The Van der Woodsen penthouse had always been Blair Waldorf’s second home. Some days, it felt more like her real home than the penthouse she shared with Eleanor. It was there, in the golden glow of Manhattan’s skyline, that she had spent years weaving herself into the Van der Woodsen family tapestry—Serena’s best friend, Lily’s polished second child, a constant presence at every holiday, brunch, and gala.

But you? You were never part of the plan.

You had been the one line she couldn’t cross, the one risk she couldn’t afford to take. You were a Van der Woodsen—which meant you were untouchable. Off-limits. If anyone found out, it wouldn’t just be a scandal; it would be a betrayal. Serena would never forgive her. Eleanor would never let her live it down. And yet, despite everything—despite everyone—she kept coming back to you.

Kept sneaking glances when she thought no one would notice. Kept finding reasons to be alone with you. Kept falling.

So when you pulled her away from the flashing cameras and the watchful eyes at yet another event, dragging her onto the penthouse balcony, she let you. She always let you.

The city stretched below, golden lights glittering like the champagne glasses clinking inside. The wind was cool against your skin, but Blair’s warmth, standing so close, was impossible to ignore.

“This is dangerous,” she murmured, voice softer than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge.

You smirked, stepping closer, your fingers brushing hers. “Since when did Blair Waldorf turn down danger?”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t let herself smile. “If we get caught, we’re finished.”

The truth of it hung between you. Serena, your parents, everyone—the weight of their expectations threatened to suffocate you both. This was reckless, foolish, impossible.