When you moved to the Upper East Side, you thought you were prepared. You’d seen the glitz, the poise, the perfectly composed smiles plastered across tabloids.

But no one warned you that it wasn’t just about what you wore— it was about how you existed.

And Nate Archibald, of all people, was the one tasked with teaching you how to survive it.

It started when you accidentally spilled your drink at a charity gala. Right on Eleanor Waldorf’s vintage gown.

You wanted to disappear, but Nate had swooped in with effortless charm, smiling at everyone like nothing had happened. “Total accident,” he said smoothly, handing Eleanor a napkin. “I tripped into Y/N’s arm. My fault.”

The crowd’s laughter eased the tension, and by the time you stepped outside to catch your breath, Nate was waiting by the balcony, that teasing smirk on his face.

“You just survived your first Upper East Side scandal,” he said. “Barely.”

You sighed. “I think I failed the test.”

“Lucky for you,” he said, straightening his tie, “I’m an excellent teacher.”

The next few weeks were like bootcamp—if bootcamp involved afternoon teas, charity brunches, and secret gossip networks.

Nate taught you the rules:

Always compliment before criticizing.

Smile even when you’re plotting.

Never show fear when Gossip Girl posts about you.

At first, you thought it was all ridiculous. But Nate’s easy charm made everything feel like an inside joke between the two of you.

He’d lean close at parties, whispering, “That’s the Van Alen heir. Don’t mention yachts; his sank last year.”

You’d roll your eyes. “Do you have, like, a manual for this?”

He’d grin. “I’m writing one. You’re the final chapter.”

One evening, during another glittering event, you found yourself slipping into the rhythm. Laughing at the right moments, speaking with practiced ease. You could feel Nate watching you across the room, proud and amused.

When the night ended, you stood together on the steps outside the venue, the city lights reflecting off his blue eyes.

“You did it,” he said softly. “You’re one of us now.”

You smiled, but shook your head. “I don’t want to be one of them. I just… want to understand how you survive here.”

He paused, stepping closer. “You learn to find the few people who make it feel real.”

“Like you?” you asked.

He chuckled, gaze softening. “Maybe exactly like me.”