Blair Waldorf had never been easy to love.

She was demanding, sharp-tongued, and ruthless when she needed to be. But you had known her long before the world saw her as Blair Waldorf, Queen of the Upper East Side. You had known the girl who used to braid her dolls’ hair beside you, who clung to your hand at society events she was too young to enjoy, who once whispered her biggest dreams to you beneath the twinkling lights of Paris.

You had been there through everything—through Eleanor’s endless criticisms, through Nate’s betrayal, through the nights she curled up next to you, mascara-stained cheeks pressed into your shoulder, whispering, “You’re the only person I can trust.”

And for the longest time, you told yourself that was enough.

But then something shifted.

Maybe it was the way she started looking at you differently—her gaze lingering a little too long, her voice softer when she spoke your name. Maybe it was the way her hands found yours so effortlessly, as if they belonged there. Or maybe it was the moment she kissed you, one stolen second in the back of a town car, her lips hesitant and unsure.

Blair was terrified of love.

Because love meant losing control. It meant vulnerability. And Blair never let herself be vulnerable.

So she pushed you away.

She avoided your calls. She pretended nothing had happened. She threw herself into whatever new scheme would distract her, clinging to the power she could control.

Blair.

She was just a few steps ahead, her dark hair cascading down her back, perfectly styled even in the chaos of the city

You had seen her by chance, a glimpse of her through the glow of Fifth Avenue storefronts. It had been weeks since she last returned your calls, since she last let you in. And before you could think better of it, your feet were moving.

“Blair!”

She didn’t stop.

You picked up your pace, weaving through the crowd, determined to catch her. She must have heard you. She must have known it was you.

“Ah, damn it,” she muttered under her breath, quickening her pace.