The call still wasn’t going through.

“Alya, please pick up,” Marinette muttered, pacing just outside the staff hallway, fingers trembling around her phone. She’d begged her maman for a break right after the fall, just long enough to breathe and call her best friend.

But no answer.

In the small, crowded staff break room, her heart sank. The phone had disappeared.

With frantic energy, she searched everywhere—the cushions, shelves, even under the coffee table. Nothing. Panic rising in her throat, she spun to one of the other servers.

“Did anyone take a black phone? Sleek, heavy, kind of expensive-looking?”

The girl blinked. “Oh. Yes, someone did, saying it was meant for their sibling. She looked fancy, foxy eyes, long brown hair... real pretty.”

Marinette’s blood ran cold. Lila.

Of course it was her. Of course that lying, scheming, snake had taken the phone. Panic was not an option. No time to breathe.

Weaving through the throng, she dashed back into the ballroom. She spotted her, half-hidden behind the central marble pillar.

With clasped hands, Lila Rossi sweetly chatted with Damian Wayne, acting like old childhood friends. Laughing. Smiling. Surrounded by elites like she belonged.

Marinette seethed, hidden behind the pillar. She didn’t belong. Not near him, not near that phone. Not with her secrets in it.

That phone couldn’t stay in Lila’s hands. Not for another minute.

She had to do something. Anything.

Think fast, Marinette.

The sight alone made her jaw clench. Her fists balled at her sides. Her nostrils flared. Eyes narrowed. Lila’s voice, her smile, too fake. Too smooth.

What to do?

Then,champagne. A tray. Glasses. A glint of idea sparked. Risky. Reckless. For Alya’s secrets, her own, and the truth, she would make the sacrifice. Illegal or not.

She walked to the staff table, claimed a tray and a bottle of champagne, and set them down with the air of someone who belonged. Head high. Smile steady. Walk crisp. She mingled among guests, gliding past laughter and twirling dresses. Unseen. Unbothered.

The event was in full swing now. Music played. The dance floor filled.

There. Just a meter away. Lila and Damian, caught up in conversation, unaware. Marinette hovered behind a small group of guests, half-hidden, breath caught.

Time for the plan.

Balancing the tray, Marinette gasped and stumbled. A faux fall, practiced but chaotic. Water flew, splashing onto a horrified guest. A shriek followed. Gasps echoed. Startled confusion filled the room.

Perfect.

While the chaos bloomed like wildfire, she slipped through—silent, swift, unnoticed. With wide eyes, onlookers murmured, turning to the scene she’d left. No one noticed her weave past Lila and Damian.

One smooth nudge of Lila’s side—gentle, feigned clumsiness—and her fingers found the phone. Years of designing in cramped quarters gave her the skill to snatch the device with a single, practiced wrist flick.

Her heart pounded. She dared a glance—it was the Wayne tech phone.

Success.

But before she could celebrate, before she could disappear into the crowd, a hand caught hers. Firm. Inevitable.

Green eyes stared down at her.

Brushed-up black hair. Expensive cologne that curled in her nose. Damian.

Her stomach sank. Not again.

“You’re persistent, aren’t you? What’s in my phone that you want so badly, Dupain-Cheng?”

In a flash of panic, She snatched the phone from his grip and shoved it into the neckline of her sleeve, tucking it securely against her chest.

Her lips curled into a daring smile. “Go ahead, jerk. Take it back—if you want to be called a pervert.”

Damian blinked once, then smirked. Like he’d seen this trick before. Like he knew this game.

The music changed. A softer tune. Romantic. Suspiciously well-timed.

Without missing a beat, his hand gripped her wrist—smooth, practiced. Before she could bolt, he twisted, pulling her forward. A spin. A turn. And suddenly her hand was in his, her other on his shoulder. Close. Too close.

Her mind screamed. Her heart stuttered. But her body moved.

It was muscle memory. The glide of feet. His hand pressed against her waist. The rhythm of a waltz neither agreed to, yet fell into.

She clenched her teeth. Controlled. Furious.

He leaned close, whispering something smugly into her ear.

Her sole reaction? Stepping on his foot.

A near-miss. His eyebrow twitched.

With a smirk, Damian effortlessly spun her, his grip firm. Pulling against his hold, she failed to escape as he adjusted his grip.

“What’s your story with Lila Rossi?” curious she asked, struggling to keep up with his precise movements as they danced.

His eyes glinted with amusement. “She’s my sister.”

“By blood?” She shot back, planting a deliberate step on his foot. He barely flinched.

“Last time I checked, there’s no ‘Rossi’ in the Wayne family tree.”

“No, not by blood. It’s on my mother’s side. “Dupain-Cheng,” he smoothly replied, swiftly turning her.

He leaned in, voice low and teasing: “What’s in it for you? Jealous?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Ah, no.”

“She’s a goddamn liar,” She whispered, voice barely above the music.

Damian’s jaw tightened but he said nothing.

“Not surprised that you’re connected to her.”

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable.

“She’s such an ass.”

Their steps kept time, the tension between them silent but electric.

“I’ve lost contact with her for a long time. So, Dupain Cheng, if you speak the truth, I shall deign to listen. Speak.”

She mulled it over, eyes narrowing. There was some truth to it—he was genuinely unaware. And he wanted to. Wanted to hear what his “sister” had done. Fine.

As their dance spun more elegantly, she moved closer. She dug her fingers into his shoulder, pressing through his jacket as if needing support, no, to steady herself.

“She lied. About everything. She ruined people,” she said, voice low, tight. “She turned my friends against me. Spread rumors. Framed me.”

Her throat tightened. “I nearly got expelled because of her.”

They paused, the tension heavy and obvious. Damian’s jaw twitched, yet he said nothing.

“She smiled through it all,” she added, the bitterness slipping out. “And no one questioned it. Because she’s pretty. Polite. Because I—wasn’t perfect.”

She didn’t realize how tightly she was holding him until he shifted, but he didn’t push her away. He just kept leading, quieter now. Listening.

“And she’s a villain,” Marinette said bitterly. “Or, considering she’s your sister, that makes you one as well, right?”” Her voice dipped into sarcasm, a faux laugh following. “Figures. Billionaires always have skeletons in their closets.”

Looking up, she searched his calm, emerald eyes, their depths unreadable. Controlled. Unsure of her objective, she wondered: guilt? Denial? Maybe a crack in the mask.

Instead, Damian slowly and steadily let out his breath; a faint, almost serene, twinkle of something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“Correct, Dupain-Cheng,” he whispered, his voice quiet yet firm. “In a sense... I may very well be a villain.”

She wasn’t sure what to expect—denial, mockery, maybe that usual smirk of his. His admission, though? Calling himself a villain?

That was bold.

Too bold.

She gasped, her eyes searching his face once more. No arrogance. No smugness. Just… resignation. The silence between them was thick with unspoken guilt, far outweighing the ballroom’s music.

So the Wayne heir had done something. Is it unlawful? Dangerous?

Unintentionally, she squeezed his shoulder harder as they danced, the slow twirl turning strained and tense.

“What did you do?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you really think I’ll tell you, thief?” he murmured, voice smooth and biting. “If you want answers, give my phone back. Then, maybe, we’ll talk.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It curled at the edges, sharp, almost mocking. Before she could snap back, he spun her—this time with more force. Her breath caught as he dipped her low, the movement perfectly timed with the song’s swelling crescendo. Her back arched slightly, his face inches from hers, their bodies framed like a picture-perfect climax.

To everyone watching, it must’ve looked like a kiss was coming.

A romantic swirl. A server and a Wayne, lost in a dance. Her cheeks burned.

What would her maman say if she saw this? Her daughter tangled in a slow, public performance with a billionaire heir. Pretending—God, was she pretending?—to be someone who belonged in his arms.

Her eyes darted across the ballroom. People were watching. Whispering. Smiling.

She hated how easy it looked. How dangerous it felt.

And how close his mouth was to hers.

As the song’s final note lingered, Marinette’s heart pounded. His arm was firm around her waist, his breath ghosting her cheek.

Absolutely not. She couldn’t let herself sink into this.

Not with him. No, not under their gaze.

Her fingers gripped the phone concealed in her clothing. He leaned closer, the scent of cedar and leather in the air, and she shifted, readying herself.

“You know,” she whispered, eyes locked with his, “you’re not as smooth as you think.”

Then—she moved.

She executed a practiced heel twist and pivot—a graceful move disguised as clumsiness. She stumbled deliberately, pretending to lose balance, ducking beneath his arm as if in a flustered retreat. The crowd barely noticed.

Light and fast, she evaded him, weaving through the ballroom guests towards the exit. Just a few more seconds. Just a door, a corner, anything—

“Marinette?”

A voice like glass, sharp yet sweet, cut through the air.

Marinette froze mid-step.

Lila Rossi stood at the center of attention now, poised like a queen stepping onto her court. Eyes wide with faux concern, lips curled in an all-too-pleasant smile.

“Oh my God, there you are!” Lila exclaimed, her voice loud enough to attract attention. “I was so worried when you ran off with my brother’s phone.”

Brother. That lie again. A practiced dagger dressed as family.

The phone was hot against Marinette’s skin as she slowly turned, her jaw set.

“Lila,” she said, voice flat, steady. “How lovely to see you ruining another evening.”

Damian had caught up by now, no longer smiling. His eyes, unreadable. With crocodile tears already shimmering, Lila advanced towards them.

“Don’t tell me, Marinette… you’ve fallen for my brother already?“ she said, feigning tears.
” We just got here, and I’m already noticing a change in your behavior. I pity Adrien. So easy to discard, huh?”

Marinette halted, every muscle stiffening.

Lila’s mask of tears slipped away. Her smile turned sinister, her eyes blazing with malice. With the grace of a predator, she navigated the crowd, her heels clicking rhythmically.

“Back away, Dupain-Cheng,” she said, voice low now, pointed like a knife. “I’m not going to let you drool over my brother like some desperate social climber.”

Approaching Damian, she subtly touched his shoulder, staking her claim.

For a moment, Marinette hesitated.

But then she met Lila’s gaze, steel behind her stare.

“No,” Marinette said, lifting her chin. “I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

Damian stood between them, gaze flicking from one girl to the other, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something more dangerous.

“Ukth. “That’s enough,” Damian stated coldly

He gave Lila a look of unimpressed scrutiny.

“This isn’t the time to antagonize her. We need my phone. Each second spent arguing increases the imminent threat.

His calm tone held an authority that caused Lila to flinch.

“Focus,” he added, more biting now. “Please.”

Lila sighed, a soft sound meant to disarm. Her voice came quieter this time—calmer, even sincere.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she said, eyes meeting hers with unsettling earnestness. “Our issues... they’re not over. I’m not pretending otherwise. But that phone—”

She glanced at Damian, then back. “We really need it.”

With hands raised in a gesture of peace, she took a tentative step closer.

“And you causing a scene here—” her voice stayed gentle, almost pleading, “—it won’t help any of us. So. I’m only asking nicely… please, return it to my brother.”

It shouldn’t have worked. But for a second, Marinette faltered. Like a whisper, Lila’s carefully honed charm had a subtle, penetrating effect. Her voice and face were too inviting, yet not deceitful enough to ignore completely.

She held the phone tighter in her sleeve.

Running now wouldn’t solve anything.

Did she genuinely have any alternative?