Under Oath | Ladynoir ✓

11 | téléphoner

THE PAPARAZZI GOT THEIR HANDS on a photograph of Adrien.

"I mean, at least you looked good in the picture," Nino consoled on their group call.

Marinette couldn't help but agree.

Adrien was the pinnacle of Parisian style on a balcony of Le Grand Paris. Someone had snapped the photograph from across the street, capturing a flash of blonde hair and white button-up. Even the hazy resolution was not enough to hide the artful drapery of the blue scarf around his neck and the elegant slope of his nose, angled down to the textbooks on the bistro table.

Within a day of the photo hitting social media, it had appeared on as many news sites as Hot Boys of Paris thirst pages. (Usually Marinette would have printed out and pinned to her wall any picture as heart-stopping as this one, but this time the picture was nothing but bad news.)

It was unfair that Adrien looked that beautiful candidly—just like he did now, nestled on the same couch that she'd seen him passed out, the same couch that bore witness to their first interview yesterday. Marinette adjusted the cushion on her chaise longue and shuffled up to lean against the back, balancing her phone between her knees.

"Thanks, Nino," Adrien said, rolling his eyes bashfully.

His voice came a nanosecond after his lips moved on her phone screen, occupying the upper left rectangular cell. Nino's face—cast at a very low angle with two chins, since he was lying in bed—was next to Adrien's, while Alya and herself hovered below.

Since Adrien was barred from returning to school until at least the pretrial hearing, these group video calls had become Marinette's desperate attempts to keep him close, to keep him from drifting into vodka and other bad habits. They were lifelines that she flung out with ceaseless fervour and false positivity, trying to buoy Adrien above the waves.

If only he would grab on instead of insisting he didn't need help.

"Are you doing okay?" Nino asked, referencing what had happened after the balcony photo reached the paparazzi and media.

"Yes, of course," Adrien assured, a serene smile on his face. The smile was meant to soothe his friends, but Marinette didn't buy it. How could he act so carefree now, especially considering what was taking place right outside the hotel?

"You look ‌rough," Nino said.

Adrien waved a dismissive hand. "The chanting woke me up early, that's all. But they'll go home, eventually."

Within a few hours of the photo going live, the press swarmed the hotel.

The world finally knew where Adrien Agreste was hiding in custody, and it became hungry.

Any French publication or news channel that claimed a shred of legitimacy was covering the Agreste trial. It was such a scandal, the intersection of old money, power and Paris' elite. Right on the tail of the extremely topical Paris Fashion Week, too—which had suffered mass boycotts by sponsors, designers and models alike in response to Gabriel's crimes.

The Agreste complex appeared in the headlines of a concerning amount of webpages, whatever that meant, even though Hawk Moth was no longer a hot topic. Gabriel Agreste was not controversial because everyone unanimously knew he was evil.

But Adrien Agreste. . .

Paris was driving herself crazy, trying to figure out the now-mysterious teenager. Tabloids wanted pictures and the news crews wanted interviews, both armed with cameras and vans along the kerbside of Le Grand. How much of his golden child image was a ruse?

"Didn't they learn their lesson about stalking you?" Nino went on. "Especially at Le Grand. Chloé is going to pin their testicles to the wall."

"Chloé doesn't have to," Alya remarked soberly. "Adrien has more than enough people looking out for him."