The night was polished perfection — Manhattan glittered beneath the skyline, and every limousine outside the Met carried someone with power, wealth, or scandal on their shoulders. Inside, the black-tie charity event for the Vanderbilt Foundation promised elegance, diplomacy, and generosity. But you knew better.

Every smile was a mask. Every toast hid an agenda.

And tonight, you were walking in with Nate Archibald — the golden boy of the Upper East Side, heir to an empire and editor of The Spectator. He looked unfairly good in his tux, calm and unbothered as the city’s elite swarmed around him. But behind that easy charm, his mind was working — just like yours.

You weren’t here for champagne or charity. You were here for information.

The two of you had been working quietly together for months — Nate using his insider access, you using your contacts in the political world. A senator was laundering money through one of the foundation’s “philanthropic” fronts, and tonight, the evidence would change everything.

“You ready?” Nate murmured as you adjusted his bow tie near the entrance. His tone was low, but his eyes sparkled with the thrill of it.

“I was born ready,” you said, slipping your arm through his as the cameras flashed.

Inside, the music swelled, and conversation hummed around chandeliers and marble floors. Blair Waldorf and Serena van der Woodsen were somewhere near the front, surrounded by New York royalty, while Chuck Bass handled the business side of things with his usual sharp smirk. But your focus stayed on the senator by the bar — laughing, unbothered, sipping his drink like he hadn’t ruined lives with a pen.

“Smile,” Nate said softly, leaning close enough for only you to hear. “We’re being watched.”

“By who?”

“Everyone.”

You pretended to laugh at something he said, even as your hand brushed his and you slipped him the flash drive you’d hidden in your clutch. He took it seamlessly, sliding it into his jacket pocket like it was nothing more than a handkerchief.

Then came the unexpected part.

The senator’s assistant — the one you were supposed to meet in secret after the gala — walked straight toward you. Her face pale, her eyes darting nervously. She didn’t get a word out before a security guard intercepted her, whispering something to Nate that made his jaw clench.

“They know,” he muttered.