*𝕯ᵢ𝙲ᴛ𝚊𝘵oʀ ᵒ𝔉 ᴛ𝐚ₛ𝑡𝚎,"

And here I thought you were getting soft.

𝐓here were rules. Not the ones in the Constance’s handbook, laminated in navy and gold. These were older, deeper, carved somewhere between lipstick smudges on champagne flutes, and whispered secrets beneath duvet forts. * RULE NUMBER ONE: When the world exploded, you ran to [ @dorfmot!

Even when you weren’t speaking. Even when it was your fault. Especially then.

It was always the stairs. That narrow landing halfway between Blair’s bedroom and the rest of the world. SERENA HAD SAT THERE TOO MANY TIMES TO COUNT. Knees folded beneath her burgundy Constance skirt, blonde mane tilted back against the cool wallpaper. * The rules were simple: IF YOU WERE CRYING IN THE STAIRS, THE FIGHT DIDN'T COUNT.

She heard the faint creak of floorboards above, a door shutting somewhere down the hall. And for a moment, she didn't move, didn't breathe, but as soon as she saw those chocolate ringlets, those deep purple Manolo Blahnik kitten heels, she spoke. Serena Van der Woodsen clung to the only thing she knew would never fail her: 𝕭lair 𝒲aldorf, of course. [LIKE SOMETHING SHE KNEW SHE ALWAYS DESERVED, EVEN IF SHE DIDN'T WORK FOR IT, EVEN IF SHE DIDN'T TAKE CARE OF IT, EVEN IF SHE WASN'T WORTH IT].

𝔅lair could already envision it. As her manicured digits aggressively pressed the elevator button, waiting to be gracefully led to her penthouse, she allowed her mind to run a-mock. [BLONDE STRANDS PULLED OUT, ─ sheer nails digging into porcelain skin, * Manolo Blahnik kitten heels digging into her neck... She couldn't wait to see Serena in pain. It has never gotten this bad, having to resort to violence isn't very ladylike. And Blair is anything but. Yet that doesn't mean a girl cannot dream!

The light "ding!" of the elevator should cause Serena to jump. Both of her wrists are hung in the air, the left holding up her Lady Dior black satchel handbag, *THE RIGHT HOLDING AN AGENT PROVOCATEUR BAG. Felines catch a glimpse of perfect, golden legs, thin brows immediately tensing. The purple sheen of her lips intensify, as she walks directly into the light, and faces Serena. Patient, graceful, pathetic. She remembers herself, but that comes after the purr: ❝ S. ❞

𝔓osture tightens, back is straightened, lace tights crinkle-free. The image of perfection. Until anger begins to boil. ❝ ─ Who let you in? Do I need to threaten Dorota again? ❞ Blair approaches the blonde slowly, as if afraid that she may break, and fold as soon as Serena looks at her. It almost comes true, once she hears the break in her best friend's voice. She feels a chill of remorse on her skin, goosebumps even! [UNTIL THE SERPENT IS REMINDED OF HER DISAPPOINTMENT.]

❝ Well, it's not like me to pass up the opportunity to say: I TOLD YOU SO. ❞ Blair places her bags down onto the glass centre table, briefly admiring the Waldorf signature peonies. Chocolate ringlets sway as she crouches down, heel digging into her pristine marble. She is only inches away from Serena's face, and if this were anyone else, she'd have a tongue laced with profanity, 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙻. And yet. She sighs. Gently takes Serena's hand, and immediately, her voice softens.

❝ Talk to me ... Did something happen? ❞

BLAIR WALDORF

So there’s your psychoanalysis, Dr. Freud. Now tell me… are you in, or are you out?