"There. Good as new," declared Blair Waldorf-Bass proudly, holding her toddler, Charlotte, at arm's length. She had just finished wiping frosting off the little girl's face. She carefully lifted Charlotte down onto the floor, and the toddler ran hurtling into the living room.
"Mom, where's Alexander?" Emma demanded, stomping into the kitchen, her hands on her hips. Blair wiped her hands on the kitchen towel, "He's over at the Baizens, with Max, Jeremy and Trevor. What's wrong?"
"That little dork messed with my stuff again," muttered the eleven-year-old. Blair knew from experience that it was better to keep quiet than to entertain Emma's rants. Before she could continue, however, Isabella ran into the kitchen, Chuck behind her.
"Hey, Is! You're back late today," Blair shot a glare to Chuck, who was standing against the doorway. He shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "Your daughter got into a fight with Ariana Archibald."
"What did you and Ariana fight about?" Blair sighed. Isabella frowned, "She was all bragging about how her daddy—Uncle Nate—was taking her to Europe for the holidays; right after I said we were going to spend the holidays in Italy with Grandpa."
Chuck and Blair rolled their eyes. Nate wouldn't encourage such behavior in his children, of course, but somehow, four-year-old Ariana had adopted the regal, royal attitude that was required in his family.
"Okay, sweetie. What did you say to her in the end?" asked Blair wearily.
"I said I still win, and she asked why."
"I'm wondering about that myself. Why's that?"
"Because," said Isabella impatiently, as if the answer was totally obvious, "I'm Isabella Bass."