Chapter Text
Adrien
When the bell finally rings, I don’t even wait for Marinette to pack up before I’m out the door.
I do feel a little bad for calling her a bitch. It came out harsher than I meant it to. But honestly? She was acting like one the entire class. Correcting me every five seconds, rolling her eyes, talking to me like I was an idiot. I’m not proud of what I said, but I can’t exactly bring myself to regret it either.
At least she didn’t talk to me after that. The rest of the period went by in silence, which was a relief. The pendulum worked fine, the data checked out, and I managed not to throw the stopwatch at her, so I’m counting it as a win.
By the time the day ends, I’m more than ready to forget about school for a bit. My literature test from earlier comes back with a 93%. That’s a small victory, one I didn’t realize I needed until now.
But the universe never lets me relax for long.
Because when I step out of the dorms later that afternoon, the first thing I see is the sleek black town car parked by the gates. The driver in a suit. The silver crest on the door.
My stomach sinks.
Of course.
Gabriel Agreste doesn’t call. He sends a car.
The driver spots me immediately and opens the door with a polite bow. “Mr. Agreste, your father requested your presence at the London residence for the weekend. He said it’s urgent.”
Of course he did. It’s always urgent when it involves cameras.
“Right,” I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder and sliding into the back seat. The door shuts behind me with a soft, expensive click.
The drive feels longer than usual, even though it’s only three hours. I watch the trees blur past the tinted windows, the city melting into clean, glassy streets as we approach the Agreste estate.
When we finally pull into the driveway, I can already see the staff moving around, prepping lights, tables, floral arrangements… The usual circus setup for whatever event my father’s orchestrated this time.
The driver opens my door, but I just sit there for a second, staring at the reflection of the mansion in the car window. I hate this place.
Not because it’s big or cold or empty, though it’s definitely all of those things, but because it feels like stepping back into a version of myself I’ve been trying to escape.
The perfect son. The model. The accessory.
Here, I don’t get to be Adrien. I’m just Agreste.
I finally step out, straightening my jacket as one of the assistants rushes up to greet me. “Welcome back, Adrien! Your father’s waiting in the studio. The interviews start in an hour.”
“Of course they do,” I mutter under my breath.
I follow her through the front doors, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by marble floors and high ceilings. The smell of cologne and sterile air fills the halls. Everything’s spotless, lifeless, like no one’s ever actually lived here.
When I finally reach my room, I toss my bag onto the bed and collapse beside it, staring up at the chandelier overhead.
It’s strange. A week ago, all I wanted was to leave school, to get a break from the constant noise, the people, the homework. But now… all I can think about is how quiet it is here. Too quiet.
Just as I start to relax, the door slams open without so much as a knock.
“Adrien!” My father’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. He’s standing in the doorway, perfectly composed, but his tone carries that sharp impatience I’ve known my whole life. “You need to get dressed. Hair, makeup, everything. We have a crew waiting downstairs for your statement.”
I blink, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “Statement? About what?”
Gabriel doesn’t answer right away. He’s already pulling out his phone, scrolling through something with the focus of someone who doesn’t have time to explain. “About the partnership with Visonaré Eyewear. The press needs to see that you’re enthusiastic, that this transition is seamless. We’ve gone over this, Adrien. You’ll keep it brief yet professional.”
I clench my jaw. Of course. A new brand. A new deal. A new script for me to memorize and pretend I care about.
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Gabriel’s gaze lifts from his phone, cold and sharp. “You’ve already been absent from two campaigns this semester. I will not have you look ungrateful. You represent this family.”
The word family feels hollow coming from him.
I drag a hand down my face, pushing myself to stand. “Fine. Whatever.”
“Good. Nathalie and the stylist team are waiting in the interview room. Don’t be late.”
He turns and walks out without another word, his footsteps fading down the hall.
I stare at the doorway for a long time before I stand up, tugging my shirt off and pulling on the crisp white one laid out for me by some assistant earlier. The fabric smells like starch and money.
As I button the collar, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The perfect posture. The practiced smile. The Agreste heir.
Downstairs, the “interview room” is already lit up like a movie set. Giant studio lights bathe the sleek white space in artificial warmth, and cameras are arranged in perfect symmetry around a pair of leather chairs. A small table between them holds two matching glasses of sparkling water. Untouched, like props.
I walk in quietly, every step echoing against the polished marble floor. My father’s already seated, perfectly straight backed, his expression unreadable as a makeup artist dusts powder over his face. The stylist catches sight of me and rushes over, fixing my collar and brushing invisible lint from my jacket before I even sit down.
“Hair’s fine,” I mutter, but she ignores me, adjusting a strand until it falls just right.
When she finally steps back, I take my seat beside my father. The smell of cologne and foundation hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the faint electrical buzz from the lights.
Gabriel doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. He’s scrolling through his tablet again, rehearsing notes or skimming through potential questions. “Smile when they start,” he says flatly. “But don’t overdo it. Subtlety conveys sincerity.”
I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay.”
He finally glances up, his gaze sharp. “Adrien, this partnership is important. Visonaré expects professionalism. I won’t tolerate the kind of impulsiveness you’ve been showing lately.”
Impulsiveness. Right.
Before I can respond, the production assistant’s voice cuts through the air. “We’re live in five!”
The camera crew takes their places. A man in a headset counts down from behind the monitor, and suddenly, all the tension I’d been holding in knots in my chest.
Three. Two. One.
The red light flicks on.
“Good evening,” the interviewer begins, her voice smooth and professional. “We’re here with Gabriel and Adrien Agreste to discuss their exciting new partnership with Visonaré Eyewear.”
I plaster on a smile and nod politely as she continues.
“It’s wonderful to see you both again,” she says. “Gabriel, tell us a bit about how this collaboration came to be.”
My father launches into his scripted explanation, every word crisp and rehearsed. I’ve heard him give the same kind of speech a hundred times. The brand, the innovation, the future of design, all of it blending into one long, polished monologue.
When it’s my turn, the interviewer turns to me with a smile that feels just as practiced as mine. “And Adrien, how do you feel about being the new face of Visonaré?”
I open my mouth automatically, the lines I’d been fed ready to spill out.
“I’m honored,” I say smoothly, forcing the smile wider. “Visonaré represents creativity and confidence, values I try to carry in my own work.”
Gabriel nods approvingly beside me, and I know I’ve said exactly what he wanted to hear.
The camera flashes, capturing a perfect frame. Father and son, side by side.
When the interview finally wraps, I’m halfway out of my seat before my father even finishes shaking the interviewer’s hand. I want to bolt upstairs, change out of this suffocating suit, and pretend tonight didn’t happen.
But, of course, Gabriel isn’t done.
“Tomorrow morning,” he says casually, as if he’s discussing the weather, “I’ve arranged a little… publicity stroll for you. You’ll walk down Regent Street around eight. A crew will be there to capture a few candid photos… Coffee in hand, casual outfit, the new Visonaré glasses. Very performative, but necessary.”
My stomach turns. “You hired paparazzi?”
He adjusts his cufflinks without looking at me. “They prefer the term press partners*.* It’s harmless, Adrien. A few photos to make you look accessible, grounded, and authentic. The public eats that up.”
“Authentic,” I repeat, trying not to laugh. “You mean fake.”
“Watch your tone,” he says quietly, his gaze sharp. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to stay silent. There’s no point arguing. There never is.
“Be ready by seven,” he adds, already turning toward the exit. “Wardrobe will have your outfit prepared.”
The door closes behind him, and for a long moment, I just sit there, staring at the empty space where he’d been standing.
Candid photos. Coffee in hand. A smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
All staged, all scripted, just like everything else.
.
The next morning, I wake up before my alarm.
I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom, the floor freezing under my feet. I turn on the faucet, splashing my face with water before reaching for the cleanser sitting neatly on the counter. I don’t even have to think about the steps anymore. Cleanser, toner, moisturizer. My father’s team made sure I learned the importance of “camera ready skin” years ago.
Then, I grab the cold metal gua sha from the edge of the sink and run it along my jawline, under my eyes, down my neck. Slow, practiced movements helps get rid of the morning puffiness, and honestly, it feels grounding.
When I’m done, I run a hand through my hair, applying a bit of product and brushing it into place until it looks naturally styled… which, of course, takes effort.
By the time I step back into my room, the outfit is already laid out on the bed. Wardrobe must’ve come in while I was showering.
A dark gray Apple Watch sits on the dresser beside my glasses. I’ve never worn it before. Probably another brand tie in my father forgot to mention. A pair of gray and white New Balances, black baggy jeans, a silver chain, and a white button down with vertical gray stripes sit gently folded.
Casual, but polished. Just “relatable” enough to sell the illusion.
I stare at it for a long second before exhaling and pulling the shirt off its hanger. The fabric’s soft but stiff with starch, smelling faintly of detergent and something synthetic.
I button it halfway, tucking the hem loosely into the jeans, then clip the chain around my neck. The watch feels foreign on my wrist, way heavier than it looks.
When I finish getting dressed, I take another glance in the mirror. I look… perfect.
After making my way down the stairs, the driver’s waiting by the door, as usual. He gives a polite nod and opens it for me.
“Your father requested you meet the crew at the corner cafe,” he says. “They’ll be expecting you.”
Of course they will.
Time to play the part.
The driver drops me off at the cafe, and I walk inside. There, I see Nathalie and a few other people I don't know.
"Morning, Adrien." Nathalie doesn’t waste time, handing me an iced coffee in a clear cup. Her tone is crisp, controlled. Every word clipped and rehearsed, like this is just another line in the endless Agreste script.
“First, walk outside and put the glasses on,” she says, holding out the pair of sleek black Visonaré shades. “Then start walking casually at a slow, natural pace. And sip your coffee every now and then. Make it look like you’re just… enjoying your Saturday morning.”
She glances down at the clipboard in her hands, flipping to a page covered in printed notes and arrows. “After that, you’ll check the time on your watch… product placement, of course… and then continue walking down the street. We have a pretty girl sitting on a bench about halfway down. She’s one of our hired extras. Just stop for a second, give her an autograph, make small talk, and then move along.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A hired fan?”
Nathalie doesn’t even look up. “Yes. It makes the photos feel more personal.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Because nothing says personal like pre-scheduled human interaction.”
She ignores the sarcasm with a sigh and continues, “After that, head toward the local flower shop, the small one on the corner. Buy a bouquet. Any set that looks good with your outfit will work. It makes you seem like you support small businesses. Then the driver will be waiting for you at the end of the street.”
I blink. “You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?”
She finally meets my eyes, expression unreadable behind her glasses. “This isn’t new, Adrien. You know how this works. Smile if people approach you. Be polite. Take pictures if fans ask. But don’t acknowledge the paparazzi, just pretend you don’t see them. This is supposed to look candid.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee, mostly to give myself something to do other than sigh. “And if someone actually recognizes me? Like a real fan, not one you hired?”
“Then be nice,” Nathalie says simply. “You’re good at that part.”
The compliment sounds more like an instruction.
“So… coffee, sunglasses, autograph, flowers, fake smile. Got it.”
“Don’t make it sound so grim,” Nathalie replies, though there’s the faintest hint of amusement at the corner of her mouth. “It’s ten minutes of work, Adrien. Then you can disappear for the rest of the day.”
That part, at least, sounds tempting.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Let’s get it over with.”
She nods, stepping aside so I can head toward the door. “And Adrien—”
I glance back.
“Try to look happy.”
I slip on the glasses, hiding my expression behind tinted lenses. “Alright,” I say softly, pushing open the door and stepping into the sunlight.
The London air hits me the second I step outside. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the sunlight hit my face.
I slip the glasses on and take my first slow step down the sidewalk, iced coffee in hand. The straw clicks lightly against the lid as I take a sip, ignoring the bitter taste. My reflection flashes in the glass storefronts as I pass.
I can already feel the lenses of cameras trained on me from somewhere nearby. They’re good. Hidden, but not really. There’s one across the street pretending to read a newspaper and another down the block pretending to tie his shoe. I keep my head high and eyes forward.
The trick to looking candid is pretending you don’t care.
So I don’t.
I take another sip, check my watch like I actually have somewhere to be, and shove my free hand into my pocket. The click of my shoes against the pavement blends with the hum of morning traffic, and for a second, I almost convince myself I am just some guy walking to class, grabbing coffee, living life.
Then I spot her, the “pretty girl” Nathalie mentioned.
She’s sitting on a park bench a few meters ahead, blonde curls and a soft pastel dress, pretending to scroll on her phone. When she looks up and sees me, she gives the perfect surprised gasp, clutching a pen and notebook like it’s pure coincidence.
Showtime.
I walk over, pulling the polite, practiced smile from muscle memory. “Hi there,” I say smoothly. “You want an autograph?”
Her cheeks flush on cue. “Oh my gosh, Adrien Agreste? I—I didn’t think I’d actually see you!”
She’s good. Not overly dramatic, just enough for the cameras. I take the pen, sign the notebook with a quick flourish, and hand it back. “Glad you did,” I say, voice light. “Hope you have a great day.”
She beams, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s actually flustered. “You too!”
And that’s that.
I walk away, keeping my expression casual, even though my stomach twists with secondhand embarrassment.
At the end of the block, the tiny flower shop comes into view its windows cluttered with potted plants and fading handwritten signs. The doorbell jingles as I step inside, the air immediately filled with the scent of roses and eucalyptus.
A woman behind the counter looks up, startled. “Oh! You’re—”
I raise a hand quickly. “Hi, I just need a bouquet.”
She blinks, then nods, visibly flustered but kind. “Of course, dear. Any particular kind?”
I glance at the rows of flowers, then at my reflection in the shop window. The white shirt. The chain. The watch. Everything about me screams calculated. So I point to the first thing that looks… real.
“Those,” I say, nodding toward a small bunch of sunflowers tied with string.
The woman smiles softly as she wraps them in brown paper. “Lovely choice. They’re bright.”
“I agree,” I murmur, handing her cash from my pocket. "They're perfect.”
When I step back onto the sidewalk, the sunlight catches the petals, making them glow. Cameras flash from somewhere behind me, but I keep walking. No smile this time.
By the time I reach the end of the street, the driver’s waiting like Nathalie said he would, the car door already open.
I climb in, setting the flowers beside me, and exhale deeply as the car pulls away from the curb.
Ten minutes. Just ten minutes of pretending.