You weren’t supposed to cross paths with Blair Waldorf again. The last time you’d seen her was during Yale’s campus tours—she’d swept into a lecture hall like she owned the place, all confidence and couture. You’d exchanged barely more than a few words, a sharp smile from her, a polite one from you… yet she’d stayed lodged in your mind like an expensive perfume that clung to your clothes long after she’d walked away.

Blair, of course, hadn’t chosen Yale in the end. You had. Your life had moved on.

At least, you thought it had—until a crisp autumn afternoon in New York, when you stepped out of a café and almost collided with her.

Blair Waldorf. Perfect hair, perfect posture, eyes widening just slightly when they landed on you.

“You,” she said, recognition sliding in with a hint of surprise. “From Yale.”

Her gaze swept over you in that unmistakable Waldorf way—evaluating, intrigued, maybe even impressed. The city noise blurred around you as she tilted her head, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.