Chapter One
I wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Not the soft, gentle kind that feels like a lullaby — this rain is heavy, impatient, rattling the glass like it's demanding to be let in. The room is dim, the pale light that manages to seep through the curtains tinted by the ever-present gray clouds that hang over our Paris.
Some people say Paris is the City of Light. Those people have clearly never been here.
Not this Paris.
Here, the sky is always overcast, the Seine runs dark as ink, and smiles are rare currency — reserved for those who already have more than enough.
My name's Marinette Dupain-Cheng.
And life? Life's not some fairytale. It's a slow climb on a ladder that was never meant to hold you, while others stand on the top rungs kicking dust in your eyes.
I push the covers off and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The air is cold against my bare feet as they touch the wooden floor. My room is small — a bed, a narrow desk cluttered with half-finished sketches, and a single wardrobe that groans every time I open it.
I dress in my usual: dark jeans, gray hoodie, jacket over that. Nothing fancy. The less I stand out, the fewer targets I give them.
---
The smell of warm bread greets me as I head downstairs. The bakery is quiet this early — the shelves only half-filled, the air still thick with the steam of freshly baked loaves.
Dad's behind the counter, dusted in flour, kneading dough with strong, deliberate motions. Mom's at the stove, flipping eggs in a pan.
"Morning, sweetie," she says, smiling.
"Morning," I answer, sitting at the table. My voice comes out flat, but they're used to that.
"You've got your first day at Collège Victor Hugo today," Dad says without looking up. "You'll do great. Just… be yourself."
I poke at my breakfast. Be myself. That's easy to say when your "self" doesn't seem to be enough for anyone.
I eat in silence while my parents talk about the bakery — orders, rent, the usual worries. When I'm done, I sling my bag over my shoulder.
"I'm off," I mutter.
"Be safe!" Mom calls, same as every morning.
---
The streets are slick from the rain, the cobblestones shining under the dull morning light. I ride my scooter through narrow lanes, past shuttered cafés and graffiti-covered walls.
Halfway to school, I see her.
Chloé Bourgeois.
She's impossible to miss — blonde hair in perfect curls despite the damp air, a pale-yellow coat that probably costs more than our monthly rent. She's leaning against a sleek black car while her butler holds an umbrella over her head. Beside her, Sabrina — small, red-haired, carrying Chloé's designer handbag like it's a sacred relic — glances at me with something almost like pity.
I slow down, my heart thudding. If I'm quiet, maybe I can slip past—
Too late. Her gaze finds me.
"Ugh, look who it is," she says, her voice carrying even over the rain.
I stop, caught between fight and flight.
"You really should consider another route to school," Chloé says, eyes narrowing. "Seeing you first thing in the morning? Instant bad mood."
My grip on my scooter's handles tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping my mouth shut.
She steps closer, tilting her head. "Face it, Dupain-Cheng — you'll always be beneath me."
The black car pulls up to the curb. She smirks, turning away. "See you later, loser." She slides into the car while Sabrina hesitates for half a second, looking back at me before climbing in.
The door shuts. They're gone.
And I'm left standing in the rain, trying to shove the frustration down deep enough so it doesn't spill out where anyone can see.
---
Collège Victor Hugo looms ahead — tall, gray, and cold-looking. I pause at the gate, forcing a slow breath. It's fine. Just get through today. Keep your head down.
Inside, the hall is bustling — lockers slam, students chatter, shoes squeak on the polished floor.
"Hey! You new here?"
I turn to see a girl with deep brown skin, a cascade of dark curls, and rectangular glasses. She's grinning. "I'm Alya. And you are…?"
"Marinette," I say, surprised at the warmth in her tone.
We walk together toward our classroom, chatting about nothing in particular — favorite foods, the weird smell of the gym. For the first time that day, my shoulders relax a little.
Class passes in a blur. Alya sits next to me, whispering little jokes during the lesson that almost make me laugh out loud. Almost.
---
After school, Alya has to rush off to meet someone, so I'm alone when I step into the courtyard. And of course, she's there.
Chloé.
"Well, well," she says, blocking my path with Sabrina in tow. "The loser survived her first day. Barely."
"Not in the mood," I mutter, trying to walk past.
"Oh, I don't care about your mood." Her smirk widens. "Just thought I'd remind you where you stand around here."
I keep moving, but every step feels heavier. Their laughter follows me out the gate.
---
The streets are quieter now, the rain just a drizzle. I'm halfway home when I hear a voice.
"You don't deserve that."
I stop. A figure stands in the mouth of an alley — a girl in a dark coat, hood pulled low, a simple black mask hiding most of her face. I can't tell who she is, but her voice… it's smooth, almost kind.
"I saw how they treated you," she says, stepping closer. "People like that… they think they can walk all over you. Because you let them."
I bristle. "What do you know about it?"
"Enough," she says, and from her pocket she draws something small. She holds it out — a pair of earrings, black with crimson spots, gleaming even in the dim light.
"This," she says, "can change everything. No one will look down on you again."
I stare at them, my breath catching. "What is it?"
"Think of it as… an opportunity. Take it, and you'll have the power to make the world see you. Fear you, if you want."
I hesitate. "Why me?"
She smiles faintly. "Why not?"
The earrings are cool in my palm. I don't even remember deciding to take them — I just do.
She steps back into the shadows. "You'll thank me later."
And she's gone.
---
Home smells of bread and sugar, but it feels… muted. Mom looks up from the counter. "How was your first day?"
"The worst," I say, kicking off my shoes. Before they can reply, I head for the stairs. "I'm going to my room."
They glance at each other — a silent conversation — then Dad says, "It's fine. First days are always hard." They go back to their work.
I close my bedroom door, sit on the edge of my bed, and look down at my hand. The earrings rest in my palm, gleaming softly.
If what she said was true…
I could stop being invisible.
I could stop being weak.
I could stop being beneath her.
The rain patters against the window. I close my fingers around the earrings and whisper to the empty room:
"Maybe it's time."