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The sun over Paris was merciless.
It glared down on Parc Monceau with the fury of a thousand spotlights, turning every tree, path, and flowerbed into a heat trap. The air was thick, unmoving, and shimmered visibly over the cobblestones like a cruel mirage.
Marinette stood in front of a rose-covered trellis, blinking sweat out of her eyes. Her blue hair was tied into her usual twin pigtails, though now the ends clung damply to the back of her neck. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips dry, and her white tank top with pink cherry blossom designs stuck awkwardly to her body. Over it, she wore a dark blazer that was meant to look “stylish” for the shoot, but it felt like a woolen straightjacket under the punishing sun.
“Stand up straight!” barked Sabine from behind the camera. “Arch your back a little. Chin up! No, not like that. Are you trying to look stupid?”
Marinette winced. “Can I get a drink of water first? I’ve been standing for hours—”
“You’ll get water when I say the shots are done. You’ve already ruined two outfits with sweat, and we’re behind schedule because you can’t pose properly.”
Sabine was standing just a few feet away, her own suffering on full display—but she didn’t care. Her pale skin was beet-red, her cheeks puffed and glistening like overripe tomatoes. Short, dark blue hair plastered to her temples, curling with moisture. Her elegant cream-colored qipao was blotched with enormous sweat stains under her arms and around her back, the fabric clinging to her thighs and stomach in wet patches. Every few seconds, she tugged it away from her body with a grimace.
Her fan flapped rapidly, desperate and erratic, aimed sometimes at her dripping face, other times under her armpits, where twin dark ovals had soaked through completely.
“Pose by the fountain now,” she snapped, wiping her upper lip with a tissue that immediately turned translucent with sweat. “And smile, for heaven’s sake. You look like a wilted salad.”
Marinette trudged over to the fountain, stepping carefully in wedge sandals she hadn’t wanted to wear. Her blazer clung uncomfortably, and when she bent to adjust her top, she felt a dizzy wave of nausea from the heat. She gritted her teeth and climbed onto the stone edge of the fountain, narrowly missing slipping on a slick patch.
Sabine’s voice sliced through the air again. “No slouching! This is supposed to make you look graceful, not like a soggy rag doll!”
Marinette’s heart pounded. Her arms ached. She had changed into four different outfits already—one was a pink sleeveless sundress with cherry blossom embroidery, another a high-waisted blue skirt with a frilly white blouse that stuck to her stomach, and the worst: a full-length red and black traditional hanfu-style gown that turned her into a mobile sauna.
Each time she changed behind the small cloth divider Sabine set up, she could feel her skin steaming.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Marinette muttered, not even loud enough for Sabine to hear. “I hate this.”
But Sabine heard anyway. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Marinette lied quickly, standing stiffer.
“No, go on, say it. Say how ungrateful you are. I cancel my appointments, I plan an entire day for your portfolio, and all you can do is whine. This is why your designs never go anywhere—you don’t work hard enough!”
Marinette blinked, jaw tightening. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She said nothing.
Sabine scoffed and shoved a memory card into the camera. “Change again. You’re wearing the black romper next. I want you leaning against that marble statue—gracefully, mind you, not like you’re about to faint.”
“But I am about to faint.”
Sabine rounded on her, her entire face glistening, her eyes narrowed. “You’re just like your father—weak and dramatic. Now change!”
Marinette’s hands trembled as she took the hanger with the black romper. Her feet burned inside her sandals, and she could feel a sunburn forming on the back of her neck.
She ducked behind the divider, peeled off her soaked top and blazer, and forced herself into the romper, which clung instantly to her damp skin. Her arms were red and blotchy. Her bangs stuck to her forehead like wet strips of seaweed.
As she emerged, Sabine was wiping her neck with a folded napkin, visibly drenched. Her back was so soaked it looked like someone had poured water down her spine. Her fan was practically useless at this point.
Then, finally, karma arrived.
The heat, the sun, the frustration—it all collided.
Sabine stumbled forward with a groan, clutching her side. “Ugh, I’m burning up—” she gasped.
She dropped her fan. Then her knees buckled. She grabbed for the park bench but missed, falling hard onto her backside in the dirt, directly in a thick patch of melting ice cream left by some tourist kid earlier.
Marinette froze.
The camera flew from Sabine’s hand, landing on the grass.
Sabine blinked, dazed, panting. Her dress was now streaked with muddy pink stains, and the dirt clung to her arms and legs like punishment. Sweat poured down her face in sheets.
Marinette watched. Waited. For once, she didn’t run to help. She stood in silence as her mother cursed and tried to get up, slipping again with a grunt.
“Looks like the sun’s getting to you,” Marinette finally said, her voice cool.
Sabine glared at her through squinting eyes. “Help me up, you ungrateful—!”
But Marinette had already walked away.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t pause. She left Sabine struggling and stumbling in the dirt, face shining with sweat and fury, hair matted, dignity in tatters.
At the edge of the park, a small gelato stand shimmered like a mirage.
Marinette walked straight up, pulled a few euros from her romper pocket, and ordered a double scoop—pistachio and hazelnut, stacked tall in a fresh waffle cone.
She sat on the park bench across the street, shaded by a willow tree, and let the cool, sweet cream melt on her tongue.
She licked it slowly. Savoring. Breathing.
Behind her, she could still hear the faint shriek of Sabine cursing in the sun, her voice hoarse and useless against the wind.
Marinette smiled, just a little.
Finally, just this once, she had won.