It started with a single message.

“Tell Nate Archibald I know his secret.”

You’d found it in your inbox one morning—no name, no number, no clue who it came from. Just that sentence. And attached? A blurry photo of Nate, taken from afar, at night.

When you showed him, the color drained from his face.

“Where did you get this?” he asked quietly, jaw tightening.

“It was sent to me,” you said. “And whoever it is… they’re watching you.”

Nate looked out the window of the coffee shop, eyes scanning the street. Even in the bustle of New York, there was tension in his movements now—like he could feel the walls closing in.

“I thought I left all this behind,” he murmured. “The lies, the scandals, the headlines… Guess Gossip Girl isn’t the only one who likes secrets.”