Chapter Text
There were few people Chloé hated more than Marinette Dupain-Cheng—and by that, she meant there was nobody she hated more.
Everything about that wannabe fashion designer was absolutely insufferable. Most days, Chloé couldn’t even stand the mention of her name! But it seemed she was all alone in this (perfectly reasonable) opinion. Marinette, in spite of her major, glaring flaws, was adored by their entire class—Adrien included. Even Sabrina saw her as a friend.
As far as Chloé was concerned, though, Marinette’s popularity was an incomprehensible glitch in reality. After all, she was no Ladybug.
Ladybug—their shining gem, the protector of Paris. She was strong, courageous, and extraordinary, loved for all the right reasons. Someone like Marinette could never be Ladybug, simply because she was too weak, too unexceptional. Nobody else could see that, but Chloé could; and so it was her responsibility to let everyone know.
People deserved to know their shortcomings. That was the only way to grow, to be better, to become someone like Ladybug…
To become someone like her mother.
“Madame, it’s time to wake up!”
A minute passed by. No answer.
Another series of knocks. “Madame, you must wake up now, or you’ll be late for—”
The door abruptly swung open, and Jean-Michel dodged as Chloé zipped out of her bedroom, fully awake and ready for school. He stared after her in incredulity.
As obnoxious as his surprise was, Chloé couldn’t blame him for it. On any other day, she would’ve shooed him away to catch a few more minutes of sleep. But today was different.
Today, her mother was finally coming home to visit.
“Jean-Jacques,” she called, without a glance back at the butler. “Breakfast.”
Immediately, he snapped out of his daze and hurried to fall into step beside her. “Of course, madame. The table’s already been set—jam, butter, tartines, pain au chocolat, and a cup of fresh orange juice. There’s also hot chocolate if you’d like that instead.”
“I’ll take the hot chocolate… Wait, no. Coffee. I want coffee. Make a cup of café au lait.” They turned a corner. “And don’t forget to pick up my dress from the tailor’s while I’m in class. Mother should be arriving from New York by five, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
A couple of months ago, her father had booked their family a reservation at Le Vingt-Cinq, a famous, high-end restaurant that frequently served the biggest names in fashion, entertainment, and any other industry imaginable. Chloé had pushed off two science projects onto Sabrina just so she could find the right dress to wear.
After weeks of hunting through countless boutiques (both in-store and online), she’d finally uncovered a real treasure: a coral blue gown that swept down to her feet in waves, its white hem swirling like sea foam around her ankles. The employees had actually gasped in awe when she’d stepped out of the fitting room, and that was before she even had it altered.
A perfect dress for a perfect night at a perfect restaurant. This time, for sure, her mother wouldn’t be able to find fault with anything. For once, she’d be impressed by everything Paris—her home, her family—had to offer.
“Understood, madame,” Jean-Luc replied. “I’ll make a note to pick up your dress after I collect your father’s suit from the dry cleaner’s.”
They both entered the dining room. Like Jean-Claude had said, her breakfast was set at one end of a long table… but somebody was already in her seat. Chloé drew to a halt, frowning.
“Dad?”
André Bourgeois hardly ever showed up for breakfast—or for any other meal, really. Even when he did, he was usually absorbed in paperwork, or a call, or whatever else a mayor had to do. He was never empty-handed like he was now.
Her father stood, his arms outstretched as if to comfort her. “Princess…”
Chloé’s stomach twisted. She felt like a tiny bug in the shadow of an approaching foot. “She’s not coming, is she?”
Awkwardly, Father dropped his hands to his sides. “Your mother called to apologize and say an errand for work suddenly came up. She canceled her flight earlier this morning.”
This wasn’t the first time her mother had called off a trip home, but she’d always done so weeks in advance. The possibility that she’d flake out at the last minute hadn’t even occurred to Chloé.
Still… something was strange.
“Mother apologized?”
Audrey Bourgeois didn’t apologize. Period. Chloé was more likely to become best friends with Dupain-Cheng before that ever happened.
"Well..." Her father hesitated, then averted his gaze. “Not exactly.”
“Then, what exactly did she tell you?” she demanded, fists clenched. “I’m not a child anymore, Dad. I’m not going to cry over every little thing Mother says.”
“I know, Princess, but—”
“Dad.”
He sighed. “A popular designer recently put on a very successful show, so it’s a busy time for her magazine. She said that… that she’s needed in New York by a lot of exceptional people.”
There it is, Chloé thought bitterly. It all ultimately came down to this: Audrey and anything she did, anywhere she went, and anyone she met outside of Paris—outside of home, outside of their family—were exceptional. And Chloé wasn’t.
But if only her mother would give her a chance to prove she deserved her faith and attention. Out of all the students at Collège Françoise Dupont, she was the best!
“Oh, Chloé, darling, don’t be sad,” her father fretted, pulling her over to the chair he’d vacated. He placed a pastry onto her palm. “Would a little bit of shopping cheer you up? You can take my card and order whatever you want. I’ll make sure it all gets here by the time you arrive home from school.”
When she didn’t respond, he turned helplessly to Jean-Marc. Chloé had forgotten he was still here. The tips of her ears burned as she remembered the way she’d babbled on about her dress and her mother. Was he silently laughing at how stupidly eager she’d been?
God, this is so humiliating.
Gently, Jean-Paul asked, “Would you still like your café au lait, madame? A hot drink might help you feel better.”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” she griped. “I don’t want anything.”
“But—”
“That’s okay!” Father interrupted. “We’ll have a big dinner to make up for breakfast! The two of us can still go to Le Vingt-Cinq tonight, and we’ll try everything on the menu—”
“Forget it!” Chloé tossed the pain au chocolat her father had handed her back onto the breakfast tray. It struck her glass of orange juice with a terrible clatter. “There’d be no point in going now!”
She shot up from her seat, snatching up her purse.
“Tell the driver to get the limo ready, Jean-Pascal. I’m heading to school early.”
“Yes, madame.”
She started toward the door, then stopped. “And as for the dress…”
“Yes, madame?”
“Get rid of it. Pay the tailor and hand it off to the first person you see. Or burn it for all I care. I just don’t want to see it.”
With that, Chloé whirled around and strode out the room.
A perfect dress for a perfect night at a perfect restaurant.
She snorted. How utterly ridiculous.