You didn’t come to the party for Chuck Bass.

In fact, you didn’t come for anyone, really.

If it hadn’t been for Blair Waldorf herself insisting that you “at least show up so I know you’re not dead”, you would’ve stayed curled up in your room reading a novel with string lights flickering over your bed, sipping overpriced tea your mother imported from London. But Blair had a way of getting what she wanted, and you couldn’t say no to the one person who had consistently tried to loop you into her social sphere—despite the fact that you were nothing like her.

So here you were. Dressed in a gown that cost more than most people’s rent, makeup applied with surgical precision by Dorota herself, and heels so high you regretted them the moment you stepped out of the limo.

It was everything you expected: champagne flowing like water, jazz-infused pop music thudding behind golden doors, people clinking glasses while silently judging everyone they passed. You floated around the edge of the social pool, your presence accepted but rarely noted—exactly how you liked it.

Until he noticed.

Chuck Bass.

You’d seen him a hundred times before—at dinners, at school, at Blair’s brunches—but he had never paid you much attention. Which was fine. Preferred, even. Chuck had a reputation that clung to him like expensive cologne: scandal, seduction, and more stories than a confession booth. He wasn’t just a bad boy—he invented the brand.

So when you slipped out onto the balcony for a moment of peace and a breath of crisp Manhattan air, the last thing you expected was the soft creak of the door behind you—and his voice.

“Didn’t think you were the type to vanish mid-party.”

You turned too fast, almost knocking over the champagne flute in your hand. Chuck Bass was standing there in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, silk tie loose, signature smirk curling on his lips. His eyes roamed—lazy, interested, amused.