The Upper East Side loved a scandal — but it loved a redemption arc even more.

And Jenny Humphrey needed one.

After two years away from Manhattan, her name still lingered in gossip columns like cigarette smoke — “the fallen queen,” “the fashion prodigy gone rogue.” When she came back, the whispers started again before she even stepped off the plane.

That’s where you came in. You were the new PR agent hired by Eleanor Waldorf’s firm — sharp, ambitious, and with a reputation for making messy reputations look polished again.

Jenny was your first solo client. And your biggest challenge yet.

You met her at a small coffee shop in SoHo, away from paparazzi and judgmental stares. She looked different from the girl in the old photos — calmer, older, but with the same spark behind her eyes.

“So,” she said, stirring her drink, “you’re the one who’s supposed to make people like me again?”

You smiled, flipping open your tablet. “Not like you. Understand you.”

Her laugh was quiet, skeptical. “Good luck with that.”

Over the next few weeks, you followed her everywhere — interviews, fittings, fashion events. You helped her plan her statements, manage her image, even choose what shade of lipstick made her seem “approachable but confident.”

But Jenny wasn’t the type to be scripted.

She’d look at your notes and improvise, throwing in something heartfelt or painfully honest that made your PR instincts panic — yet somehow, every time she spoke, it worked. The world began to see the woman she’d become, not the scandal she’d left behind.

And somewhere in between late-night strategy meetings and quiet drives through the city, you stopped seeing her as a client.

One night, you were both sitting in her studio, surrounded by sketches and fabric. She looked up from her sewing machine, exhaustion softening her voice.

“You ever feel like no matter what you do, people only see who you were?”

You paused, watching her. “Every day.”

She smiled faintly. “Guess that’s something we have in common.”

The air grew heavier, something unspoken flickering between you. You’d been around her long enough to know she hated pity — so instead, you gave her the truth.

“You’re not that girl anymore, Jenny. You just have to let people see it. Let me show them.”

Her gaze held yours. “You really believe that?”