I've been shocked before in my life.
Devastated. Felt the breath being drowned out of me, even. (Someone named S and an ex-object of attraction N, but let's not go into that.)
But never this shocked.
Just reading the paper in front of me gives me the creeps. Goosebumps.
How could Mom agree to this?
Worst, how would I do this?
Let me explain: When my lawyer called me up in the morning to meet him at the agency with Mom, I thought it'd be something about the never-ending divorce conflict, but, like the least probable thing that could happen, walked in Mr. C. Bass, settling down on the opposite of our side of the table, my lawyer in the middle.
All right, no panic, no calm. I could do this. It's been years since we—you still fancy bondage with him?—last talked.
Awkward silence. Eyes staring at each other.
Chuck's wearing his normal clothes today, the period of mourning for his father over, his signature monogramned CB scarf resting snugly around his neck, and a stylish—why am I even complimenting him?—black hat on, to top it all, even though it's summer.
Looks can change. People never will.
Not with Chuck. His looks never, sigh, change, nor does he .
Breaks all the rules.
"So," begins Chuck—must not look at him, must not look—"Let's get the thing finito. I've got a lot to do."
Forgetting the childishness, I roll my eyes at him. Sure, a lot (of girls) to meet. What's the Waldorf clan got to do with him, anyway?
Then the lawyer hands me the paper, Mom giving a too-obvious, strange nod of encouragement.
Painlessly short as possible: it's the late Bart Bass's last will and testament. Poor Bartholomew has passed away a year ago—if termed accordingly to fashion trends, so last season—and Gossip Girl had the rumors going on that Chuck broke down, locked himself up in the room, crying.
It was nearly true, close, but not exact. Thanks to the huge circle of Upper East Siders we have here, I, on a strict period of Chuck avoidance, did not have to get in touch with the Unlucky Bass myself, Serena, Nate, and everyone else tapping in to see if he was fine.
So fine is he this morning to snatch me—indirectly—from my appointment with the personal shopper at Prada's. I have better things to do on a New York summer morning, you know.
The lawyer's voice—and Chuck's calculating eyes—brought me back to reality.
"It's specified," the lawyer says, "That the Waldorf and Bass empires would have to be united for Mr. Bass here," pans his hand at Chuck, "To inherit the fortune."
WHAT?
But I might have said that a little bit too loud, for Chuck—damn him. Too bad I can't…never mind—to lean closer to my face, whispering, "If you didn't get that, babe. He means, in simple and plain English, that you must marry me."
Marry him?
In your dreams, chucker-boy.
The thought of Blair Bass makes me shudder. With disgust.
Even the initials match…
BB = Ew…
Why, why, why?
I start in on Mom, turning to her in an urgent tone, at a corner of my eye sighting Chuck whistle as if he has no care left in the world. "How could you do this? You knew…" She never knows a thing, technically, just getting and keeping me in an inner circle is her top wish.
"It was an opportune moment, honey," she squeezes my hand—not a comforting, but more like a cajoling move—"And it's for the better. Where's all the wealth going? In our families!"
It hurt to watch her brown orbs, so similar to mine, danced with excitement and security, when their replicas are the exact opposite.
She lowers her voice, whispering in my ear, Chuck watching on the sly. "Since you've let that Nate boy go…"
Nonsense.
It's just not coming true in a 21st century world. Hello, this is Upper East Side, not some soap opera show!
But the scene is unraveling before my eyes.
Chuck sits up, smiling my Mom's smile. "So what'd ya say? Marry me?"
That's the most un-romantic wedding proposal I have ever heard in my entire life.
He's so gotten over his father's death he has the Chuck mood going. Again.
Nope, doesn't work on me anymore.
And who has ever been proposed—if you could even called it that—in front of a lawyer?
Beside me, Mom repeats her fake encouraging nodding routine, which is getting more annoying by the minute.
"What's Mr. Bass's reason for doing this, anyway?" I blurt out in an incredulous voice, hands firmly on my lap.
For a moment, Chuck seems to say something, but stops against his will, holding back.
"Well," I decide, "If no one has the answer for me, then I'm not doing it. Not now. Not ever. Not in my life."
Paper record? Changing last names? Throwing our Waldorf fortune into Chuck Bass's hands?
No way.
After a long pause, Chuck gives a small nod to both Mom and me, "Mrs. Waldorf, Blair," he says, voice no longer cheery but deeply serious, "I'll have to go now. Blair might need some time to think alone, I guess. See you around."
But it's his last sentence that bothers me.
"It's not over, B," he winks, before backing out.
'Over's' not the word, Chuck.
If you want to play it this way, the game hasn't even begun.
A/N: Let me know what you think.
Thanking you for everything :)
Your ever humble fanfic writer.
PS: If Bart seems unreasonable to pair Chuck with Blair, the reason will sort itself out. Later on in the story :).