Worth The Wait - Chat Noir x Fem!Reader

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN - Respect All, Trust Few

"Don't make any bad decisions."

Word Count: 2713

I run my fingers over the delicate beading stretching over the expanse of my bodice, running into my skirt as it drops from my waist in layered ruffles. It paints me in a soft shade of my signature pink, accented by white accents like the pearls dripping from my neck and ears in simple elegance—a nod to my cover with Adrien where I was nearly bathed in the gems.

But... lately the lines have been blurred. It was my poor choices that ruined our relationship, from the second I drank more than I should've and my fingers destroyed every platonic thread between us.

Maybe I should lean into my budding feelings for him. Give up Chat. Born into unfathomable powers of destruction, he's only ever caused ruin and broken my heart.

And yet...

No matter who I am—Rena or myself—Chat has always enamored me. Adrien is sweet, but just too little. I wonder if he can be enough for me. If he can make me happy, the way Chat makes my heart pound with the adrenaline of a teenage romance.

For now, we're better as friends. I can fix my drunken mistakes.

I catch a flash of blonde hair further down the red carpet, a small smile tugging at my lips when my eyes meet a familiar green.

"You're here." It's an observation, but the light dancing in his eyes brightens my own expression. Adrien lowers his voice, out of earshot of the paparazzi. "A little later than expected."

"I had... a rough night. Just a little trouble sleeping."

His eyebrow quirks up in concern but a smirk tugs slightly at the corner of his lip as he turns to face the camera flashes, making sure not to step and dirty the train of my gown. "Why?"

"Some dream I had woke me up."

"Hm." Adrien murmured knowingly, his smile strangely wider. "Was it a good dream?"

"Terrible," I quipped, inwardly hiding a small self-serving smile. Adrien frowned but quickly replaced it with another dazzling smile in the face of the camera flashes.

Answering the sea of different voices, I posed myself by draping a hand on the inside of his forearm and leaned slightly into him. I felt him tense under my touch before the muscles under my hand relaxed. His arm reached around my posed form and rested nonchalantly against my hip, careful not to muse the fabric. Always the gentleman.

Moments of preening for the camera later, I patted the arm of his black suit and left in search of the inside of the venue.

The inside was an opulent display of wealth. Marble columns stretched upwards to the raised ceiling which was painted in a mosaic of rosy-cheeked cherubs frolicking among sun soaked clouds with various instruments. My heels clacked in a muted rhythm against the red banner stretching along the checkered floor. Reporters scuttled among the scattered groups of celebrities and alumni in the fashion industry, as attendants offered hors d'oeuvres to their indifferent faces.

A familiar blue-haired girl stood awkwardly near one of the servant entrances, holding a platter stacked with layers of colorful cupcakes. Marinette. But her familiar lopsided smile was absent from her face, replaced with an almost tearful expression.

The lacey cap on her head seemed wilted on top of her vibrant hair; a soft pink that matched her skirt and brightly juxtaposed to the dull black the rest of the staff was dressed in. Her black shirt and white apron matched the rest of the attendants, but it seemed like a prison to her. Less a humble job and instead one more obstacle to becoming a designer.