You’d written hundreds of profiles before — CEOs, artists, socialites — but none of them came with a warning label.

“Just be careful,” your editor said, sliding the folder across the table. “She’s charming. Too charming.”

Serena van der Woodsen. The name alone was practically a brand — whispered through Upper East Side parties and splashed across tabloids for a decade. A socialite, a philanthropist, a model, an actress, a scandal magnet.

You told yourself this was just another assignment. A feature for The Manhattan Journal: “Serena van der Woodsen: Reinventing a Legend.”

Then you met her.

She arrived twenty minutes late to the café, all honey-blonde hair and effortless chaos, apologizing as she sat down.

“I swear I tried to be on time,” she said, flashing a smile that could melt metal. “But time and I have a complicated relationship.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I’ll note that in the profile.”

“Oh, great. Start with my tardiness. Perfect.” She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “You’re not going to make me sound like some washed-up party girl, are you?”

“Depends,” you said, clicking your pen. “Are you?”

She laughed — the kind that made the entire room turn.

You were in trouble.

What was supposed to be a two-hour interview turned into an entire day. You followed her through SoHo boutiques, a photoshoot in Brooklyn, a charity dinner uptown.

The recorder caught her stories — but your attention caught everything else. The way she talked about her past with quiet regret. The way she blushed when she laughed too hard. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t watching.

By the time you were on her penthouse balcony overlooking the city, champagne in hand, you’d forgotten this was work.

“This is the part,” Serena said, leaning against the railing, “where you ask the big, soul-searching question.”

You smirked. “Alright. Who is Serena van der Woodsen?”

She thought for a moment. “Someone who’s tired of being told who she is.” Then, softer: “Someone who likes talking to you.”