conditioner?"

"You're such a dork!" she giggled. "I'm serious. The other firms took note of the design contests I won as a student, but Agreste brand had first rights, so they didn't act. Still, that meant they'd heard of me, and I had a record of success. I asked Jagged Stone for a letter of reference, and he came through big time. All that got me in the door, and now…"

"Now your native talent does the rest," Adrien said, beaming.

She flushed but didn't deny it. "I think I can make some sales—maybe even the whole portfolio."

"For how much?" Adrien asked.

"…that part isn't clear," she said, her mood dropping. "No one's using numbers yet, they're still talking about pricing structures—whether it's flat fee or commission, what incentives they want to attach to it…"

"We never studied anything like this in school," Adrien said, looking over her shoulder.

"I suppose they thought they could leave it to the colleges," she replied. "I wish I knew something about it. I feel like I'll get taken advantage of no matter what I do."

"When you do get paid—and I know you will—will it be enough to get us into a place of our own?" Adrien asked significantly.

"I… don't know. No one's talking amounts yet, and the payment structures all kick in at different times, and, well, Paris is expensive." She looked down. "Why do you ask? Did my dad drop another hint?"

"'Hint' is way too subtle."

"I thought my mom told him we could stay as long as we needed."

"She did, and he's on board, but he was asking us to think about how long we 'needed' to stay. He was being helpful—kinda—offering to help set up a budget and do the planning and all that, and give advice on how to set up accounts and the like. He just said that us being out of the house should be the goal."

She sighed. "That's valid, but ugh."

Adrien laughed. "You were the one who told me life was going to be a lot more and a lot harder than just celebration sex, remember?"

"I hate being right."

"Although," he said, and his voice took a sultry turn as he dropped his face towards the nape of her neck, "if you wanted a little more celebration sex to balance the scales a bit, I can help you with that."

She felt his hot breath washing over her, and the merest hint of teasing lips. Her skin prickled. "You make a compelling argument…"

His hands began to drift from her shoulders. "Careful," she warned, anticipating his destination. "They're sensitive."

"I'll be gentle."

He was as good as his word as he lovingly caressed her breasts—first through her shirt, then dipping underneath the hem and rising back up. She hummed contentedly. "Good to see you're still in practice. Keep it up- just like that."

"Can do. Are they getting bigger?"

"You wish," she said, and she felt a hint of inadequacy rising again.

"It was just curiosity," he said, nuzzling her hair as he continued his ministrations. "They're perfect—just like you."

Marinette flushed from the praise and the first sparks of arousal… right up until Sabine's voice made it to the room from downstairs. "Marinette! Someone to see you!"

Marinette and Adrien shared a look. "Were you expecting someone?" they both asked.

"That answers that," Marinette said, and she reluctantly disengaged from Adrien and rose. She grinned wickedly and groped him through his pants, earning a squawk before she twisted out of his grasp. "We'll get back to this later."

Plagg poked his head out of his basket. "Looks like you can get cock-blocked even without the Kwami of Blue Balls," he teased Adrien.

Adrien made a face at Plagg as he, rather uncomfortably, left the room.

The visitor was an impeccably neat middle-aged man, carrying a small briefcase, and looking like he could wait all day if required. A tidily-trimmed mustache and expensive-but-not-ostentatious suit completed the image of a careful businessman—the sort who was pleasant to do business with, but unbearable to work for.

He watched the couple come down the stairs with polite interest. "Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Chang, I presume?" he said. His voice sounded as if it had been starched as much as his clothes.

"That's us," said Marinette as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Very good. My name is Gerard Maison, of Maison-Durban Realtors. Is there a place we can sit and talk?"

A glance between Marinette and Adrien confirmed they were equally confused. "Why do we need to talk to a realtor?" asked Adrien.

"I have been asked to convey to you a gift," said the realtor. "A rather generous gift. There are pictures to look at and, hopefully, paperwork to sign, and all of that works better at a table."

"You can use the dining room," called Sabine.

"Thanks mom," said Marinette, though she rolled her eyes in the same go. Parents couldn't be helpful without being nosey at the same time, could they? "This way," she said to Gerard.

When Adrien and Marinette were seated together opposite Gerard, the realtor put his briefcase on the table and opened it, click-click. "This," he said, handing them a stack of photos, "is the property in question."

"Property?" said Marinette. "Wait… the 'gift' is a house?!"

"An apartment," corrected Gerard, "but real estate either way."

Both teens' jaws dropped.

"I see this was not expected," said Gerard smoothly. "The chain of custody has been unusual. The property was sold to us from a different realtor, with specific instructions that it be granted to the two of you. We would be entitled to a substantial commission for ensuring that the two of you accepted it. The company that sold it to us wasn't the original, either. Here, let me show you."

"This isn't one of your company's apartments? It was given to you to give to us?"

"From another company," Gerard agreed, "whose instructions were to sell the property to us. They got it from a third company."

"This is making my head hurt," moaned Marinette. "Why?"

"Not to minimize costs," Gerard said. "Each of the three realtors in the chain has made a substantial profit. All this does is make sure nothing can be given back."

"No takebacks?" Marinette said, growing suspicious. "So this is a gift from someone who wanted to make sure we couldn't give it back?"

"Exactly," said Gerard. "The original buyer was…"

"…Gabriel Agreste," Adrien said.

For the first time, Gerard looked surprised. "I thought you weren't expecting this."

"I don't know anyone else who would buy me an apartment, and I recognize his style," said Adrien, sighing. "Let me guess: there was no direct communication, and no message to pass along to me?"

"It was all done through intermediaries," Gerard admitted.

Adrien looked up. "Typical. Even now, he has no personal touch."

"Well, I don't want it," said Marinette firmly. "We told him the terms when we visited, remember? We won't put ourselves in debt to him."

Gerard drummed his fingers against each other, as though marshalling his thoughts. "With respect, mademoiselle, there is no debt. There are no strings that I can see. It is already paid for—even the closing costs for the official transfer of ownership. The apartment might as well have come to you in a box with a bow.

"By the same token, Monsieur Agreste can't take the apartment back, even if he wanted to. There are three realtors and four transactions between him and you. He has no way to influence either you or the property."

"Of course you'd say that," said Marinette. "You already said you get a commission if we accept."

"Actually, I come out ahead if you refuse," Gerard said. "If you were to sign this document that says you will not accept the apartment, I lose the bonus, but I retain the apartment, and I can put it back on the market. I promise you this, mademoiselle, I would turn a fine profit reselling it, and a bigger one renting it out."

He reached into the briefcase again and brought forward a set of photos. "It's eighty square meters—a splendid size for a young couple just starting out. Two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms. It comes modestly furnished, with a couch, refrigerator, window air units, and master bed. It's a second floor unit on the end of the building, so you only have two neighbors. The building is only thirty years old and boasts modern insulation and plumbing. The neighborhood is good, with low crime, several nearby grocers, and a metro station less than a block away. It's walking distance to the closest park and the closest elementary school."

With every sentence came a photo or a map illustrating the point. Adrien was overwhelmed. "It all looks perfect," he said, flipping through the photos. "Marinette, this is more than we could possibly get ourselves, even if your whole portfolio sold."

"That's the trick, isn't it?" she said. "That's the hook. If we take this, he can hang it over our heads forever."

"I don't think so," Adrien said. He stopped gawking at the pictures long enough to look at his bride-to-be. "Father has always wanted me close by and supervised. If he couldn't have someone watching me, he wanted me somewhere he could see. That's not like this."

He pointed at the map. "This apartment is halfway across Paris from the Agreste manor. It's closer to your folks than to him. And it's not like he's in the real estate business, he doesn't own any of the other properties around here—right?" he said, glancing nervously at Gerard.

"None I'm aware of," the businessman said.

"Plus, we don't have to stay there if we don't want to," he said. "Gerard, are there any restrictions on what we can do with the property?"

"None whatsoever. If you take it, it is well and truly yours. Re-sell it, rent it out, live in it, demolish it—your choice no matter what."

"I know this," Adrien said to Marinette, looking her in the eyes. "I know my father, at least this part of him. He didn't do this for control. This is the opposite. He's making it so I don't have to come back to him. He's…" His eyes widened as his voice dropped. "He's setting me free."

Silence fell at the table. Adrien seemed shocked beyond words at his own statement, while Marinette reacted to and echoed her lover's amazement. Gerard had the good sense not to interrupt them as they processed this new idea.

"Wow," Marinette whispered at last.

"Yeah," said Adrien, hardly any less astounded. "That's got to be what this is. It's more than permission. He's making it possible for me to be away from him. He's making it so I don't have to come back—just like we told him. He's letting me go, and helping me do it."

He sank back in his chair. "I was afraid he'd never do that," he admitted.

"It seems," Gerard said tactfully, "that this is a lot more complicated than I was led to believe."

"A bit," Marinette agreed.

"Well, the good news is, you don't have to decide today. Take some time, think it all over. Here's my card—one for each of you—contact me when you're ready. There's no rush. Call me once you've worked it out and we'll meet again."

"Can you leave the paperwork?" Marinette said.

"It's already yours," Gerard said, shutting his briefcase. "Thank you for your time, monsieur, mademoiselle."

Sabine's voice floated in from the next room. "Would you like something for the road, Monsieur Maison?"

"That sounds lovely," he said as he walked out of the dining room.

Neither Marinette nor Adrien watched him go. They were preoccupied.

Next time: Slip