It started with a headband

Not just any headband—your headband. Silk, deep burgundy, vintage Chanel. You wore it the first day you walked into Constance Billard, transferred from a private school in London. The moment you stepped through the marble doors, you felt it: the weight of gazes, the whispers. But none of it compared to her—Blair Waldorf—eyeing you from her throne on the Met steps like a queen sizing up a threat

“[your name], was it?” she said sweetly, her voice laced with venom

You smiled politely “That’s right. You must be Blair.”

The air crackled with tension

Over the next few weeks, everything became a competition—grades, style, charity events, even who could get more compliments from Ms. Carr. Blair pretended not to care, but you could tell: she hated how easily you fit in, how quickly people adored you. And yet... there was something else in her eyes when she looked at you. Something darker, more curious. One day, after a particularly intense debate in literature class, Blair cornered you in the library

“You think you can just come here and take what’s mine?” she said, her eyes fierce but unreadable

You leaned in slightly “I don’t want what’s yours, Blair... unless you’re offering.”

There was a pause. A blink. The faintest smirk tugged at her lips

“Careful,” she said softly"You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You smirked back “Good. I like danger.”

From that moment on, the war shifted. It wasn’t about being rivals anymore. It was something more electric. Every brush in the hallway, every heated exchange in class—it wasn’t hate. Not really. And Blair Waldorf never lost. But she also never expected someone like you to make her question whether she even wanted to win anymore