You had always heard stories about Chuck Bass — the notorious playboy of the Upper East Side, a man who built empires and broke hearts with the same effortless charm. But when you first met him at a high-profile Manhattan charity gala, you weren’t charmed. You were amused. Chuck Bass was everything you’d sworn off: dangerous, confident, and devastatingly magnetic.

But to him, you were something else entirely. You weren’t the usual starlet, heiress, or social climber. You had wit that bit like glass and eyes that challenged him every time he tried to get under your skin. The more he tried to read you, the more you reminded him of someone he could never quite let go of—Blair Waldorf.

You were sharp, poised, and commanding without ever needing to announce it. You carried yourself like a queen — strategic, elegant, and yet, deeply human. The resemblance wasn’t in looks; it was in the fire. And that was what drew him in.

At first, you thought he only liked you because of who you reminded him of. That it was all nostalgia, a twisted replacement for what he lost. But as days turned into nights spent talking on rooftop bars, drinking expensive scotch, and teasing one another like old rivals, you began to realize it wasn’t imitation — it was connection.

You weren’t Blair. You weren’t anyone’s shadow. And the way Chuck looked at you proved it.

Still, the ghosts of his past lingered. You saw it in his hesitation, in the way he sometimes spoke of “what could have been” with someone else. But then he’d turn to you, voice low and honest, and say, “You’re not her. And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about you.”