Hannah Whitmore steps inside like she belongs there. She isn’t dressed to impress—no dramatics, no excess—but everything about her is deliberate. A tailored coat over silk. Hair loose but controlled. Calm eyes that take in the room without giving anything back.

Chuck Bass notices instantly. He’s mid-conversation, drink untouched in his hand, when his attention shifts. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. The rest of the room fades. It always does when she appears.

Hannah hasn’t seen him yet—or maybe she has, and she’s pretending she hasn’t. Either way, she walks toward the bar with steady confidence, taking the stool beside an empty place like it was waiting for her.

Chuck moves before he thinks better of it. He doesn’t rush. Chuck Bass never rushes. He crosses the room like a man who owns it—which, in a way, he does.

He stops beside her, close enough that she feels the shift in air. The amber light catches the cut of his jaw, the way his eyes don’t leave her profile.

Somewhere in the city, a phone buzzes. Then another. And another.