It starts with a notification.

Serena’s phone buzzes once. Then again. Then nonstop.

Her smile fades as she scrolls.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Those were private.”

You move closer. Gossip Girl’s blast is already everywhere—cropped photos, taken without permission, moments Serena never shared publicly. Nothing scandalous, but intimate enough to feel violating.

“I didn’t send these to anyone,” Serena says, panic creeping in. “I swear.”

“I believe you,” you say instantly. “Which means someone else did.”

She looks at you, eyes wide. “You’re the only one who didn’t jump to conclusions.”

So you help.

You start where Serena can’t—quietly. Tracking who had access. Who borrowed her phone. Who was at the party where the photos were taken. You notice patterns she’s too overwhelmed to see.

Meanwhile, Serena spirals.

“I hate this,” she admits one night, sitting on her bed, knees pulled in. “Everyone thinks I’m careless. That I want attention.”

You shake your head. “Someone wanted control. Not fame.”

That lands.

A day later, you spot it: the same person liking every Gossip Girl post about Serena. The same one who suddenly stopped texting her weeks ago. The same one who always asked to “borrow” her phone.

When you confront them, they crack fast.

“It was just supposed to scare her,” they say. “I didn’t think—”

Serena doesn’t yell when she hears the truth.

She just goes very quiet.

Later, walking through the city together, she finally speaks. “Thank you. For seeing me. Not the story.”

You smile gently. “You’re not a headline.”

She bumps your shoulder. “You should work for Gossip Girl.”

You laugh. “I’d rather protect people than expose them.”

Serena looks at you differently then—less guarded, more real.