After Lila had been escorted out of the building, Nino blasted music, and the party picked up like nothing had happened. The tension, once thick enough to slice with a knife, had dissolved into laughter and music. The only real evidence of the chaos was the faint mark on Chloé's cheek—now expertly concealed with a bit of concealer, courtesy of Marinette.

"Thanks again for sticking up for me, Chloé," Marinette said as she zipped her makeup bag shut. "I know we haven't always gotten along, but I'm really glad you invited me tonight."

Chloé gave a dramatic toss of her hair, but her expression was softer than usual. "Well, she was being completely ridiculous—utterly unbearable—and I couldn't stand having someone like her at my party." She paused, voice dropping a notch. "If I had known she'd cause all that drama, I never would've invited her."

Marinette smiled, touched by the honesty. "It's okay. I'm just glad someone finally told her off in front of everyone. She is a bitch."

Chloé let out a laugh—sharp, amused, and maybe just a little surprised. "Right? Finally, someone says it."

The two girls chuckled as they made their way back toward the ballroom. The end of a pop song echoed through the speakers, fading out in a sweep of synth and clapping beats. Nino stood by the soundboard, grinning as he adjusted the settings and leaned toward the mic.

"I think he's about to play a slow song," Chloé said, nudging Marinette with her elbow. Her eyes flicked across the room. "Perfect timing."

Nino's voice boomed over the mic: "Allll righty, everyone. This next one's a slow jam—so grab your partner, hold on tight, and get ready to dance!"

Before Marinette could turn and escape into the crowd, Chloé caught her wrist with lightning speed and tugged her toward the dessert table.

"Oh, Adrikins! There you are!" Chloé chirped, voice syrupy with mischief. Adrien looked up mid-bite, holding a passionfruit macaron halfway to his mouth. "Marinette's been looking for you. She wants to dance!"

Marinette's face lit up in a wave of crimson. "N-No! Not with y—er—I mean—yes—but—uh—"

But Chloé was already gone, slipping into the crowd with a wink and a satisfied little smirk.

Adrien chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Would you want to?" he asked, offering his hand. His voice was gentle, almost shy. "Dance?"

Marinette nodded, barely able to find her voice. "Y-Yeah. I'd love to."

He led her toward the floor as the soft notes of a love song drifted through the speakers. The world seemed to hush around them, the voices and laughter dimming as if the music had cast a bubble over the two of them.

As they stepped into rhythm, Adrien's hand found the small of Marinette's back, her fingers curling lightly against his shoulder. It was familiar and new all at once.

It reminded him—vividly—of another moment, not too long ago. Another birthday party. Chloé's, back at the start of lycée. The ballroom had looked different then, decked out in gold and silver, but the feeling was the same. That night, too, had ended with them dancing slowly beneath the glittering lights.

He remembered how Marinette had tripped over her words, how his heart had stuttered a little as she'd looked up at him, eyes wide with nervous joy. Back then, things had been simpler. Complicated in different ways, maybe—but untouched by akumas and lies and stolen time.

"You remember Chloé's birthday party from first year?" he asked softly, swaying with her.

Marinette blinked, then laughed quietly. "The one where I accidentally spilled soda on your suit jacket?"

"And then you apologized twelve times in one minute."

"I was mortified."

"I thought it was cute," Adrien said, grinning. "You didn't even realize we danced that night."

Marinette's breath caught.

She looked up at him, her mouth parting slightly. "I—I didn't. I mean, I knew we danced, but I didn't think you remembered."

He shrugged, the smile lingering. "Of course I did."

They moved together in the dim light, each step quiet and sure. For once, there was no pressure. No masks, no expectations, no games. Just the music, and the warmth of each other's hands.

And somewhere near the dessert table, Chloé watched them, arms folded and eyebrows raised, before turning back to Sabrina with a smug grin.

"About time," she muttered.

The song faded into soft applause and chatter as couples slowly drifted apart, returning to the bustle of the ballroom. Adrien and Marinette lingered for a moment longer, reluctant to let go. Then Nino's voice cut through the microphone again, upbeat and commanding.

"Okay, party people! You know what time it is—it's cake o'clock!"

A cheer rippled through the room. The lights dimmed, replaced by the warm glow of candles as a towering cake was wheeled into the center of the ballroom on a gleaming silver cart. The cake was absurdly on-brand: three tiers of pale gold and ivory with sugar-paste peonies, edible pearls, and a glittering "C" on top. It was, unmistakably, a Chloé Bourgeois creation.

Chloé made her way to the front, flanked by Sabrina and Rose, who had both taken it upon themselves to arrange the crowd. Juleka hovered nearby with her phone raised for pictures, and Kim attempted to light sparklers before Max wisely confiscated them.

"Okay! Everyone ready?" Nino called. "On three! One... two... THREE!"

The crowd burst into song.

🎵 Joyeux anniversaire, joyeux anniversaire... 🎵

Chloé stood still in front of the cake, the flickering candles casting golden halos across her face. For once, she didn't pose or preen. She just stood there, eyes blinking in the warm light, lips parted in a quiet kind of awe. She didn't say anything—but Marinette, watching from the front of the crowd with Adrien at her side, could see it: the way Chloé's chin tilted up, just a little, like she was holding back tears.

Happy birthday, dear Chloé...

As the final line echoed out, Chloé took a deep breath and leaned forward. With one elegant puff, she blew out the candles. The room erupted into claps and cheers.

"And now—presents!" Chloé announced, her voice snapping back into its usual theatrical flair. "Try not to be too jealous."

Everyone laughed as Sabrina helped her carry over the table where the gifts were piled high—carefully wrapped boxes in white and gold, tied with silk ribbons. It was excessive, even by Chloé's standards, but it wasn't just the quantity. This year, the gifts were different. There were handmade cards. Framed photos. A drawing from Mylène and Ivan of the Eiffel Tower at night with a glittering birthday message above it. A book of pressed flowers from Rose and Juleka. A limited-edition record from Nino.

"Okay," Chloé said, holding up a small lavender box. "Who dares to go first?"

"That one's mine," Marinette said, stepping forward. "Open it carefully."

Chloé raised an eyebrow but obeyed, peeling back the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside was a delicate gold charm bracelet—simple, tasteful, nothing too showy. But attached to it was a tiny enamel bee, hand-painted, wings outstretched mid-flight.

For a long second, Chloé didn't say anything.

"It's not real gold or anything," Marinette added quickly. "But—I thought you'd like it."

Chloé's fingers closed around the charm, gentle. "I do," she said softly. "I really, really do." Then she looked up and added, "Don't get mushy on me, Dupain-Cheng. I'm still better dressed."

Marinette grinned. "Not tonight, you're not."

The night rolled on with laughter, cake slices passed around, more dancing, and the occasional dramatic gasp when Chloé opened a particularly lavish gift. But as the gifts dwindled and the music softened into background ambiance, Chloé slipped the bracelet around her wrist and gave it a single glance, turning her hand so the tiny bee caught the light.

She didn't say it aloud, but the thought stayed with her the rest of the night: she couldn't remember the last time her birthday had felt like this. Real. Fun. Honest.

Like something she wanted to remember.

The night had unraveled into something warm and golden, a memory-in-the-making. As the last song faded into a lazy acoustic melody, Alya rounded up the stragglers like a determined general.

"Okay, everyone, final group photo before we all turn into pumpkins!" she called, brandishing her phone.

Groans and laughter echoed from every corner of the ballroom. A few people—Nino, Kim, Max—had kicked off their shoes hours ago. Rose was already wrapped in a blanket someone had pulled from the coat room. Adrien was helping Chloé gather her gifts, but as soon as Alya called again, he gave a little wave and jogged over to where Marinette was standing.

"Come on," he said, his eyes bright with that sleepy kind of joy. "One more for the memories."

They all squeezed in on the grand staircase—Chloé front and center, arms looped around Sabrina and Ivan. Alya perched halfway up, snapping burst after burst, barking cheerful commands.

"Juleka, lean in. Adrien, closer to Marinette—yes, yes, perfect!"

Marinette laughed, cheeks warm, as Adrien's arm slipped around her waist without thinking. She could feel his breath on her temple, gentle and steady. For one moment, she let herself lean into it. Just a little.

Click. Click. Flash.

"Okay," Alya declared. "That one's a keeper."

A few people clapped. Most just yawned. It was almost 1 a.m.

Goodbyes were drawn out, the way they always were after a good party. There were half-hearted promises to meet for brunch, reminders about group projects, and quiet hugs in doorways. Chloé stood beside the grand staircase in her fluffy slippers now, opening her arms wide as people trickled past.

"Thank you all for coming," she said, a little hoarse but undeniably sincere. "You've made this night... bearable. I mean that."

Marinette hugged her on the way out. "Happy birthday, Chloé."

"Thanks. And... thanks again. For everything."

Outside, Paris was wrapped in a soft hush, the kind that only came this late—when the cars had stopped, and the stars were brave enough to peek out between the clouds. Adrien offered his arm, and Marinette didn't hesitate. She took it, letting him walk her home through the sleepy streets of the 8th arrondissement.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. Their footsteps echoed gently against the pavement, in rhythm. Twice Adrien glanced at her, smiling quietly. Once she caught him and looked away, her stomach flipping like it always did when he looked at her like that.

When they reached her building, she turned to him.

"Thanks for walking me."

"Of course," he said, stepping back a little, hands in his pockets. "I had a really great time tonight. Mostly because of you."

Marinette swallowed. Her heart hurt in the most beautiful way. "Me too."

He smiled, soft and crooked. "Bonne nuit, Marinette."

"Bonne nuit, Adrien."

She didn't watch him walk away.

By the time she climbed the stairs to her room and tiptoed inside, the party felt like a dream—glittering and distant. She slipped out of her heels, brushed her hair with trembling fingers, and went up the ladder to the terrace for one last breath of night air.

That's when she saw it.

Sitting on the railing—too deliberate to be the wind—was a folded piece of paper, held down by a tiny red thread wrapped around a bolt. Her stomach dropped.

She snatched it up with shaking hands.

I'm sorry for the secrets, the lies that I hide,
For betraying your trust and the truth you deserve to find.
I know who Monarch is, though I cannot say,
But I will leave you hints along the way.
Look closely, be patient, and trust what you see—
The answers you seek will soon come to be.

Marinette froze, the paper trembling between her fingers.

A cold gust of wind blew past, lifting her hair.

How could she have been so careless? A slow dance, a laugh, the way Adrien looked at her like she was the only one in the room—it had all felt so real. And that was the problem. She wanted it to be real.

But she couldn't afford to want. Not anymore.

Not when every moment of happiness made her vulnerable. Not when someone was watching. Waiting. Always just a step behind.

Her hands balled into fists.

She heading back down to her bed, closing the trapdoor behind her. Her heartbeat was too loud, too wild, but her face was blank now. Composed.

Adrien couldn't be her priority.

Not tonight. Not ever.

Not while his cousin was sending her on a scavenger hunt towards Monarch's identity.