Blair doesn’t do feelings. Feelings are messy, unpredictable, and worst of all—weak. And Blair Waldorf? She is never weak.

She keeps you at arm’s length, treating you like a game she always intends to win. One moment, she’s kissing you in the back of a town car, her fingers tangled in your hair like she can’t get enough. The next, she’s laughing at some Upper East Side gala, pretending you don’t exist.

It’s intoxicating. Frustrating. And entirely Blair.

You should have known better. Should have seen the signs—the calculated distance, the way she never lets it go too far. But you had been foolish enough to believe she cared. That when she kissed you, when her fingers lingered just a second too long on your wrist, when she whispered your name like a secret in the dark—it meant something.

But now, you’re done.

“You don’t care about me,” you say, voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “I’m just something to entertain you when you’re bored.”

Blair tilts her head, her expression unreadable. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You clench your jaw. Of course she would. Of course, she’d twist it into something you should be grateful for. “I don’t want to be your distraction, Blair. I don’t want to be something you use.”

You turn to leave, hands shaking as you reach for the door. It’s over. It has to be.

Then, her voice cuts through the air—sharp, amused, and dangerous.

“Oh, please. You think I’d actually let you go?”

Before you can react, she’s in front of you, her perfume clouding your senses, her lips curving into that infuriating smirk. “You’re adorable when you think you have a choice.”

Her fingers trail up your arm, slow, deliberate. “You think you can just walk away? That I’d just… let you?” She leans in, lips brushing against your jaw. “Darling, I decide when this is over. And trust me—it’s not.”