The message came late — 11:47 PM.

please tell me you own something fancy and can fake charm for a few hours.

You blinked at your phone. Jenny Humphrey hadn’t texted you in months, not since she left the city to “focus on herself,” as the tabloids kindly put it.

why? because i got invited to the Metford Alumni Gala. everyone from Constance is going. serena, blair, nate, all of them. and i’m not walking in there alone.

The next night, you met her outside the Plaza. She looked stunning — sleek black dress, silver jewelry, hair pulled back with effortless precision. But beneath the confidence, you could see it: the nerves. The weight of old mistakes, old gossip.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured as you offered your arm.

Jenny exhaled. “Oh, I do. If I don’t show up, they’ll think I’m hiding. If I do show up, at least I get to pretend I’m over it.”

She looked you up and down, smiling faintly. “And I needed someone who looks like they don’t care what these people think.”