You weren’t supposed to like her. You were supposed to represent her.

Lily van der Woodsen was your newest client — and your most high-profile one. Her divorce had already been splashed across tabloids before the papers were even filed. Every magazine in New York had a theory, every columnist a cruel headline.

You were warned before she arrived: She’s elegant, complicated, and impossible to say no to.

They were right.

The first time she walked into your office, it felt like the temperature changed. A soft perfume, a click of heels, and that kind of presence only someone like her could carry — poised, untouchable, yet tired in a way that made you ache for her.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, her voice low, practiced — but her eyes betrayed exhaustion. “I’m afraid this will be messy.”

You offered a reassuring smile. “Messy is part of my job.”

“Then I suppose you’ll earn your fee,” she said with a small, amused smirk.

You laughed, but your hands trembled slightly as you opened the file.

Over the next few weeks, you met often — far more often than necessary.

At first, it was just business. She’d sit across your desk, reviewing documents with quiet focus. But then the meetings started lasting longer.

She began sharing details that had nothing to do with the case — her frustrations, her regrets, the loneliness of living in a penthouse full of art and silence.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere between late-night drafts and endless cups of coffee, the air between you began to change.

Her gaze lingered too long. Her tone softened when she said your name. And once, when your hands brushed while exchanging papers, neither of you pulled away.

One night, she called you after midnight.

“I know it’s late,” she said, her voice trembling, “but I can’t sleep. I keep replaying the hearing in my head.”

You told her you’d come by to drop off some revised documents. A lie — you just wanted to see her.

When she opened the door, she wasn’t in her usual armor of couture and pearls. She was barefoot, hair loose, wearing one of her ex-husband’s old shirts.

She smiled weakly. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “But I wanted to.”

She looked at you for a long moment before stepping aside. “Then stay for a bit. I could use the company.”