The announcement went live at noon.
Adrien watched it happen from a glass-walled conference room, his reflection layered over the headline like a ghost trapped inside the screen.
ADRIEN AGRESTE CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP WITH ACTRESS CLARA NIGHTINGALE
Clara smiled beside him in the photo—perfect, luminous, rehearsed. The image had been taken months ago, pulled from an archive and repurposed into something new. Something false.
Adrien had learned how easily the past could be rewritten.
"This stabilizes things," the PR consultant said. "The public responds well to familiarity."
Adrien didn't respond at all.
Across the table, Gabriel nodded once. Satisfied.
"Remember," his father said, voice low and precise, "this is temporary. Play your part, and it will pass."
Adrien stared at his hands. They were steady. He felt hollow anyway.
Luka found out the same way everyone else did.
A notification. A headline. Adrien's name pressed up against someone else's like it had always belonged there.
He didn't throw his phone.
He set it down carefully, like it might cut him if he wasn't gentle.
The studio felt too quiet. Luka picked up his guitar without sitting down, fingers moving on instinct, chasing something sharp enough to match the pressure building behind his ribs.
The first chord came out wrong.
He didn't stop.
He played until the sound turned rough, then rougher, until the melody bent under the weight of everything he hadn't said. It wasn't meant to be a song. It became one anyway.
By the time he stopped, his hands ached.
He recorded it once. No polish. No edits. Just sound.
He didn't attach a name.
He uploaded it that night.
Adrien heard the song alone.
It found him the way everything else had—through someone else's screen, someone else's curiosity. Nino sent the link with no commentary. Marinette sent a single message after.
Are you okay?
Adrien closed his door before pressing play.
The guitar came in slow and deliberate, each note heavy with restraint. The melody was unfamiliar, but the feeling wasn't. It was the same ache that had followed him since that night in the bar, sharpened into something almost unbearable.
Halfway through, Adrien had to sit down.
There were no lyrics, but he heard them anyway.
I see you.I know what they took.I know what you didn't choose.
His vision blurred.
When the final note faded, Adrien realized he was crying—silent, controlled, the way he'd been taught.
He typed Luka's name into the message bar.
Nothing came.
The song went viral by morning.
No title. No explanation. Just a faceless video of hands on strings and sound that refused to be ignored. Fans speculated wildly. Some connected it to the fashion show. Some connected it to Adrien.
The press noticed the timing.
Gabriel noticed the implication.
"This is a problem," he said.
Adrien stood across from him, exhausted. "It's just music."
Gabriel's gaze sharpened. "Nothing is just anything."
Adrien didn't argue. He didn't have the strength.
They crossed paths a week later.
It happened by accident—or maybe it didn't. Paris had a way of circling people back to the things they avoided.
Luka stood outside a small venue, case slung over his shoulder, when Adrien stepped out of a black car across the street. Cameras followed him like shadows. Clara laughed at something he said, fingers resting possessively on his arm.
Adrien saw Luka anyway.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the noise fell away.
Then Clara spoke, sharp and curious. "Who's that?"
Adrien looked at her. Then back at Luka.
"Someone I almost was brave enough for," he said quietly.
Luka looked away first.
Adrien didn't blame him.