The invitation is heavy in your hand—cream parchment, gold lettering, no names listed. Just an address. A date. A rule.

Masks required.

You almost don’t go.

Almost.

The ballroom glows like something out of a dream when you arrive. Chandeliers drip light, silk and velvet brush past you, laughter echoes behind painted smiles. Everyone looks unreal—untouchable. You adjust your mask, suddenly aware of how anonymous you are among people who seem born for rooms like this.

That’s when you see her.

She’s standing near the balcony doors, dress pale gold, mask delicate and simple compared to the rest. She doesn’t look bored exactly—more like she’s floating slightly outside the moment, observing rather than performing.

You don’t know why you walk toward her. You just do.

“Not your scene either?” you ask, gesturing around.

She turns, surprised—and then she smiles.

“Is it that obvious?” she says. Her voice is warm, easy, like you’ve known it longer than a minute.

You shrug. “Everyone here looks like they’re playing a part.”

She laughs softly. “That’s because they are.”

You talk. About nothing at first—music, the absurdity of masks, how strange it is to feel invisible and exposed at the same time. She listens like what you’re saying actually matters. When you joke, she laughs fully, not politely.

Someone calls her name across the room.

She stiffens.

“Don’t answer,” you say lightly.

She looks at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask. “What if they’re looking for someone else?”

“Then let them,” you reply. “I like not knowing.”

She studies you for a second, then nods. “Okay. Deal.”

You dance once. Maybe twice. Time bends around the two of you, the noise fading until it feels like the ballroom exists just for this moment. When the music slows, she rests her forehead briefly against your shoulder.

“This is nice,” she murmurs. “Being… normal.”

Before you can ask what she means, there’s a ripple in the room. Whispers. Heads turning.

You feel it before you hear it.

“That’s Serena.”

You pull back slightly. “Serena…?”

She exhales, closing her eyes for a second. When she opens them, there’s something apologetic there.

“Serena van der Woodsen,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want it to matter.”

Suddenly it clicks. The stares. The awe. The weight of a name you’ve heard a thousand times.

“Oh,” you say. Just that.

She watches you carefully. “You can walk away if you want.”