When Serena Vanderwoodsen called you, it wasn’t for coffee or brunch or another one of her spontaneous getaways—it was for a favor.

“Please, (Y/N),” she begged through the phone. “It’s just one night. I swear.”

You sighed, balancing your laptop on your knee. “Serena, you do realize I’m not exactly Upper East Side material, right?”

“That’s exactly why I need you,” she said, her voice edged with a smile. “You don’t play their games, you don’t care about their gossip—and you look devastatingly good in formalwear.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come on,” she teased. “Say yes before I show up at your place with a tux and no patience.”

That was how it started—one innocent request to be Serena Vanderwoodsen’s fake date to a high-society gala hosted by her mother, Lily.

The night of the event, you met her outside the Plaza Hotel. She looked unreal—a shimmering champagne gown, hair in soft waves, a smile that could start wars. But when her eyes landed on you, something flickered behind them.

“Wow,” she whispered. “You clean up way too well for my plan to work.”

“Plan?” you asked, offering your arm.

She smirked. “Make my ex jealous. He’ll be there with some model-slash-heiress. So, tonight, you’re my irresistible, charming, mysterious date who can’t keep his hands off me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Because I’m oddly desperate,” she said, linking her arm with yours.