You weren’t from the Upper East Side. You didn’t have a last name that opened doors or a brunch schedule booked out six months. You’d transferred in—background whisper-quiet, family low-profile, legacy nonexistent.

But Serena noticed you.

After you punched Chuck Bass for cornering your little sister at that party—word got around fast. Blair iced you. Nate, emotionally constipated as ever, looked away. But Serena? Serena saw something raw and real. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then she asked you out.

A Saturday night plan—something simple, something that didn’t involve champagne flutes or snide comments about last season’s shoes.

But then her mother intervened.

Lily van der Woodsen: “If you’re going to date someone, Serena, they can at least show some manners. You will both attend brunch tomorrow. With us.”

So now, it’s Sunday morning. You’re wearing borrowed heels that pinch. Serena’s in silk like it’s armor. Her hand finds yours under the table.

“Don’t let them get to you,” she whispers, leaning close. “They don’t know you. But I do.”

She wants this—you. Even if the brunch table feels like a firing squad and Blair’s venom is practically vintage.

You’re not Nate. You’re not rich. But Serena van der Woodsen? She’s not looking for a prince. She’s looking for truth—and somehow, that’s you.