Location: Sant Ambroeus Restaurant, Upper East Side Year: 2011
POV: Third Person
Two days after the prince's surrender, Blair Waldorf felt as though she had been reborn in her own skin. The world seemed sharper, colors brighter. The anxiety that had been her constant companion, a low hum beneath the surface of her composure, had vanished. In its place was a centered calm, the kind of serenity that only comes from absolute power and certainty. Walking down Madison Avenue beside Ren was no longer an act of defiance, but a declaration of sovereignty.
They had decided to venture out of the Brooklyn stronghold for lunch. It was Blair's idea. "We can't rule from a bunker," she had said. "Power must be seen to be believed." Ren, amused by her Machiavellian logic, had agreed.
They chose Sant Ambroeus, the very restaurant where everything had fallen apart and come back together. It was a deliberate move, a return to the scene of the crime as its new monarchs. Blair wore a red Valentino dress that was both elegant and audacious, a declaration of war and victory in one ensemble. Ren, as always, was the picture of sophisticated calm in a navy suit that made his eyes seem even clearer. They didn't touch, but the energy between them was a palpable force field, an aura of intimacy and shared power that made heads turn as they passed.
They were led to the best table, the same one she and Ren had occupied days earlier. The maître d', who had witnessed the confrontation with Louis, now treated them with a deference bordering on awe. News, it seemed, had spread like wildfire through the Upper East Side's invisible channels. The broken engagement, the prince's humiliation, the new, mysterious man by Queen B's side... it was the scandal of the season.
"Enjoying the show?" Ren murmured, taking a sip of water as he watched the restaurant's clientele pretend not to stare.
"I always do," Blair replied, unfolding her napkin with a queen's grace. "Fear is such a delicious condiment."
They were halfway through their first course, a lobster salad, when Blair felt a shift in the atmosphere. It was the same change she had felt before Red appeared, a sudden hush, a drop in social pressure. She looked up and saw Ren looking towards the entrance, his expression amused yet alert. Blair slowly turned.
And there they were.
It was as if her entire past had decided to stage an intervention. Her mother, Eleanor Waldorf, her face taut with worry and disapproval. Beside her, her stepfather, Cyrus Rose, whose usual good-natured expression had been replaced by one of serious concern. Behind them, Serena van der Woodsen, looking beautiful even in her distress, her large eyes fixed on Blair. Next to Serena was Dan Humphrey, with his characteristic brooding observer's gaze, like an anthropologist studying a lost tribe.
And at the very end of the group, watching from a distance with a glass of whiskey in hand and a storm in his eyes, stood Chuck Bass.
They had come as a united front. An army from her old life, assembled to bring back their lost queen.
POV: Blair (First Person)
I watch them approach our table, a procession of ghosts from a past life. My mother, her disappointment palpable. Cyrus, my rock, now looking at me as if I'm a stranger. Serena, my sister in all but blood, her face a silent plea. Dan, the outsider who always judged, now seemingly part of the inner circle. And Chuck... oh, Chuck. His presence is a dull ache, the echo of a wound that never quite heals, but one that no longer has the power to paralyze me.
My first instinct, the old Blair's instinct, is to attack. To unleash a volley of biting insults, to put them in their place, to shame them until they retreat. But the woman I am now, the woman who has seen the inside of Ren's fortress, knows that true power doesn't need to shout.
I look at Ren. He meets my gaze, an eyebrow raised in a silent question: Your move or mine? I give him an almost imperceptible smile. Mine.
"Mother. Cyrus," I say, my voice calm and inviting, as if I'm delighted to see them. "What an unexpected surprise. Are you joining us for lunch? Though I'm afraid there aren't enough chairs."
Eleanor ignores my greeting. Her eyes, the very same eyes I have, rake over Ren with a mix of fear and disdain.
"Blair, we need to talk," she says, her voice strained. "Alone."
"I don't think that's possible," I reply, taking a delicate bite of my lobster. "Mr. Ishikawa and I were in the middle of a very important conversation about hostile takeovers. It's fascinating."
"This isn't a joke, Blair!" Serena interjects, stepping forward. "We've been so worried! You broke off your engagement! You disappeared! No one knew where you were!"
"I haven't disappeared, Serena. I've been... re-evaluating my asset portfolio," I say, my gaze briefly settling on Chuck before returning to her.
It's then that my mother sees it.
As I gesticulate with my fork, the sleeve of my red dress slides up, just a bit. But it's enough. Her hawk-like eyes fix on the dark, black calligraphy on my wrist.
Property of Ren Ishikawa.
Color drains from her face. Her hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
"What... what is that?" she whispers, her voice trembling with horror.
All eyes follow her gaze. I see the exact moment each of them registers it. The shock on Serena's face. The confusion on Cyrus's. The analytical intrigue on Dan's. And on Chuck's... a darkness, a wound so deep I can almost feel it across the table.
"It's exactly what it looks like, Mother," I say calmly.
And then, Ren, in an act of perfect solidarity and calculated provocation, slowly rolls up the sleeve of his navy shirt. He reveals his own tattoo, identical in its bold permanence.
Property of Blair Waldorf.
A collective gasp ripples through the group. It's the proof. The cattle brand, as I once called it. The irrefutable evidence that my defection was not a temporary whim, but a fundamental, permanent shift in allegiance.
"Good heavens," Cyrus murmurs, adjusting his glasses as if he can't believe his eyes.
Eleanor whirls on Ren, her fear now overcome by a protective lioness-mother's fury. "What have you done to her?! You've drugged her! You've coerced her!"
Before Ren can respond with one of his quiet, devastating retorts, I cut in. I rise slowly, my chair making no sound on the floor. My gaze sweeps over each of them, one by one.
"No one has done anything to me," I say, my voice resonating with an authority that makes them take a step back. "This was my choice. Every single part of it."
I look at Serena. "You were worried, S, I appreciate it. But I am safer and happier than I have been in my entire life."
I look at Dan. "I know you love to observe and judge from the sidelines, Humphrey. But this is a story you won't be able to write. It's out of your league."
I look at Cyrus and my mother. "I love you both. But you need to understand that the child you raised is gone. In her place is a woman who finally knows what she wants. And it isn't a princely title or a life of social obligations."
Finally, my eyes meet Chuck's. He hasn't said a word. He just stares at me, his face a mask of pain and contained rage. The whiskey in his glass trembles slightly.
"And you, Chuck," I say, my voice softening, not from pity, but from the weight of our history. "You and I... will always be you and I. But our game is over. I've moved on to a bigger one."
His jaw tightens. "Bigger?" he spits, his first word. "Or have you just sold yourself to the highest bidder?"
POV: Ren (First Person)
"Sold." The same word the prince used. It seems to be the only concept these men can apply to a woman making her own choices. The cold anger I felt during Louis's call threatens to return, but I rein it in. This is Blair's performance. I'm just a supporting actor.
But when Chuck insults her, when he reduces her choice to a transaction, I know it's my cue to speak.
I rise as well, placing myself slightly behind Blair, a presence of silent support. I don't look at Chuck. I look at Eleanor, the matriarch.
"Mrs. Waldorf," I say, my voice calm and respectful, which throws her off balance more than any threat. "I understand your concern. But I assure you, your daughter's intentions are her own, and my only intention is to support them. Blair is not property to be bought or sold. She is a force of nature. And any man who thinks otherwise"—here, my eyes flick to Chuck for a split second—"is a fool."
My gaze returns to Eleanor. "The world you know, the world of galas and strategic engagements, is a very small part of the real world. Blair has decided to explore the rest of the map. I am simply providing her with a better vessel."
My calm, my refusal to engage in their drama, unnerves them. They expected an operatic villain, a brute. Instead, they get a quiet businessman who speaks with cold logic.
Cyrus, ever the voice of reason, steps forward. "Mr. Ishikawa, we know nothing about you. Only that you appeared out of nowhere and our Blair... she's not the same." A father has a right to worry.
"And you have every right, Mr. Rose," I reply, inclining my head in respect. He's the only one in the group who has earned that courtesy. "But judging a man by rumors is like judging a book by its cover. And judging a woman like Blair by the choices she makes for her own happiness is, with all due respect, a mistake."
The standoff is at an stalemate. They've come with force, expecting to break her with guilt and social pressure. But they've met a wall of unity and a calm they cannot penetrate.
And then, Blair delivers the coup de grâce.
She steps closer to me and, in front of all of them—her mother, her stepfather, her best friends, the love of her life—she takes my hand. She laces her fingers through mine. It's a simple gesture, but in the language of the Upper East Side, it's as definitive as a coronation.
"We're done here," she says, not to them, but to me.
She turns, and without a second glance, begins to walk towards the exit. I follow, our hands still intertwined. We pass Chuck, so close I could touch him. I feel the heat of his rage, the scent of whiskey and broken dreams. But he says nothing. He just stands there, defeated.
As we step out of the restaurant into the bright Manhattan sunlight, leaving her past frozen in a tableau of shock and defeat, I feel her fingers squeeze mine.
"That went rather well, don't you think?" she says, a touch of her old Queen B arrogance in her voice.
I smile. "You were magnificent."
"I know," she replies.
We pause on the sidewalk, and the black limousine glides silently to a stop in front of us. John opens the door.
But before we can step in, my phone buzzes. It's a message from an unknown number. I open it. It's a photo, taken from inside the restaurant, of Blair and me walking out, holding hands. Below it, text.
Spotted: Queen B introducing her new King. Looks like the property is mutual and the alliance is public. As B's old world watches in horror, a new dynasty is born on the Upper East Side. Crowns have been claimed, tattoos have been shown. What's next? World domination? Don't change the channel. This is getting good.You know you love me.XOXO, Gossip Girl.
I show the phone to Blair. She reads it, and a slow, dangerous smile spreads across her face.
"World domination," she says, savoring the words. "I like the sound of that."
She steps into the limousine, the queen entering her carriage. As I follow her in, I know one thing for certain: the war for Blair Waldorf is over.
The war with Blair Waldorf has just begun. And the world has no idea what's coming.