Parading herself around the streets of Paris was natural to Blair, since she had been doing it since she was a little girl with her mini Chanel classic flap in tow. Being the daughter of a renowned designer mother and a well affiliated father didn't hurt. She was born for this. In the past few weeks, she had been in and out of the city of lights on a regular basis from Monaco to get things going for the wedding.
Appointments at fashion houses, wandering Champs Elyse perusing for the perfect additions for her new home at the palace, reading Le Monde over Café Au Lait and macaroons at Pierre Herme—it suited her and she was well aware. Her picturesque summer was textbook-like for that of a quintessential woman like her: well connected, well versed, and well behaved, most importantly.
She was the-be-all-to-end-all and marrying Louis would be the icing on the cake of Debutante dreams everywhere. God, if she can see the looks on the faces of those people when they read The New York Times announcement this Sunday. She was sure it would read something like this:
'Blair Waldorf, daughter of Harold and famed-designer Eleanor Waldorf is engaged to Louis Grimaldi, Prince of Monaco. A Fall wedding is being planned at the classic Georges V on Champs Elyse in Paris.'
Oh the things they would say, she was certain there would be rants and raves, but she wasn't concerned with their response. She was only interested in the reaction of a particular person, one who undoubtedly read his Sunday times every week in a purple silk robe over espresso and the best croque madame in his penthouse suite, Bass style.
Just because he knew she was engaged already doesn't mean it would make it any easier, a subtle but not so subtle rude awakening. After all, it was supposed to be them gracing the Wedding section, building their Empire together—as the reigning powerhouse couple of New York. She thought to herself, the day her and Louis took the engagement photos in Luxembourg Gardens, how different this would be if it were them. They would be laughing, not posed, beaming, not just smiling, and they most certainly would match—outfits AND expressions. They had that effect on each other. What would Chuck say when he saw it?
"She looks…," he trailed off.
He had been sitting there, perusing through the sections, when there she was, he almost choked on his croque madame. Nate was nose deep in Sports, when he looked up at Chuck. He didn't even have to ask. Serena told him to be on the lookout for Sunday's paper. He waited for him to finish the sentence and when that didn't happen he walked over and looked for himself. Chuck was silent with that calm before the storm look on his face.
"She looks perfect," Nate said.
It was classic Blair; flawless in Yves Saint Laurent, with her trademark curls and that mischievous look in her big brown eyes with Louis behind her.
"Nathaniel, really, Luxembourg Gardens? Blair would never agree to that."
"Chuck…" he could see where this was headed.
"What? Blair isMusée Carnavalet, not Jardin du Luxembourg; she's The Hotel de Crillon, not the Georges V. She's, she's… this is not her. This is not Blair," he rambled.
"Well maybe she's going a different route? Maybe all of those places remind her of things past," Nate said.
"What the hell are you trying to say?" Chuck demanded
"Listen man, all I'm saying is that maybe all of these places are true to Blair, but did you ever think that they might remind her of you?"
"You're wrong. When we were in Paris, we were living two different lives—we didn't experience any of it together."
"Yeah, but she did. The summer you were missing, the summer everything went wrong between you two. She was lost. You and I both know that Blair puts up a good façade, but underneath it all she was a mess. Serena was there to witness it all, and no one calls her out on it quite as good as she does," Nate said.
"With the exception of me, of course," Chuck absent mindedly blurted out.
"Whatever the case, she maybe betrothed and strolling along the Palace de la Concorde, but Paris was supposed to be yours, together. Forget the scrapbook and her dreams. That was when she was a little girl, it was different with you."
Chuck still had the paper in his hand. He was gripping it for dear life; he tried to play it off calmly.
"Nathaniel, I needed to let her go."
"Oh, I know. You did the right thing, but it doesn't mean she stopped loving you. She'll always love you."
That's when he heard it.
Always.
She came back to her hotel room after a long afternoon with Jeff Leatham. He was THE florist in Paris. He was insisting on peonies and garden roses since they would be ideal with her theme. She jumped at the sound of that and then quickly retracted from the idea. She absolutely loved peonies, but it didn't feel right. They would reconvene in the morning to talk alternatives.
She walked in the door only to stop short at the first step.
They were everywhere, in what seemed like a million hues of pink.
Peonies.