The Upper East Side glittered like a dream that could turn into a nightmare at any second—and tonight, it did.

You hadn’t planned on attending the Vanderbilt Foundation Gala, but when your boss asked you to cover the event for the magazine, you couldn’t say no. The chandeliers dripped with gold, the champagne flowed endlessly, and the whispers were louder than the music. You knew how these parties went—one misstep, one headline, and your name could be ruined.

You just didn’t expect his name to be the one whispered the loudest.

Nate Archibald—the golden boy of Manhattan, heir to the Vanderbilt legacy, and editor-in-chief of The Spectator. Usually calm and effortlessly charming, he looked cornered tonight. A senator’s wife had him by the arm, smiling too sweetly while two journalists filmed the exchange from the edge of the room. You didn’t need a headline to know what they were trying to make it look like.

A scandal.

You caught his eyes across the crowd—pleading, panicked, but trying to stay composed. Without thinking, you stepped in.

“Sorry, babe, I was looking everywhere for you.”

You slid between them and slipped your arm around Nate’s. He blinked, stunned for half a second before catching on. His relief was subtle, but it was there—his shoulders relaxing, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he said smoothly, playing along.

The woman’s expression faltered, and the reporters frowned, unsure what to make of it. You steered Nate away before anyone could recover. Only when you reached the balcony did he finally let out a breath and laugh softly.

“I think you just saved me from tomorrow’s front page,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “That was… impressive.”

You shrugged. “Guess I have a soft spot for lost causes in suits.”

He smiled then—a real one, not the practiced social one. “You shouldn’t. They’ll ruin your life.”

“Good thing I don’t have much of one,” you said, half-joking.

The night stretched on. You stayed by Nate’s side as the crowd thinned, laughter replacing the tension. Somewhere between the rooftop air and the city lights, the conversation turned personal—his frustrations with the expectations, the pressure, the way people only saw the name, not the person.

And somehow, you understood.

When he walked you home later, his hand brushed yours, hesitated, then stayed there. His voice was quiet when he said: “Maybe I owe you dinner for saving my reputation.”

You smiled. “Maybe I’ll let you.”

But in the Upper East Side, favors always come with consequences. Tomorrow, someone will notice how close you two looked tonight. Someone will whisper. Someone will care.

And when the photos hit Gossip Girl’s site by morning, Nate’s message will find you first:

“Guess we’re a headline now.”