The first rule of Constance journalism is simple: Don’t touch Serena van der Woodsen.

You break it anyway.

The article drops on a Monday morning—clean, factual, devastating. You don’t use her name outright, but everyone knows who “the Upper East Side socialite with a carefully buried past” is. The whispers spread faster than Gossip Girl ever could.

By third period, Serena is standing in front of you.

She looks calm. Too calm.

“You’re brave,” she says softly, blue eyes sharp as glass. “Or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”

You close your locker, meeting her gaze. “If it’s the truth, it deserves to be printed.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You just made a very powerful enemy.”

From that moment on, your life becomes a battlefield.

Your sources dry up. Invitations vanish. Professors suddenly question your credibility. Serena doesn’t scream or lash out—she dismantles you socially, piece by piece, with perfect Upper East Side precision.

But then something changes.

She starts showing up when she doesn’t have to. Cornering you in empty hallways. Sitting across from you in the library. Watching you like she’s trying to figure you out instead of destroy you.

“Why me?” she asks one afternoon, voice quieter than before. “There were other secrets. Other people.”

You hesitate. “Because everyone protects you. Someone had to stop.”

For the first time, Serena looks… hurt.