A/N: Yeah... I'm still not back for good for this fic. I'm just updating while I have the burst of inspiration to pump out chapters for it. Oh and because Idol is well overdue an update. I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging (on ffnet and ao3).
Anywayyy, feel free to drop a review for this mess of words. Or don't. Reviews are rare and far between these days.
Till next time,
Drama
Chapter Four: Off the Radar
Early mornings had never agreed much with Marinette — even before she took up her midnight gig. During her childhood she always was a late-riser; in fact, she was the exact opposite of her father, a baker who lit the ovens from the eye-watering hour of five in the morning. Every day, without fail, while the birds chirped and the sun rose, her father would be busy working away in the bakery, flour dusted on his large hands and clouding the pretty silver of his life-long wedding band. At the same time, three floors up, Marinette would be snoring her head off, asleep and dreaming about everything to do with change and wonder and happiness.
Not much had changed in the twenty-two years of her pathetic life. These days Marinette still got up late, still opposed the routine life her father had, and still snored her head off, gathering quite a few noise complaints over the years. But now, the biggest change, was that she didn't dream anymore. Dreams didn't have much room inside Marinette's life anymore — not since that catastrophe in year eighteen.
So what had changed that?
This morning, ten o'clock on the dot, Marinette found herself waking up with a pleasant smile. Humming a song under her breath, she had breezily browsed through her plethora of outfit choices before settling on a cute white dress she'd spotted collecting dust in the back of her wardrobe for the past six months. Then came her impromptu concert in the shower, strawberry shampoo pretending to be a microphone in her hand as she stood under the warm spray and warbled away.
Today, something infectious was in the air. Something bright and optimistic poisoned Marinette's system as she ate her burnt jam-spread toast and fed Tikki her usual wet sludge of cat food. Even when the damned key got jammed in the lock again, threatening to make Marinette late, she'd simply shrugged and persisted until it knocked loose once more. Hell, the thing didn't even snap in the lock, demanding yet another call to the local locksmith.
Normally, if she was running late, Marinette wouldn't be so chipper — especially so early on in the morning. Optimism was like fool's gold: a temporary euphoria that was due to run short as quickly as it came. Over the years, Marinette had learned to rely less and less on her own sense of optimism. Having hope meant relying on others; relying on others meant being let down. Perpetual, it was an endless cycle — unless she stopped hoping.
So Marinette did. Ever since her fall from grace, banished to work the clubs of Paris, she had never thought much about wishing on shooting stars. To her, there was no point. People, like shooting stars, were only temporary. Once you saw them, made that wish, they would leave once more — regardless of if your wish was granted or not.
Wishes and dreams were for children and fools. Optimism was a poison that made people vulnerable. If more people knew that, if Marinette had known that, then maybe they wouldn't end up so terribly bitter. Resentful.
Yet, this morning, something akin to hope seemed to be settling within Marinette's veins. As she adjusted the lapels of her light jean jacket and pulled the strap of her white purse onto her arm, the young woman could safely say that she felt... glad that time was ticking on. For once, she felt somewhat positive feelings as she thought about the future, where she could be in the nearby future.
Maybe it was the adrenaline talking. Maybe it was the remnants of that giddy sensation that filled her system whenever she thought about her conversation with Adrien. Whatever it was, Marinette felt positive. For once, something in her life would go right.
"Marinette," Alya frowned from across their shared table, a pinched forehead and a sharp hand clicking in front of her face. Curled strands of her shoulder-length hair shifted beneath the rim of her hat, betraying the agitation that was hidden behind her analytical stare. "You've been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes without blinking once."
"Really?" Blinking — for the first time — Marinette gave a sheepish smile. Perhaps she was a little more affected by the false hope of yesterday's actions than she'd rather admit. Usually, she'd be more on-point than this. Clearing her throat, she set the menu aside, "I couldn't tell."
"Sure," Letting it slide under the radar for now, Alya nodded, ignoring the tell-tale tightness to the corners of Marinette's grin. However, her gaze remained, ever the eager beaver to pry into Marinette's ever-growing complicated web of lies, deception and petty justice.
Honestly, Marinette couldn't blame Alya for being so interested in her meant-to-be-secret double life. Over the years, she had managed to amass an encyclopaedia of unlikely and gossip-worthy tales, ranging from simple misunderstandings to large-scale domino effects that took down entire empires. Working in the industry that she did, Marinette sure did see a lot; sometimes her life felt like one stolen from a generic TV series.
Young, snarky protagonist? Check. Evil, corrupt rich people? Double check. And who could forget the main backdrop for her work: the gloomy interiors of nightclubs and glitzy tables at the most high-end restaurants. At least once a week Marinette was going on some kind of date, picked up by a sleek, shiny car and spending her evening laughing as she flashed bright smiles at her paying patron for the night.
Everything about her life just lined up too well, like elements to a destiny that so many ordinary people liked to call fate. Oftentimes, Marinette found herself wondering just why her life ended up the way it did. Was it some form of entertainment for whatever looked down on earth from up above? Or was her life something else, an accumulation all the bad she'd done in her life? Was it simply just fate?
Whatever it was, Marinette could only hope that it wouldn't ruin her latest opportunity to drag herself out of the gutter and finally bring a close to her years-long saga of honey-trapping. Too much had been placed on this plan for it to fail. Too much of her own life was invested into this plan for it to not go well. Adrien Agreste was Marinette's ticket into the fashion industry; he was also Ladybug's big break in getting to Hawkmoth.
Every moment, Marinette had to remember that. Every second she had to remember why she was doing this in the first place.
"You still haven't told me about last night," Alya, inquisitive as always, raised a brow as a waiter passed on by, carrying two trays. Taking a sip from her glass of water, she probed, "That means something good happened."
"How would you know it's something good?" A teasing grin etching onto her lips, Marinette mused. Now her own brow was arched, poking fun at the woman stationed right across from her.
Keeping Alya up-to-date on most Ladybug-concerned matters sure did have it perks and downsides. One perk was that Marinette got to tease her friend, feeding her tiny dots to connect about her latest assignment. To balance out that perk, Alya could annoy Marinette to hell and back for a more generous helping of information — even if doing so risked Marinette (and herself) getting into major troubles with her connections.
Huffing out a slight laugh, Alya shook her head, "If it was bad then you would have called me as soon as your shift ended. Right now we'd be downing glass after glass of vin rouge instead of laughing about it."
"Very true," Nodding, Marinette decided to award her friend a point for that remark. Whenever things went particularly terribly, Marinette tended to get into her own head — especially when it came to Hawkmoth and everything involved with him. When it came to finding insider information on the Akuma network, Marinette always held herself to a high standard. Anything else was just plain unacceptable.
"So?" Alya drummed her fingers against the tabletop, dragging out the word like a nosy child, "What happened?"
"I got in," Was all Marinette allowed herself to say, now taking a calm sip from her glass of water. Soothing, grounding, the cold liquid helped to keep her steady. "We spoke last night."
For a moment there was silence. In that time, the waiter came, collected their orders and bustled off once more. Alya, pursing her lips, seemed to be containing her excitement at the interesting morsel of information. Marinette herself was somewhat proud, feeling her ears tip with pink heat as she felt Alya's keen gaze prickle hairs on the back of her neck.
Sharing her breakthroughs with her best friend had always felt exhilarating. Even back at the beginning, when Marinette had tried to keep her double life separate, it had felt somewhat amazing to finally share the truth with someone.
That feeling, though, did come with a terrible afterthought. Lingering in the corner of her mind, gnawing at her gut with all its dread and worries, Marinette would always find herself questioning if she was doing the right thing. If Ladybug was meant to be a secret, then why did Alya know about her? Why did Marinette tell Alya more or less everything about her honey-trapping exploits?
Selfishness was the main answer that came to mind. Marinette's own desire to not suffer alone was what made her tell Alya. Handling the pressure, lying to her parents, lying to everyone, did take a toll on her. Alya was the only one who alleviated that crushing force; with her links in the media industry, Alya was the only one who could help.
"You got in?" Alya repeated, breaking her brief silence. Wide-eyed, she looked as if she was going to explode as the excitement began to sink deeper in, "For real?"
"Yep, we have a nearly solid foot in the door," Marinette affirmed, now digging into the interior of her purse. Fumbling with a makeup brush (a girl never knew when she'd have to reapply), Marinette eventually felt the familiar smoothness of Adrien's business card. The one with his personal number. Even as she handed it over to Alya she could feel her heart thumping at the memory, "Who knew Luka would hand the opportunity right to me?"
"I have no idea how you do it," Alya breathed, seeming incredulous as she took the business card. Examining it with a critical eye, almost as if it were made of gold, she marvelled at the piece of cardstock, "Do you know how hard it is to get one of these?"
"Effortless?" Marinette guessed. Really, it nearly had been for her. Luka recommended her, she spoke to Adrien and bam! Suddenly she had his personal phone number right in her disbelieving hands. Adrien Agreste himself had told her to give him a call, almost as if he knew that she had been aiming to get his number one way or another.
"It's more like sawing your own hand off!" Alya's eyes were definitely wide now. Shaking her head, she passed the card back to Marinette, "Even some of my colleagues can't get this and they talk to the Agreste models regularly! That card of yours is a good asset. Don't waste it while you've got it."
Oh, Marinette knew how valuable that one card was. Everyone who was anyone would have known just how valuable that tiny card could be. Only those who lived under a rock wouldn't bat an eye at a business card from Adrien Agreste himself. Agreste was at the centre of everything; Agreste had links to the entire city, spanning from fashion, technology and media all the way to political lines.
Four years. It had taken Marinette four years to get this far. Two of them had been spent gaining a spot in the shady underworld of Paris' nightclubs, clawing and scraping with other girls kitted out in sparkles and glitter and shine in order to attract the most attention. Showbirds, they were all like showbirds, primping and singing and vying for attention in order to survive. Tearing at each other's limbs, shattering emotional bonds, those two years had been hell; those two years had helped Marinette to gain the skills she needed to help her connections.
One of those connections — bless his soul — had only wanted the best for her. Seeing her potential, he had taught her the art of smooth-talking and eyelash-batting. Through him, Ladybug was born. Through him, those without a voice were given a voice, a powerful one. True injustice, the kind hidden by corruption and greed and power, was exposed by Ladybug, and her oldest connection — her mentor — had taught her how to do that.
That man, filled with ancient secrets and untold stories, had been the catalyst in Marinette's vigilantism. Back then, it had only been a matter of time. Now, she saw that such a destiny was inevitable for her; she had always been destined to speak for those without a voice.
Ladybug was created because Marinette couldn't take being a silent victim anymore. Ladybug was born to even out the playing field, to help others gain the opportunities so many had and wasted.
"Keep it down!" Marinette couldn't help but hiss the words, carefully eyeing the nearby tables. Not to mention the circulating waiters, some bussing tables and others rushing to and from the kitchen. Keeping her voice low, Marinette leaned closer to Alya, still sceptical of their surroundings, "It isn't official yet, but my first interview is tomorrow."
"And you say you're not in," Alya tsked, shaking her head. Just as the words left her lips, their waiter approached, setting down the plates for their order. "How do you do it, girl?"
"I told you, it's the mask," Marinette grinned a little, her eyes twinkling as she winked at her friend, "People love a good mystery."
"Is that why Ladybug keeps getting DM'd?" Alya probed, both of them watching as the waiter disappeared once more. Once they were a safe distance away, out of direct earshot, Alya continued, picking up her fork and stabbing it into her salad, "Don't think I haven't seen your little fanbase, Marinette. Tons of people are lusting after Ladybug and LB."
"Ladybug and LB are completely separate," Marinette immediately rebutted, despite the pink flush that tipped her ears. Whenever Alya mentioned her other alter ego, the scarlet woman who danced the night away, she always grew bashful. Ladybug was nothing like Marinette; she was simply a cover-up for all the secrets she held. A projected image.
"So you say," Alya sighed. Everything about her seemed to suggest that she was dismissing the notion entirely, but Marinette knew better. Alya wouldn't drop it — not yet. If there was anything her best friend loved, then it was a good mystery; digging for answers had always been her biggest strength. "Now let's move onto actual business. What new info have you got?"
Oh yes. The actual business. Both a perk and downside of working with Alya Césaire, one of the best reporters for the TVi — right behind Nadja Chamack herself. Working with Alya did make exposing the truth a lot easier for Ladybug, especially since most of her targets did have strong ties with many media outlets. But, of course, Alya always was an ever-seeking glutton for knowledge. With her, there would never be enough.
"Which topic are you looking for?" Marinette sighed, shaking her head as she idly swirled her spoon within her bowl of soup, "Politics or crime? I think I've even got a bit of celebrity in the mix."
"Right now, there's a lot of buzz about Kagami in the media," Alya responded, popping a baby potato into her mouth, "Everyone's trying to find something on her."
"Kagami?" Marinette frowned. So far she hadn't heard anything about Kagami in the past year — ever since she told Marinette that she'd be disappearing for a while. There'd never been a reason why; with Kagami, it was difficult to ever gain a reason why. But, in that moment, Marinette had recognised the conflict swimming in her friend's eyes. At the time, she hadn't wanted to leave but something was pulling her away from Paris.
Back then, in that moment, something desperate had been there. Clinging to Kagami, even as she squeezed Marinette's hand within her own, it betrayed that she was hiding something. Running from something. But she'd never told Marinette why.
"Yeah, ever since she disappeared from the public scene," Alya confirmed. To her it was just another story, another mystery tossed into the ever-growing pile. But to Marinette, someone who had known Kagami well, her disappearance was alarming — especially since she had seemed to be in a hurry. "Apparently she's in a feud with her mother."
"I wouldn't know," Marinette admitted. Kagami had always been good at tying up loose ends. If she wanted to keep something private she could keep it clammed up tight for a thousand years. "We haven't spoken for a while."
"I see," Alya hummed, nodding with understanding. Taking another gulp from her glass, she seemed resigned with the lack of information present. "If you know nothing then she's truly gone off the radar."
Just like she had wanted. Just as she had told Marinette. For a while, for a good while, Kagami Tsurugi wouldn't be a concept to the everyday world of Paris and its citizens. Like a cloud of smoke, a firework in the sky, she faded into nothing just as quickly as she had appeared. Something Kagami had wanted no doubt, although the reason why still plagued Marinette to this day, niggled at her mind whenever she was reminded of her absence. For Kagami to leave, to just disappear so abruptly... the facts surrounding the matter certainly were unsettling.
"I just hope that she's doing ok out there," Marinette sighed. That was all she could hope. Unfortunately, she didn't have the power to do much else — not with her own stresses and worries.
"Yeah, we all do," Alya agreed, seeming to share the same melancholic air as Marinette. However, just as quickly as it washed over her, it was replaced with a sly grin, crinkling the corners of her hazel eyes, "But you need to finally get your life back on track, Missy."
"I know and I'm trying," Rolling her eyes, Marinette gave her friend an exasperated look. Ever since she'd become Ladybug, said goodbye to the hellish maze that was her old life, she'd vowed to do better. To be better. So far she wasn't much closer to the goal she had wanted to achieve. "I really am trying, Alya."
"I know," Alya nodded, her voice just as low as she extended a hand across the table. Squeezing Marinette's hand, an act of solidarity, she smiled softly, "Just don't get into your head about all this. You deserve to get that spot in design school — even if you have to fuck Agreste over to do it. If anything, the old bastard deserves it."
"He does," Unable to withhold her smile, Marinette let a small giggle slip past.
There was a reason why her mentor had seen potential in her that day. There was a reason why she, someone repeatedly screwed over by those in power, was placed in the position to change it all. All those years ago, crying in the middle of the streets, fresh from public humiliation, Marinette Dupain-Cheng had felt pure rejection. Kicked to the curb, left in the gutter, she'd been abandoned to rot.
But she'd fought. Against Chloé. Against Félix. Against Hawkmoth. No matter what, Marinette had always fought; she wouldn't let others ruin her entire life. That was why Hawkmoth had made sure to ruin her. That was why Félix had made sure to sully her name. That was why... Chloé had ruined her dress that night. Unlike so many others in this city, Marinette wouldn't just sit and take it. She'd always fight.
Even if Hawkmoth wanted her dead because of it.
A while had passed since Chloé Bourgeois had called him. Last time they had crossed paths, sharing the dying embers of a fading cigarette, they had been huddled side by side on her hotel suite balcony, staring at the tiny dots of queuing vehicles down below. Quiet and solemn, her rooms had felt like a ghost town once all of her guests had left. Music gone, noise and revelry done and dusted, the blonde socialite had been reduced to a tired-looking woman, pale blue eyes weary as she flicked on her lighter and lit up her final smoke of the night.
Staying behind had never been an issue for Adrien. With his almost familial bond with Chloé, it wasn't at all infrequent for him to stay behind, or even stay the night. As teens they used to cover for each other, red-eyed from different substances and applying makeup to dark splotches of fatigue. With how well they did, no-one ever had a clue. How could they? No-one ever cared enough and Adrien Agreste was always good at covering his tracks. Acting, putting on a façade, made up the majority of his life.
Maybe that was why Chloé had suddenly disappeared off his radar. Abrupt, like a dot disappearing off a map, she just went, silently fading into the background noise of his life.
The last time Adrien had spoken to Chloé, she was on her way to America. The last time he had seen her in person, he had broken her heart in two — scrambling out of her suite as she chucked a heavy-looking lamp at him.
Truly, it wasn't Adrien's fault that he didn't love her. There was nothing of substance, nothing to challenge him, when it came to Chloé Bourgeois. All she ever did was enable his bad habits, brush them under a rug of comradery and something much worse than acceptance: indulgence. There were never any consequences with her; there was never any clear cut boundaries. For all Chloé cared, Adrien could stomp all over her boundaries, erase their marks in the sand, and she wouldn't bat an eye.
Sleeping with Chloé had been his mistake. Allowing her enabling nature to translate into sex should have never been a possibility. What Chloé was — a form of escapism from the pressures of his father — was meant to be healthy. In too many ways they were similar, shouldering pressures and burdens that had been shared since childhood. Growing up in the limelight, children of famous designers, they both knew what it was like to have the entire world watching you grow up from behind a screen.
But with Chloé's own pressures bleeding into their dynamic, her own desire to be loved by Adrien polluting their friendship, what should have been a healthy co-dependence quickly fell into a toxic dependency — and not on his end.
Two years ago, when Chloé disappeared to the United States, Adrien had figured that leaving was her way of ending it all. After their last encounter, he couldn't blame her for wanting to eradicate his presence from her life. Present Adrien Agreste was nothing but a selfish asshole; everything he did revolved around himself and nothing else. Who would want to be around that?
Chloé Bourgeois, apparently. At least, that was what her phone call implied.
"It's been a while, Adrien," Snippy and demanding, her habit of sounding like an entitled brat had not been curbed over the years. Adrien couldn't help but cringe at the pitch of her voice; it was something he'd definitely not missed.
Nevertheless, receiving a call from Chloé was somewhat relieving. Part of him had began to worry about her, especially as she had remained a relative ghost after leaving Paris two years ago. Chloé, like all socialites, had a massive online presence and a bit of an addiction when it came to posting on social media. However, the chunk of Adrien that did worry was minuscule — a mere grain of salt washed within the massive expanse of a great sea.
Slowly engulfing him, consuming the individual pieces of his brain, the past two years had changed him. Shrinking to the shadows himself, a lot of Adrien's personal life had morphed into a ghost of what it used to be. On the surface he was still Paris' golden boy, promoting charity events and grinning away on his father's magazines; deep beneath that, buried in the ice, he was drifting about the empty shell of his former self, wondering if any of his past life was real.
Too much of the past contained things that Adrien didn't like to think about. Too many of his memories were tinged with misery, bleeding black paint that made the remaining colours seem too bright to be real. Focusing on the present helped to keep him sane; focusing on the Akuma kept him ticking over.
But when the past came back like this, popping out at him like a phantom in the night, Adrien couldn't help but loath it. With his entire body and soul.
"We didn't exactly end on good terms, Chloé," Adrien reminded her, watching as the buildings passed on by. Right now he was meant to be preparing for the long day ahead: endless hours spent under hot lamps, bright lights flashing as a sole photographer went crazy with the shots once more. Photoshoots for his father's company had always been a pain in the ass.
"Yes, but that doesn't mean that one of us can't apologise," Chloé pointed out, her voice rather insistent. Honestly, her words were a shock to him — Chloé had never been one to apologise. Even when they were kids Adrien had always been the first to crumble, begging for forgiveness as he grovelled on his knees for her forgiveness. "And I'm willing to be the bigger person and apologise."
So that was why Chloé had decided to call. Their last interaction, punctuated with all the negative memories of her fury, still plagued her mind. Used to people entering and leaving his life, Adrien didn't dwell too much about it. Busy with his father and learning about the true operation behind Agreste, their falling out had been the last thing on his mind until now.
But Chloé... she seemed as if she hadn't stopped thinking about it ever since she'd stepped off that plane to New York. From how she was talking to him, Adrien would have thought that their falling out happened last week instead of two full years ago.
"Chloé," Adrien couldn't help but frown. No, it couldn't be helped. It wasn't healthy for someone to be so focused on the past, to keep thinking in past and not present tense. "Are you still hung up about two years ago?"
"Of course not!" Chloé snapped, quick and sharp and defensive. Although two years had passed, it was as if she hadn't changed a day. Old habits appeared to die hard with Chloé Bourgeois. While Adrien had rapidly developed and changed, she was still the same, stuck in the past. "I just think that we're both overdue some actual closure. So I wanted to invite you to lunch."
Lunch? Was she actually considering having lunch with him? Adrien could feel the groan threatening to breach his system. Lunches between old friends were nothing unusual. Heck, a day ago Adrien finally met up with Luka once more — after months of silence and a practically dead phone line. Meeting up with past peers, people that were interesting who had lost contact with you due to adult life, was nothing unusual. One part of growing up was those meetups, making time for the people you cared about.
However, with how abrupt her sudden announcement and eagerness was, Adrien couldn't help but feel unnerved. Chloé was never one for sentiment. No, she took straight after her mother in that regard. Like Audrey Bourgeois, Chloé could be a frigid bitch to any human being within a ten mile radius. There was never an exception either.
So why now, two years later, was she trying to enter his life again?
"I'm busy today," Adrien spoke, the words just as blunt and forceful as they'd be to any other person trying to inch their way into his life, "I have a shoot."
"Then we can do dinner," Chloé riposted smoothly, almost smug as she continued confidently, "And before you say you can't, I asked your father. He said it would be wonderful to have us all at a table again."
All of them? Did that mean that Chloé was actually here for some other reason than seeking him out? Did she perhaps only realise once she returned to Paris that she had loose ends to tie up? Part of him hoped so. Tiny, fleeting, still that sheltered child who sobbed the day his mother died, part of Adrien hoped that was the case. But, now grown up, he knew better.
There always was an angle with these types of people.
"Is Audrey back in Paris?" Adrien asked, trying not to sound as antsy as he felt. They had now stopped at a red light, the car coming to a halt. Countless people flocked across the road, an array of elderly pensioners and children and everything in between. Even a few dogs, furry faces framed by floppy ears and boasting toothy, doggy smiles, crossed with them.
"I wish," Chloé scoffed, her eye roll visible through the phone. That answered his question. It also inflated his anxiety by a million. "No, she's always been too focused on the States to ever leave New York. It will just be daddy, Zoé and me at dinner."
More alarm bells rang. Unceasingly. Most certainly his knuckles had turned white with tension, his grip tight around the hard exterior of his phone.
"Chloé ," Adrien began, cautious, careful. Beneath it all, he was feeling something akin to outrage, tip-toeing around the true feeling of ominous, looming dread. To hide that, he often put on a cool mask. Became nothing. Every day he did that, he was becoming more and more like his old man. "Why did you call me today?"
"I've already said why," Chloé almost groaned as the words slipped from her. Never before had Adrien felt so irritated by her obnoxious, snippy voice. "I've decided to be the bigger person."
"That can't be why," Adrien stated, filled with disbelief. No. What happened was his fault; what happened two years ago was meant to be the final straw. When he had done what he did, Adrien had made sure of that; at that point, he had wanted Chloé out of his life. "Last time you saw me you threatened to smash my head in with a metal lamp. You said if you ever saw me again, you'd rip me limb from limb."
"Well, that was a younger me," Chloé brushed his words aside, dismissive and nonchalant. As if it was easy to forget the pure rage within her eyes, the objects that had gone flying through the air as he scrambled out of her target range. So many eyes had been drawn to them as he'd fled. Every tabloid in Paris went wild the following day. "Plus I'm so eager to learn about what you've been up to, Adrien. It's been a while since I've been in the Paris party scene."
"You haven't missed much," Adrien assured her, an awkward chuckle leaving his system just as his driver pulled up outside one of his father's emporiums, "I can promise you that."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Chloé warned, her voice an odd sing-song chime. Grave, solemn, he did not miss the threat hidden behind it. "We both remember how the last one went."
And then she hung up. Almost instantly after, Adrien felt all air leave his lungs. Emptied, filled with static, his mind could only loop one question, think about the meaning of her words.
Did Chloé know? That question couldn't help but loop in Adrien's mind. Did Chloé know about his double life? That would explain her sudden eagerness, the abrupt way in which she was trying to effortlessly slot herself back into his life. With how nosy she could be, how she liked to have power and control over everything she touched, Chloé would jump at the chance to dangle this over Adrien's head. Especially after what happened between them.
So much was going on at the moment. So many false leads and leaks and missing amounts of money that just didn't make sense. Information about anything could be getting out. Anyone could be privy to highly confidential insider information. With her social connections, Chloé could have caught wind of some of it, used that to come back to Paris.
But how could Chloé know? How would she know? No, Chloé couldn't know. There was no way. If there was one thing Adrien hid well then it was the fact that he was living a double life. To everyone out there, even those in the underworld, he was an angel, the beloved son of Paris' Fashion Emperor.
Yet, as he stared at his now black phone screen, Chloé's solemn warning ringing in his ears, Adrien couldn't help but feel like she knew. She knew about Chat Noir and the Akuma.