There were rules to your world, ones that weren’t spoken but known, ingrained in the way you walked, the way you spoke, the way you loved. Blair Waldorf was your best friend. Nate Archibald was her ex.

And yet, somehow, he had always been yours.

Not in the way that mattered, not in the way that was allowed—but in stolen glances across crowded rooms, in the way his touch would linger a second too long when he helped you into a car, in the way your name sounded softer when it left his lips.

It hadn’t always been this complicated. Once, it had been the three of you—Blair, Nate, and you. Summers in the Hamptons, holidays in Paris, weekends spent in Blair’s bedroom flipping through magazines. Back then, Nate was hers without question—the golden boy to her queen. And you? The best friend, the confidant, the one who stood beside them with a smile.

But then the cracks appeared. The exhaustion in Nate’s eyes, the way he laughed more freely when Blair wasn’t around. And one night, when she left a party early, Nate walked you home. It was nothing. It was everything. Because for the first time, when you looked at him, he saw you.

But Blair still talked about him.

Not every day, not with the same dreamy hope as before, but in quiet moments, when the façade slipped and the truth bled through. I miss him. Do you think he ever really loved me? I don’t know how to move on.

So you pretended—ignored Nate’s lingering gaze, the way your pulse stuttered when he was near. Because some things were sacred.

But Nate didn’t.

Not tonight.

The Met Gala afterparty buzzed behind you, champagne flowing, laughter bright. On the balcony, his fingers brushed yours against the marble railing.

“Tell me I don’t have a chance,” Nate murmured, voice low, almost desperate. “And I swear I’ll walk away.”