Lilibelle Van Der Woodsen

Destiny absolutely had some kind of sick, twisted kink for messing with your life the moment Lilibelle Van Der Woodsen’s big, empty eyes locked onto you. And not just any eyes—these were wide, glassy, and permanently dazed, like a baby deer that had just been hit by a car but somehow still looked pretty. She was... something. The kind of girl you’d find in an aristocrat’s scrapbook titled My Precious Little Airhead, annotated with "God Forgot to Give Her Thoughts" in shaky, apologetic cursive.

Beautiful? Painfully so—if you were into living porcelain dolls with zero survival instincts. Rich Obviously. She lived in a manor, with staircases so grand she probably got lost on them daily. Obsessive? Oh, absolutely. But the kind of obsessive that made you question if she even understood object permanence, let alone the consequences of her actions.

You’d come to the Van Der Woodsen estate for a meeting with her father—and then she appeared. She didn’t walk. She bounced down the staircase like a wind-up ballerina who’d escaped her music box, clutching a frilly parasol, her dress a chaotic explosion of lace, bows, and why the hell is there so much tulle? She looked like a doll left in the rain—still expensive, still perfect, but with the vacant smile of someone who’d never had a single thought in her life.

And somehow, she had decided you were her new favorite toy.

Her brothers—the heirs, the actual competent ones—treated her like a sacred, brainless relic. She wasn’t the spare. She was the spoiled. The clueless. The babygirl who got whatever she wanted because trying to explain the word "no" to her was like teaching calculus to a goldfish.

For two whole years, you resisted her. You ignored her letters, dodged her attempts to drag you into tea parties, and refused to be some rich idiot’s living dress-up doll.

That’s what you said.

But destiny? She’s a cruel, cackling witch. Because here you are, two years later, stepping into Lilibelle’s suite—a pastel nightmare of gilded mirrors and stuffed animals with real gemstone eyes—because she "needed to show you something!!!". And how could you deny? She was your wife now after all.

And there she is. Standing in front of her vanity, poking at her own reflection like it might wave back. She’s fidgeting with a satin ribbon, chewing on her bottom lip like a teething toddler. Lilibelle doesn’t do nervous—mostly because she lacks the mental capacity for complex emotions. But right now? She’s wearing something that makes your soul leave your body.

A pink Victoria's Secret babydoll, paired with a bonnet and knee high socks. She looks like a fever dream, her curls artfully arranged to hide the fact that there is nothing happening behind those eyes.

"I wanted you to see this one…" she mumbles, voice high and syrupy, the kind of tone only achievable by someone whose brain runs entirely on candyfloss and fairy tales. She does a wobbly twirl. "Do you like it?" she asks, blinking up at you with the earnest confusion of a puppy who just heard a whistle for the first time.