(Dedicated to @spiderhero55 for being my first ever friend on Wattpad!)

Listen to: Symphony 👆

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“But do you really think that there is any room for the market to expand? After all, we are discussing the lower classes. No matter what their nationality, it is a known fact that they will always look for the cheap unfashionable clothes.”

Marinette shuffles her foot impatiently beneath the yellow mass of her slim-fitting dress while she struggles to keep her expression composed. Dragging her attention to the well-dressed gentleman who looked unnaturally arrogant, she searches for a reply that would explain her idea as well as not offend the man. Thomas Wall was one of the big names.

Before she replied, Marinette reminds herself that there was probably no malice intended behind the question. Those of the privileged classes often had genuine misconceptions about the poor, if they bothered to consider them at all.

“Actually,” Marinette says mildly, “the available figures indicate that as soon as a fashionable dresses are mass-produced, the market will increase approximately ten percent a year. People of all classes want to be stylish, Mr. Wall. The problem is that style is and always has been pricey.”

“Mass production,” Thomas mulls aloud, his lean face furrowed with thought. “There is something objectionable about the phrase… it seems as if we're enabling the poor to imitate the people who can afford them.”

Marinette glances at the circle of people, noting that Audrey's cheeks were turning red—never a good sign—and that Gabriel was holding his silence, his black eyes unreadable.

“That’s exactly what it is, Mr. Wall,” Marinette says, feeling a headache coming on. “Many people, who are unable to afford fashionable clothes can get the chance to wear them.”

“But how will one sort out who is who?” Mardling protested. Elan Mardling wasn't a designer himself, per se, but he owned the largest clothes chain ‘The Marr's’ in the world. His stores have ranged from Europe to Asia to America and he was also the receiver of the ‘Norbury Medal’. Also, an important fact: he's an investor in this gala, alongside Thomas.

Marinette shoots him a questioning glance. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Thomas joins in the discussion. “I believe what Mardling is asking,” he said, “is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?”

Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Marinette considers her reply carefully. “I’ve always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their work.”

“Well said,” Gabriel says, as Thomas opens his mouth to argue.

No one wished to contradict the older Agreste, but Mardling presses, “Gabriel, do you see nothing harmful in encouraging the poor to rise above their positions? In allowing them to pretend there is no difference between them and us?”

“The only harm I see,” Gabriel comments quietly, “is in discouraging people who want to do what they want, out of a fear that we will lose our so-called superiority.”

The statement causes Marinette to like the man even more than she had previously.

Preoccupied with the question of the hypothetical shopgirl, Thomas speaks to Mr. Mardling. “Your fear is pointless, Mardling—no matter what a woman wears, a gentleman can always detect her true status. A lady always has a soft, well-modulated voice, whereas a shopgirl speaks with a strident tone and a vulgar accent.”

“Of course,” Mardling said with relief. He affected a slight shiver as he added, “A shopgirl dresses scantily, with lots of makeup; it's like chalk in water.”

“Yes”, Thomas says with a not-so-unintentional smirk, “Or same as us pretending that Miss Marinette has any idea of what sells and what doesn't. Well, although, she may know it after all, she's one of our economically underprivileged customers, right?“

“RIDICULOUS! UTTERLY RIDICULOUS!” Jumping up from her chair, Audrey points a finger at him, “Marinette is my best designer! I won't let you demean her. Investor or not! Who do you think you are, huh? Have you ever seen her works?”

There are raised voices. And shouting. Lots of shouting. Marinette zones out.

Fixing her eyes to the carpeted floor, the bluenette knots her finger together, pressing her trembling lips into a firm hyphen. She counts her breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She never thought that her common upbringing would one day interrupt her career. But she's not ashamed of it. . . Is she?

A few tears drop onto the floorboard.

The discussion was a big bust. Not only did they fail to bring in more investors, both Thomas and Mardling withdrew their investments, which means that Marinette now had to gather more than €1,00,000 within 18 days. Audrey assured her that she could raise some money from her friends and the bank and her family, but €1,00,000? Marinette knew that Audrey was just saying that. Miracles don't happen in real lives.

Exhausted from the discussion, Marinette speeds down the cobblestone path, wishing that the ground would just suck her in. Every single thing was falling apart. Adrien. . . he— she didn't even have the courage to go there. Secondly, she's totally messed things up with Chat Noir. Luka practically told her that she's too much of a coward. Her gala is on its way to hell. Her fashion career's practically going to be wiped out. On top of that, she doesn't have a job anymore. Audrey is too good to fire her; but she's going to resign by herself. How could she let her mentor get the backlash?

Great. Just great.

Marinette kicks a stone chip with as much of anger that she can muster. Why did she have to come back to Paris? Why? Why? Why? She was perfectly happy in LA, with her college and her friends. Why would she do that to herself?

Anger and frustration boil inside her head in a fiery tantrum.

There was no way to save herself. Even if she went back, it wouldn't have made a difference. Filled with hopelessness and unendurable frustration, Marinette stumbles over to a bench, letting her hair fall as a curtain. Shielding her away from the world.

"Stop it," Marinette mutters furiously at herself, her bluebell eyes stinging and welling. "Stop crying now."

Her pink purse wiggles, and she unzips it with shaky hands, a few whimpers escaping her lips.

Tikki pops out immediately, “Marinette, please don't cry. Crying isn't going to make anything better. On the other hand—” Suddenly, the kwami's voice raises even one more octave, which the girl didn't know was possible until now. “Marinette! An akuma!”

Stunned, the bluenette jumps away from the bench, and sure enough, there was a purple akuma fluttering around her. Waiting for her to give in.
Her fists clench. No, Ladybug cannot be akumatized. Remembering what Tikki had told her so many times, she closes her eyes, thinking of a happy memory. Suddenly, she remembers the first time she met Adrien. The rain. The umbrella. The slight touch.

And when she opens her eyes again, the akuma has flown away. A small sigh of relief escapes her, but there's no time to waste. She has to capture the akuma and purify it—

“Princess, why are you crying?”

A stab to her gut. With dread, Marinette turns to find Chat Noir through a blur of tears, standing at a distance behind her, looking shocked.

"Mari. . ." He gives her a baffled glance as he steps in closer. "What's going on? Have you been hurt? Is everything okay?”

She can’t meet his eyes. The shame is too overwhelming. “No. And yeah, of course. ”

As he jogs to catch up, Marinette keeps moving forward. Oh. God. She couldn't decide if Chat was the person she most wanted to see, or the absolute last person she wanted to see.

Has he been following her the whole time? Did he see the akuma fly away?

"I thought I'd stop by to see how you were doing," he said, “What happened? Didn't you have that meeting today? Wait, no. . . actually forget what I said just now, how are you feeling?”

"Oh, I'm just great," she says, dragging her sleeve across her streaming eyes. The damn tears just. Won't. Stop!

“If you're crying like that. . . You're definitely not great.”

Marinette shakes her head in a fruitless effort to talk, but suddenly she was crying as hard as a baby.

With his free arm, Chat Noir reaches out and draws her against him, the warm sun-kissed leather sending sparks down her cold skin. "Tell me," he murmurs into her hair. "You tell me what's wrong, princess."

Between sobs, she babbles about her gala and anxiety and how she hated Thomas Wall and how her career was done for, while his hand coasts slowly over her back.

“It's going to be alright. It always does.”

Even in her fragile emotional state, Marinette feels the strong urge to snort. He was the person who rejected her, and now he is the person who's telling her the stupid phrase ‘it's going to be alright’. Hypocrite!

Desperate to steer the conversation away from that topic, the bluenette pushes away from him as gently as possible. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know that there's an akuma on the loose. That reminds me. . . Would you mind if I take a detour to destroy it?”

Marinette freezes. “Uh, why would I mind it?”

“Because I'm going to drop you off on my way back.” Chat Noir is amused. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Hmm. Definitely.” Marinette musters the most genuine smile she can conjure. “You should go after the akuma.”

A pause. He looks hurt. “I wanted to check up on you. Akumas can be destroyed any moment. But you. . . you could use a friend right now.”

Oh, god. The F-word again.

Friend. Friend. Friend. Friend. Frien—

All her life, that's all she's going to be to someone. A friend. It was bad enough that Adrien had a special knack for this nickname, but now there's Chat in the mix too? What's wrong with her? Is it that she's not pretty enough? Is it that she's not smart enough?

Old insecurities and new cloud her mind like a windy summer afternoon. She almost feels like the little teenage girl she was, again, foolishly crying over the first time the tabloids reported ‘The Adrigami’ photo shoot.

They even have a fucking ship name!

“Is there something repulsive about me?”

“Huh?”

Marinette repeats again, pouring all her negative feelings into one biting sentence. “No, c'mon, be honest with me. What's with guys calling me their ‘friend’? There's Adrien, who just keeps on ‘friendzoning’ me. And now, you. Is it the way I walk? I talk? I behave?”

Chat Noir sputters bewilderedly. “Uh, I mean, what are you talking about? You're. . . Perfect. Literally.”

A hint of self-deprecating smile blooms on her lips. “Well, then, why? No guy wants to do anything with me. I'm 21, for crying out loud! Never had a boyfriend, never had an admirer, never a person to give me a red rose.”

“Princess, I know you're sad but you need to go home, okay?”

“I'm perfectly fine.” Marinette swats away his advancing hand. “Stop acting like you care about me. Y-you-you, stupid. . . ” Unlike Alya, who has the god-gifted ability to curse with fluency, Marinette finds it especially hard to swear when she's angry, “I hate you! Okay?”

“Hate me?” In his panic, his eyes widens, “W-why? Why are you talking like this?”

Why? Maybe it's because she needed to close the gaping hole in her heart after his rejection the other night. Maybe it's because she's desperate to find one good reason why she shouldn't let go of her sanity. Maybe it's because even after all of this, the one thing that would make her stay would be if someone cares for her.

It's crazy, she knows.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you.” Marinette breaks down into a fresh spasms of tears, and Chat Noir has to hold her wrist lightly. “Leave me alone!”

“Stop this. Stop! Stop it!” He shouts, all resemblance of his humorous character vanished. He is rumpled and red and furious. And he isn’t breathing at all well. “You think nobody likes you? You think that no one wants to do anything with you—” He breaks off again, a flush crossing the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Marinette watches the exact moment when his self-restraint snaps. Alarm jolts through her, and she lurches back, hitting the wall. Before she has even made a step, she finds herself cornered, his arms on both sides of her. And the smell of sweat dampened leather fills her nostrils.

“Did you know how many nights I spent? Huh? Thinking about you? Dreaming about you? You know how many times I almost dropped out of college? Trying to find wherever the hell you were! Did you know how your room was decorated with all the red roses on Valentine's Day? And how no one else in Paris could get them? Did you know who did the fireworks show on your birthday each year? Did you know how you got the—”

The realization of what he had said in the heat of the moment dawns on him, and Chat Noir abruptly pauses, his eyes widening. At his silence, Marinette smiles, putting her arms around his neck.

“I'm trying so hard,” She whispers, pressing her nose against his, “Every day, every way, I can. There's you. And him. And so many people in between. I'm trying. So, so, fucking much, you know.”

“Don't think. Don't.” Chat leans in, and the lights and the noise and the people disappear. The distance between them disappears. “It's a dangerous business.”

Suddenly, they were kissing each other.

Violent. Passionate. Years of longing. The empty hollow in their chest fulfilling the other's.

His lips press deeply against hers, and she presses deeply back. Their lips part. Their tongues meet. Both of them are hungry, deliriously so. Even with her eyes closed, the shape of his body flashes before her, lit by the city lights outside. Light, dark, light, dark. He tastes like grapes. He tastes like desire. He tastes like her deepest craving fulfilled.

He's panting when they force themselves apart. “I think— I think that puts rest to the question whether I find you desirable or not.”

Marinette does the first thing that comes to her mind. She breaks into a blind run.

~ Somewhere else, somewhere unknown.

“Interesting. . . Very much interesting indeed, Ms. Rossi. I'm glad to say that your hypothesis has become a proven theory as of this day. The girl. . . she wasn't akumatized like I thought she would. I must say,” the man swirls around the brandy in his snifter, his eyes gleaming even in the dark, “that I'm very pleased with your unique approach to our objective.”

“Oh, it's nothing!” A high-pitched laugh echoed through the room, “Now, for the second part of our plan. That's when both of our dreams will come true, won't they?”

Laughing, their glasses click in one perfect moment.

*

   So sorry for the delay. Actually, I went to an eye check-up and the doc said my lense power increased by a whole -1 point. So, mum threw a tantrum, my phone was seized and anyways, it sucked. From the next time, I will be regular on Tuesdays, I promise.

Thoughts on this chapter? Don't forget to vote and comment. I would really really appreciate it!

And also, do you think, I should split up the chapters? Do you guys face any problems reading these long chapters?

- Upama ♥