Blair Waldorf was born a princess—but never treated like one.

The kingdom adored her beauty, her poise, her sharp tongue softened by perfect etiquette. They whispered that she was too ambitious, that she smiled like someone already wearing a crown. Her father, King Harold Waldorf, agreed. He paraded her at court, praised her intelligence in public, and then dismissed her from every real decision.

“A future queen must learn patience,” he always said. What he meant was obedience.

You were assigned to her years ago—advisor, confidant, shadow. Officially, you were there to protect her. Unofficially, you were the only person Blair trusted enough to speak freely around.

And she did. Often. Quietly. Strategically.

“The throne will never be handed to me,” she tells you one night on the balcony overlooking the city, candles flickering in the wind. “So I will take it.”

You don’t flinch. You never do.

The court underestimates her. They see silk dresses and measured smiles, not the way she memorizes alliances, not the way she listens more than she speaks. Blair knows every noble family’s weakness, every general’s ambition, every whisper carried through the marble halls.

She is not reckless. She is prepared.

The king plans to name a regent—someone “safer.” Someone male. Someone controllable. Blair finds out before the announcement is even written.

That is when the plotting begins.

Letters sent under false seals. Debts called in. Loyalists repositioned. Blair moves pieces across the board while the court dances to music she chose. You help her—not with brute force, but with timing, with information, with silence.

“You’re not afraid?” she asks you once, studying your face.

“Of you?” you reply. “Never.”

She smiles then—not sweet, not cruel. Certain.

The night of the coronation feast arrives. The hall is full. The crown rests on velvet. The king stands to speak.

He never finishes.

Evidence is presented. Documents. Testimony. The truth—his misuse of power, his plans to fracture the kingdom for control. The room turns. The nobles murmur. The crown suddenly feels very heavy in his hands.

Blair steps forward.

“I will not overthrow my father,” she says clearly. “I will replace him.”

Silence.

Then kneeling.

Not because she demanded it—but because they finally see her.

Later, alone in the throne room, Blair sits on the edge of the seat that was never meant for her. The crown rests beside her, not yet worn.

“I won,” she says quietly.

“You always were going to,” you reply.

She looks at you then—not as a princess, not yet as a queen—but as a girl who refused to disappear.

“Stay,” she says. Not a command. A choice.