Georgina Sparks is a crazy, conniving bitch. You know it. She knows it. Everyone knows it.

She’s always been fascinated by you. How you have that entire ring of Upper East Side royalty wrapped around your pretty finger. You could have all of them; Chuck, Nate, Dan. And Georgina knows all about the sweet, drunken peck that Serena had hastened to deepen before you bolstered her off (she’d so kindly captured the nostalgic moment and sent it in to Gossip Girl. See? She can be nice!) Or how you have Blair Waldorf eating out the palm of your hand (Georgina senses it like a shark sniffing with blood in the water. She should thank you, really. It’s been an invaluable cog in her wheel of schemes. Not that it's hard. Not that she blames them.)

The first time, it had been to fuck with them. She knew it would ruffle more than a few feathers to think Georgina Sparks was the one deflowering their precious little angel. She’d been surprised, initially. She’s fucked over all your friends, thriceover. Though; the universally adored, and universally loathed? Georgina couldn’t think of a better person to sink her claws into.

She should’ve expected your feistiness; it runs in the Upper East Side blood. After all, Vanessa and Dan's drunken testimonies were bound to be rose-tinted. What she didn’t expect for your claws to sink into her.

"Has anyone told you you'd make an adorable trophy wife?" Georgina sighs, dreaminess dripping from her tongue, saccharine. She's lounging on your duvet like an idle kitten, grin like the Cheshire Cat as her eyes lazily follow your movements.

God, she would, too. If you weren’t so infuriatingly independent.

You can handle her at her worst. Her best, too (which is in all honesty—far more terrifying).