An AU fiction. Assume that Blair and Chuck only know each other in passing from school and mutual friends, Chuck is also a couple of years older.
It is like falling into a childhood dream. Chandeliers cast shafts of light which bounce off champagne glasses and reverberate on the diamonds in the tiara that adorns her head. Blair thinks of the women who have worn the headdress before herself. Had they held their heads high as the lavish diadem spoke for them, the clusters of jewels proclaiming their status, their superiority, or had it imprisoned them, the priceless gems akin to lead balls?
Louis's arm around Blair's waist offers no support as he tugs her across the ocean of bodies, from dignitaries to fellow monarchs, their names drummed into her head, polite greetings on her painted lips. The men and women smile in response and out slip insincere pleasantries from mouths greased by veal and a good vintage. Compliments fill the air easily, she is beautiful they say. It flits across Blair's mind, how long does it take once another group of similarly dressed personages has engulfed her before they speak what they truly think, 'so thin', 'no child', 'was there no other woman suitable to be princess of Monaco?'.
A man Blair recognises, but not from the usual social elites that populate the ballrooms, is speaking, he talks of how glamorous the occasion is and how blessed the charity is to have her and Louis as representatives. She remembers where she knows him from, an article written six or seven years since, 'Monarchy Unnecessary in Today's World'. A younger her had scoffed and turned the page, safely tucked up room in a far from this place where the wall was painted with Marie Antoinette's image and her illusions were un-shattered. What could have bought him, to make him put down his critical pen and instead wax lyrical his excessive praise? Money? Love? Or had he, like her, been foolish.
But now another man stands and calls their attention as he talks images flash up on a screen behind him, the starving, so malnourished that every rib is visible, Blair thinks of her own, barely disguised beneath layers of purple chiffon. This man however may have something few others in the room possess, he does care, his words about the needy and the impoverished are said with passion and without the need for lies or embellishment. His words are moving, partygoers are silent as they listen. Then without even a trace of irony they all raise their glasses and drink five hundred-dollar a bottle Dom.
Bodies shift and Blair finds herself being led to the front, Louis and her swing to face each other, two cold hands find one another, her other on his shoulder gripping the expensive material, his almost encircles her tiny waist. Blair can smell his cologne, citrusy, she didn't buy it for him, his sister maybe, more likely his mother. They pirouette together; her stomach already emptied in the plush bathrooms lurches sharply, like a child on a fairground ride, except she can't get off. All eyes are on them, on her, a mere year or so ago she would have enjoyed this, being the centre of attention, there is no halo of golden hair swaying to sound of her own childlike giggles to detract from this moment, yet Blair betrays herself by wishing there was. Thankfully more couples join them on the floor and before too soon they can part, Louis escapes, maybe to find a partner more solid, who grins at him without the weight of duty behind her eyes. It crosses Blair's mind that tonight may be the night he doesn't crawl into their cold bed in the early hours, that he doesn't return at all, this doesn't upset her like she knows it should. Now adrift on the dance floor she departs to the flash of a camera's light, her back straight, her smile is in place and the tiara perfectly balanced. Other men's offers of a go around the floor are avoided as Blair flees to the veranda, maybe there she can breathe.
However Blair is dismayed to find it occupied, a woman in puffy, pink evening gown obscures the view of another guest, a man? The woman appears to be annoyed about something, no dance, a wine stain on her dress; the problems of the women who frequent these types of parties are innumerable and always trifling. Never mind, the balcony is long and Blair can walk to the other end and have her own space.
The view should be spectacular; the lights of Monaco harbour are laid out before her. But Blair looks beyond the luxuriant buildings, the still bustling docks to the ocean. Water, which stretches out to touch the toes of the Statue of Liberty and her home, the thought is comforting. But she is still weighed down by the tiara about her head, the rings around her fourth finger and even the cross about her neck.
"Beautiful isn't it." The voice steals her from her reverie. The speaker is a man not far along the balcony, dressed in black tie, except for the pocket square, purple, they match. He isn't looking at the view. He sounds American; it only takes her a second to locate it as New York. Home. So she says what would otherwise have caused a minor scandal in the Monégasque papers if said to anyone else.
"There is no city comparable to New York". She responds in her native tongue, as he spoke to her in it.
He approaches, his angular cheekbones made clearer in the light from window to her back. "It would a sin to disagree with you, your serene highness." He adds her title as an afterthought.
"I seem to be at a disadvantage, you know who I am, but I am afraid I do not think we are introduced". And she does not recognise him, although she feels she should and not just because she had planned the guest list herself, but because he feels familiar, his features scraping at her memory.
"I'm Chuck Bass" His delivery is swift, well-practised and releases a reserve of memories Blair has tried to leave behind on the island that was once her domain. Recollections of her as a slight freshman on low steps, still scheming to be queen, head adorned proudly with a headband, and hand encased in the warm grip of her beautiful best friend. Looking out across at a boy, her then prince, chestnut hair and kind eyes, long before the hand that had held hers would snatch him away, sending Blair floating to this place and into another false prince's arms. Yet on the spare occasion her eyes had shifted up from her prize prince they had set upon another boy, an upperclassman and self-proclaimed king, surrounded by a gaggle of girls and holding a dubious roll-up. As a girl her thoughts towards him were of undisguised disgust and a secret curiosity. She knows him and he knows her, truly knows her, not the princess twirling on the ballroom floor, but the queen reigning from stone steps.
There is a moment of shared understanding that passes between them, it makes his smirk broaden,
So she asks "How is the island". What she means is 'How is the kingdom' and he knows it.
"The New York Ballet has started a new run of Swan Lake, rumour is Tripp Van der Bilt is set to divorce his wife, the leaves are starting to fall in central park."
Blair knows she should ask after Serena and Nate, it's what is expected of polite conversations, to ask after mutual friends, even if said friends are at present more enemies, but he's already trespassing, bringing New York here to her new kingdom she isn't going to encourage more encroachment. Despite this it occur to her his well know deviancy must be rubbing off on her because she also knows it's not appropriate for her, a married women, a royal no less, to be alone with a man who's reputation makes debutantes and thrice married upper east side matrons alike blush.
"Are you here for long Mr Bass." Her upbringing slips in and she can't help but add a little propriety to the situation, his Christian name too familiar, yet somehow it feels right.
He leans against the balcony, his eyes not leaving hers. "A little longer, I'm here on business, a new hotel."
Blair had heard about the hotel of course, it had polite society all a titter. Decadent and if the rumours were true all it took to have a girl of whatever hair colour, ethnicity or bra size was your flavour sent to your room was a call to the front desk.
"Ah yes, when is the official opening?"
"Next week" He retrieves a silver cigarette case and lights up. "You and your husband have been invited naturally."
Raising an eyebrow Blair quips "I don't think that it would be considered appropriate."
He offers her the case, she hasn't smoked since junior year of College and even then it was only the odd one at parties, tar stained fingers and teeth are not attractive, yet she craves one more than she has in years. But she thinks of the looks she will get for even the slightest scent of tobacco, she shouldn't be standing this close to him. She shakes her head and he returns the case to his inside jacket pocket.
"The Monegasque Commerce Board will be there. I promise you it will all be very tame. " Then he adds with flourish of his cigarette "Maybe not in the suites, but that's the customers' business. No, I assure you that you will be able to navigate the main rooms without the threat of even a small scandal."
It crosses Blair's mind if he is aware that at this, one of the most puritanical balls on the Monegasque social calendar, he was participating in an exchange which if seen would itself create a public disgrace. The thought of this caused an inappropriate burst of excitement in her and she leaned in closer to say with a quirk of her lips, "If the Board of Commerce is there then it must be completely proper." They both knew that many the esteemed members of the Board would no doubt ditch theirs wives some point in the evening to taste a little of the improbity in those backrooms themselves.
The butt of his cigarette is dropped to the floor and he crushes it with the heel of his shoe, Blair watches as the black ash mars the white marble.
"You will love it."
It takes her moment to realise he is talking about the opening.
Chuck catches her gaze; his eyes appear black under the moonlit sky. She wants to say something, but before it can form on her lips the door to the veranda slams open and the woman in the pink evening gown strides out.
"Chuck," The woman near shrieks "You promised me you would dance". She catches sight of Blair and for a moment seemed about to make a comment to her, before her eyes fix on the tiara and realisation dawns about who she was about to insult, obviously lacking in any education in the art of decorum she half drops into a curtsy, before thinking the better of it and straightening up.
"You're Highness". It's the wrong way to address her and the Blair of a few years ago would have informed the pink pleb of that fact and sharply, now she simply settles for the most scathing glance she can summon. It isn't as if the woman doesn't deserve it, aside from the title mistake she is dressed in a far too low cut dress to pass as suitable for anywhere other than a strip club.
Chuck dismisses her quickly. "Crystal, I'll be two minutes." And with a nod and a sheepish glance she scarpers back inside.
The woman's name makes Blair want to squirm, what was she a playboy bunny? Then she remembers who her escort is and it occurs to her that she may well be.
He's back to looking at her now. "I look forward to reacquainting myself with you at the opening. " Then with a look which Blair knew could only bring trouble he took her hand and kissed it.
"Mr Bass, I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball." She replied in what she hoped could pass as her most dignified tone.
"Blair Waldorf, I assure you this night has been made." The way he said her name, not her title or her married name, her name sent shivers down her spine. Then with one final appraisal of her from Manolo Blahniks to that wretched tiara and he slipped back into the light of the party.
She gave it two minutes before her own return, she had been gone a long time and she gathered from the looks she received it had not gone unnoticed, but for some reason she did not care. For the next hour or so she danced with the few men she was expected to pour attention upon. She did not see Mr again and knew he had likely moved on with his lady friend, to casino perhaps to no doubt risk more money than he had donated at the Charity Ball. Eventually she made her excuses and returned to the palace without her husband.
In years to come Blair would remember that as the night she encountered Chuck Bass, but incidentally it was also the first night her husband did not return to their bed.
Critique! I'd love to hear what you liked and disliked about the chapter, I'm really keen to improve my writing abilities, so tell me if you think this horrendous. I've never written this fandom before so I'll have to see where this goes.