The next morning, the world didn't know anything had broken.
And Ava Carter made damn sure it stayed that way.
Her heels clicked across the marble like war drums, her coat cinched perfectly at the waist, lips painted a red that warned: try me. The empire didn't run itself, and she had meetings to command, emails to shred, and a world to remind who she was.
But her phone buzzed.
Adrien: Done with practice. You still coming?
She smiled.
Of course she was.
By the time she pulled up in front of the school, the Range Rover gleamed like armor under the late afternoon sun. She stepped out in stilettos, sunglasses oversized, confidence louder than the engine. A few students glanced up. One of them elbowed Adrien, nodding toward her.
He rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway.
"Hey, baby," Ava called, already walking toward him with open arms.
"Mooom," he groaned, half-laughing, half-dreading the inevitable.
Too late.
She wrapped him in a hug, kissed his cheek, and ruffled his already sweaty hair. "You were so good today. I saw that goal!"
"You weren't even here yet."
"I was manifesting it."
He snorted.
Ava pulled back, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose just enough for him to see the sparkle in her eyes. She was radiant. Backlit by the golden hour, she looked like a magazine cover — all power and polish.
But her hand lingered on his shoulder, like it always did. Anchoring herself.
"Good day?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "Yeah. Better."
"Good." She paused, brushing a bit of grass from his collar. "You hungry? I was thinking sushi. Or we can do your favorite pasta place. Or tacos. Or —"
"Mom," he interrupted, amused. "Anything is fine."
"Don't lie. You always want pasta."
"...Okay yeah. I always want pasta."
She beamed. "That's my boy."
They slid into the car, her manicured hand on the wheel, his bag tossed in the back seat. The city passed in blurs of light and noise, but inside the car, it was quiet. Warm.
Then, softly:
"What he said yesterday. About me. The way I'm with you…"
Adrien glanced at her. She was still looking straight ahead, but he saw the tension in her jaw.
"He called it pathetic," she said, quieter now. "Said I cling too much. That I hug you like I'm scared you'll disappear."
Adrien didn't respond right away.
Instead, he reached over and placed his hand over hers on the gearshift.
"I like it," he said simply.
She blinked. "What?"
"You fuss. You hug. You call me baby even though I'm taller than you. You cry at coffee ads. And when I was six and had a fever, you sat next to me all night humming lullabies like I'd drop dead the moment you left."
Ava swallowed hard.
"You're not overprotective," he said. "You just love loud. And I'm lucky."
She turned to him then, a soft, shaky smile breaking across her face.
"He said you were just like him."
Adrien shook his head. "Maybe I have his DNA. But I'm nothing like him."
"I know," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I just needed to hear you say it."
When they got home, Adrien went straight to the shower, and Ava — still in her heels, still painted in strength — wandered into his room. She picked up the old photo album again.
Tiny Adrien, grinning without front teeth. Adrien in superhero pajamas. Adrien asleep on her chest, a baby with a heartbeat that once made her believe in miracles again.
She pressed her hand to the page.
That love never left. It just grew teeth.
By the time Adrien emerged, she was curled up on the couch in her silk robe, hair tied up, makeup off, photo album open on her lap. Her eyes were already drooping.
"Don't laugh," she mumbled sleepily as he sat next to her. "I was just... remembering."
He didn't laugh.
He pulled the blanket over her.
She shifted, head resting lightly on his shoulder.
"I'm glad you're not like him," she murmured.
Adrien exhaled. "I'm glad you raised me."
Ava smiled in her sleep.
The city pulsed outside. But inside that little cocoon of home, there was only a mother, her son, and the quiet power of survival.