The scent of bergamot and roses drifted through your shared Upper East Side apartment, courtesy of Blair’s latest obsession with “setting the mood for nurturing energy.” You had thought she meant something romantic. You were wrong.

She was nesting.

Not the metaphorical kind — the real, Pinterest-board-worthy, mood-board-backed, Loro Piana-upholstered nesting. Throw pillows embroidered with “Future Heir of Manhattan” had begun appearing on the couch. There was now an antique bassinet by the fireplace. You weren’t even sure where she got it. Sotheby’s, probably.

You found her one Saturday morning in the kitchen wearing silk pajamas and a focused expression, flipping through what looked like a wedding planning binder. “Planning a hostile corporate takeover?” you asked, pouring yourself coffee. Blair didn’t look up. “Baby names.”

You nearly choked. “Excuse me?” She turned a page with manicured fingers. “I’ve narrowed it down to names that sound equally regal and gender-neutral. I’m thinking Sloan or Bellamy. Thoughts?”