Serena van der Woodsen never looks scared.

So when she shows up at your door after midnight, hair undone, makeup gone, eyes glassy and raw, you know something is very wrong.

“I need help,” she says.

No charm. No deflection. Just truth.

You let her in without a word.

She paces your apartment like a trapped animal, phone clenched in her hand. “Someone has something on me,” she finally admits. “Photos. Messages. Stuff that could ruin everything.”

You cross your arms. “And you came to me because…?”

“Because you don’t want anything from me,” she snaps—then exhales, softer. “And because you don’t scare easily.”

She shows you the messages. Anonymous. Precise. Cruel. The blackmailer knows her schedule, her friends, her past. Every secret she thought was buried.

“They’re asking for money?” you ask.

“No,” Serena whispers. “Control.”