The Waldorf name was a crown of its own, but so was yours. Old money. Power. A marriage arranged not for love, but for legacy. Blair had been raised for this—to be the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, the perfect picture of Upper East Side elegance.

And yet, perfection did not account for jealousy.

You weren’t supposed to matter. You weren’t supposed to be anything more than a ring on her finger, a name beside hers in the society pages. But then they had gotten too close.

A lingering touch. A smile that lasted too long. Someone whispering into your ear at the gala while Blair watched from across the room, her grip tightening around her champagne flute.

The conversation had been nothing—light, meaningless—but Blair saw red.

Now, back at the penthouse, she was silent, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floors as she unfastened the diamond necklace from her throat. You sighed, unbuttoning your cuffs, feeling the weight of the evening settle.

“You’re quiet,” you remarked.

She let out a breathy laugh, bitter, unimpressed. “Should I be chatty after watching you let someone paw at you all night?”

You turned to face her, brows raised. “It wasn’t like that.”

Blair met your gaze, her arms crossed over her waist. She was stunning like this—sharp edges, fire behind her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what it was,” she said coolly, stepping closer. “It only matters what it looked like. And you, darling, looked very comfortable with them.”

Something flickered between you—something dangerous. “Why does it matter?”

Her lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. She hesitated, just for a second, just long enough for the truth to slip through the cracks.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “You don’t even love me, Blair.”

Her jaw tensed. The diamonds at her ears caught the soft glow of the chandelier as she lifted her chin. And then—soft, low, possessive:

“Maybe not. But you are mine.”