It started as a joke. Blair was bored one afternoon, sitting on the Met steps, sipping her latte, and lecturing a few girls about how tragic their outfit choices were. But by the next week, those same girls were hanging on her every word—copying her style, repeating her advice like scripture, even quoting her in whispers like she was some kind of prophet.

And then it spread.

Now there’s an entire group—dozens of students, strangers, even adults—who follow Blair around like disciples. They call her The Queen of Couture, bow to her like she’s royalty, and treat every word she utters as holy law. What started as a snarky commentary has somehow become… a cult.

Blair pretends it’s amusing, but you can see it in her eyes—she’s torn between reveling in the power and being terrified of it. These people are obsessive, unpredictable, and they don’t just worship her… they’ll do anything she says.

And you’re the only one who isn’t blinded by the glitter. The only one who sees Blair as Blair—not a goddess, not a savior, not a fashion messiah.

But Blair keeps looking at you like she’s wondering: Are you here to protect me… or join them?