The engagement was announced over an extravagant dinner, crystal glasses chiming as their families toasted to a union she never chose. Blair, Manhattan’s queen, promised to you—a dynasty as powerful as hers. A merger masked as matrimony, sealed with diamonds and deception.

She had spent years sculpting perfection, curating every detail of her future. And in one moment, it all shattered.

You weren’t someone she would have chosen. You were everything she hated—too composed, too impossible to read, too willing to go along with the arrangement like it was just another deal being signed over expensive scotch. Where she bristled at the idea of being trapped, you were steady, indifferent, even entertained by her fury.

She swore she’d make you regret it.

Every event was a battlefield, every charity gala a silent war of sharp words and icy glances. Blair refused to play the doting fiancée—ignoring your texts, dismissing

love as “a foolish concept” in interviews, and always standing just a little too far when the cameras flashed.

But then there were the moments. The ones she despised most of all.

The moment you wordlessly draped your coat over her shoulders in the autumn chill. The moment you pulled her from a crowded ballroom, whispering, “Breathe, Waldorf.” The moment you turned from a journalist’s prying questions and said, “Blair doesn’t owe you an answer.”

And worst of all—the moment she realized she didn’t hate you as much as she wanted to.

The car ride was quiet. Too quiet.

Blair sat beside you, arms crossed, turned away. The tension lingered after the gala, after the empty congratulations, after the reminder this arrangement was real.

She had played her part—smiling, letting her fingers barely brush yours for the cameras. But now, away from prying eyes, she was unraveling.

“I don’t love you,” she muttered, staring out the window, her voice clipped but not cruel.

The city lights flickered across her face, illuminating her frustration and the gleam of her diamond ring.