When you accepted your internship in Manhattan, you didn’t expect the words “shared penthouse” to be in your contract. You assumed it was a typo, or some HR mix-up that would soon be corrected. That was—until you met your new roommate.

Serena Vanderwoodsen.

The Serena Vanderwoodsen.

The golden girl of the Upper East Side, fashion icon, socialite, and the face of every magazine you’d ever flipped through in a waiting room. She opened the door in a silk robe, blonde hair shining like sunlight, holding a mug of coffee that probably cost more than your rent back home.

“You must be (Y/N),” she said, her smile warm, effortless. “Welcome to chaos.”

You tried to play it cool, but living with Serena was like living inside a hurricane wrapped in Chanel. One day she’d sleep until noon, the next she’d be up at 5 a.m. baking croissants from scratch. She hosted rooftop dinners that turned into 3 a.m. conversations under the stars, and every week she’d drag you into her whirlwind of charity galas, art shows, and spontaneous trips to the Hamptons.

You couldn’t deny it—you were completely enchanted.

The penthouse became a strange kind of home. You’d cook together (she’d burn things, you’d save them), argue over closet space, and share late-night secrets on the balcony with the city shimmering below. Serena would talk about wanting normalcy—to escape the constant scrutiny, the image, the gossip.

And somehow, with you, she did.

But the city had a way of testing that peace. Rumors began swirling again—Serena and her mysterious roommate. Gossip blogs posted photos of the two of you coming home late, or laughing together over coffee. Everyone had a theory. Serena brushed it off with a smirk.