The firelight shimmered against the diamond of her necklace, though no one else in the room seemed to notice the faint embers beneath her skin. Blair Waldorf did not need to announce what she was—her presence was enough. Every century she returned, reborn from ash and flame, and every century she wore her ambition like a crown.

This era was no different. Manhattan’s elite whispered her name with reverence and envy, believing her to be nothing more than a sharp-tongued socialite with an impossible talent for always being on top. They didn’t know that her victories were forged not by luck, but by centuries of experience, each life a step higher in her endless climb toward perfection.

Her eyes lingered on you across the gilded ballroom, and for a fleeting second, the fire inside her flared bright enough to burn. She remembered you—though she shouldn’t. Each cycle was meant to cleanse, to wipe the slate clean, and yet your face had lingered in the smoke of her rebirth, etched into memory like a scar.

Blair moved closer, gown brushing against marble as if the floor itself made way for her. “Tell me,” she said, voice smooth as silk, sharp as embers, “do you believe in reincarnation?”