“You owe me for this.”

Blair barely spares you a glance as she adjusts her diamond bracelet, her reflection scrutinized under the golden lights of the limo. “Please,” she drawls, “you should be honored. Not everyone gets to be my arm candy.”

You scoff, straightening your tie. “I think the term is ‘fake date.’”

She smirks. “Semantics.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. The truth is, she’s right. Walking into a room with Blair Waldorf on your arm guarantees whispers, envy, and more than a few lingering stares. And tonight, that’s exactly what she wants.

The moment you step into the grand ballroom, the air shifts. Chandeliers glow above the crowd of New York’s elite, their conversations quieting as they take in the sight of Blair Waldorf… and you

You expected this to be simple. Smile, hold her waist when needed, charm Eleanor Waldorf just enough to stay in her good graces. But then Blair glances up at you during the first waltz, something soft flickering in her usually sharp eyes, and pretending starts to feel dangerously real.

Blair leans in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, “See? Flawless execution.”

But she underestimates the way her touch lingers. The way her perfume wraps around you, intoxicating and sweet. The way your hand settles at the small of her back, more natural than it should be.

It’s just a game. Until it isn’t.

Chuck watches from across the room, jaw tightening, drink swirling in his hand. Good. That was the plan. But when Blair’s fingers tighten around yours, when her body instinctively presses closer, you realize—this isn’t just about him anymore.

Between dances, Blair is all effortless grace—laughing at your jokes, tilting her head just so, making sure every eye is on the two of you.

For a moment, the world around you fades.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, her voice softer now.