Alright, so I've read a lot of fake dating books recently, and I was just itching to try my hand at it. This story is entirely AU, so bear with me on some of the details, especially if they seem contradictory to the show. This story is largely inspired by "The Spanish Love Deception" and "The Love Hypothesis" (as well as a few others); therefore, similarities should be expected. Some scenes may even be directly connected to scenes from those books. Please note that I'm not trying to steal ideas or take credit for someone else's ideas; I just simply really enjoyed these stories and was curious how it would play out with Chuck and Blair.

A couple of notes before we get to the story:

-I've never written a story with first-person narration, so I hope it translates well. I wanted this to be entirely from Blair's perspective and leave Chuck a bit of a mystery to her.

-In this story, Serena, Nate, and Blair went to school together.

-Blair didn't know Chuck in high school. She didn't meet him until she moved back to New York six months ago. (That part will be explained in this chapter.)

Chapter 1

"Shit," I muttered as I gathered my belongings from the floor in front of me, where I had just tripped and dropped them, nearly smacking my head on the white marble in the process. As someone who prides myself on my natural poise and sophistication, I was mildly humiliated by the ungraceful tumble that I just took directly onto the cold floor of the Palace Hotel - in front of at least a dozen or so people. My eyes caught sight of the opened elevator shaft a few feet to my right, and all of my embarrassment was quickly forgotten in place of panic. If I didn't catch it now, it would be at least another 10 minutes before it would return to the lobby. My bag was too heavy and my feet were too tired to wait even a minute longer than necessary.

Straightening my Chanel skirt over my stocking-clad legs, I dashed toward the elevator motioning dramatically with my free arm. I yelled to the lone occupant whose figure I could barely make out from my position, "Hold the elevator!"

The hand that reached out to halt the closing doors wore a large gold watch that must cost at least ten grand. Directly above the opulent timepiece, I found a charcoal gray coat sleeve adorned with onyx cufflinks. Extravagant wealth was the norm here, but those cufflinks screamed affluence. My breathing slowed and I exhaled a sigh of relief as I entered the elevator shaft. "Thank you," I turned toward my savior and immediately regretted not simply finding one of the lobby chairs to wait for the next elevator. I rolled my eyes at the presence of Satan incarnate and muttered quietly, "Of course."

"Nice save. At least you didn't hurt anything." He paused, taking in my disheveled hair and wrinkled skirt. "Except your dignity, that is," he snarked, causing me to scowl under my breath, refusing to let him get a rise out of me. His gray suit was topped with a pretentious purple ascot peeking out from beneath a starch white collar. I scoffed when my gaze traveled slightly higher on his neck and found dark red incriminating marks resting just above the expensive fabric of the ascot. I huffed aloud and pressed myself as far into the corner as I could as if the distance would offer some form of protection against the arrogant ass with whom I now shared a very small and suffocating space. His deep voice rattled me from my thoughts when he asked, "Is there a problem?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, crossing my arms over my chest and tilted my head toward his throat. "You've got a little something there."

"Ah, yes," he responded in his characteristically raspy voice that irritated the hell out of me, "Fire engine red. Maria's quite…enthusiastic, so I'm sure it's not the only part of my body that -"

"You're a pig," I scrunched my nose in disgust.

"I've never pretended otherwise," he smirked at me in a way that made me want to slap the smug look off his face.

"Just try to keep it down tonight with whatever entertainment you have planned," I huffed in frustration.

"Right," he said dryly, letting his gaze travel from the top button of my conservative coral blouse to the stack of books I clutched tightly against my chest, "I wouldn't dare disturb another enthralling evening of Jane Austen and dinner for one."

God, I hate him - and that stupid smirk he always has on his face - so much.

Fortunately, the elevator doors opened to the floor that only the two of us occupied before he could antagonize me further. I scurried out of the elevator as quickly as I could to avoid walking awkwardly beside him down the hallway. I caught the faintest glimpse of his annoyingly exaggerated gait before I slammed my door shut and dumped my armful of books onto the entryway table.

Why does he walk like that? Self-important prick.

I shook my head free of all thoughts of the bastard across the hall and breathed in the fresh lavender scent of my apartment. The peonies I had recently added to the table were blooming beautifully, and I ran my hand gently over the silkened petals, willing the stress to melt away. This was my sanctuary - all pastel colors and soft lighting. It was so perfectly me, and I loved it here.

I grew up in New York, but six years ago, when I was only 17, my parents moved us across the Atlantic Ocean to Paris. It was a dream at first, because, well, it's Paris: the art, the language, the history; there wasn't anything I didn't love about my time there, except for the loneliness, that is. No matter how much I tried, I was never able to completely connect with my French peers the way I had with those at my school in New York. I felt like I didn't quite belong, and that was really hard for someone like me, someone who thrives on power and control. Some would call me a bitch, but really, I'm a natural leader. Anyone who thinks otherwise isn't worth my time.

In my starry-eyed youth, I was obsessed with the concept of true love. A few years before we moved, I fell in love with Nathaniel Archibald; he was charming, athletic, incredibly handsome, and sweet. At fifteen years old, I decided that Nate was my destiny, and, strangely enough, most of the adults around us agreed to the extent that Nate's dad, Howard, had his wife let me try on the family ring. My own mother encouraged the union, but it wasn't until later that I realized Howard Archibald was on the verge of striking a lucrative deal with Waldorf Designs. Our parents were essentially using their own children for an advantageous business deal. At fifteen, though, I was too enamored with my boyfriend to consider the implications of our parents' support. When I say the diamond was huge, I'm not even exaggerating. I can still feel its weight against my dainty finger.

After a year and a half of dating, on his seventeenth birthday, I made the stupidest decision of my life: I tried to seduce Nate Archibald, and it backfired in the worst of ways. For his birthday, Nate had elected to spend the evening at a new club in town called Victrola. I had my reservations because from the exterior the club seemed like another seedy strip club, but once we were escorted to the VIP section with plush chesterfield sofas surrounded by thick, heavy drapes, I finally really took in my surroundings. For some reason, I felt relaxed, like this was the kind of place I could be myself without worrying about meeting everyone else's expectations. With the corseted burlesque dancers in front of us and the speak-easy atmosphere, I felt like I had been transported back in time to an era with which I had always been intrigued. It was intoxicating, and before I knew it, the endless champagne the hostess kept pouring into my glass flute was coursing through my veins and muddling my mind. I rarely drank enough to get drunk, opting instead to maintain my dignity by nursing one or two drinks at social events. That was probably the drunkest I had ever been up to that point in my life.

I will never understand why I thought it was a good idea to traipse onto the stage and undress in front of a few dozen of my peers, but that's what I did. I shimmied and sashayed on the stage in nothing but a white silk chemise that left little to the imagination. While classmates were filming me in what would later become the most embarrassing moment of my life, Nate was having sex with my best friend, Serena van der Woodsen, in the coat closet toward the front of the club. Someone - I never found out who - saw enough to record the two of them clumsily putting their clothes back on in a shameful display of voyeurism. I woke up the following morning to the two videos - my impromptu striptease and Nate and Serena's betrayal - posted on a gossip site for the entire school to see. Within a few hours, my humiliation was all over social media, and my chances of avoiding a scandal of epic proportions were destroyed.

When my parents offered an escape to Europe, I jumped at the opportunity. Dad lived there anyway, and Mom was planning to move later. Over the years, I've forgiven both Nate and Serena, and we still talk regularly. I won't lie and say that it was easy to come to terms with their betrayal. They were the two people who had vowed their unwavering loyalty to me, and they broke my heart to pieces. A small consolation, I guess, is that they are actually in love, and it wasn't some random drunken hookup. Still, though, it's a terribly painful memory, and my relationship with Serena has never been the same. I don't feel like I can fully trust her, and that hurts.

Shortly after we moved to Paris, my parents dropped another bomb on me. Dad was having an affair with one of my mom's models for her fashion line, and she'd known about it for some time. They filed for divorce, despite my desperate pleas for reconciliation. It wasn't until they found out that I was purging after my meals to deal with my heartache that they confessed to the final piece of the puzzle: my Dad was gay. There was no chance of saving their marriage because Dad was in love with a man named Roman.

So, yeah, my teen years were rough. I was a teenage bulimic with a cheating boyfriend, a backstabbing best friend, and a gay dad. Not sure that you can get much more traumatic than that. At least, I hoped not because I wasn't sure how much more I could take.

When I graduated college in the spring, I felt like I was finally ready to return to New York. I love Paris, but Manhattan is my home. I missed this city so much. When we moved, my parents sold our luxurious penthouse, and I had to find accommodations quickly or risk having to live outside of Manhattan because the real estate market in New York is fierce. When Mom called to tell me that she received word from an old friend about an available suite on the floor just below the penthouse of the Palace hotel, I jumped on it. I guess it was through her connections as a fashion designer that I actually got the place because honestly, the board must've had hundreds of applicants from which to choose.

I've been here for six months now, and it's a great place to live - conveniently located, spacious, and beautiful. The problem? The arrogant bastard that I had to share an elevator with on the way up to my apartment a few minutes ago is my neighbor. The floor that I live on only has two suites - mine on the right, his on the left. With two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen, a study, and a formal sitting room, one would think that the 2,500 square feet that I have to myself would be enough space to avoid any potential disturbances from my across-the-hall neighbor, but I wasn't that fortunate, I'm afraid.

On my first night in my new apartment, he solidified his place as the most obnoxious man in New York. I was just settling onto the sofa to watch my comfort movie, Breakfast at Tiffany's, when I heard a loud banging coming from somewhere outside my front door. I turned up the volume on the film, irritated that my new neighbor was so inconsiderate when he entered his suite. To my frustration, however, the banging only grew louder and more persistent, and it was soon followed by moaning from a female voice. I couldn't believe my ears; it surely had to be a mistake because there was no way a hotel this lavish, with apartments this expensive would tolerate such foolishness. I dropped the remote to the couch and stomped to the door, throwing it open without a second thought.

Directly across from my doorway, a man dressed in an expensive suit had a slender blonde in a short dress pressed against the door. The woman's tacky smokey eyes were closed tightly, her mouth formed into a round 'o' indicating the intense pleasure she seemed to be experiencing. The man's lips were latched onto her neck, and his hand was hidden beneath the hem of her dress. I watched speechlessly as his fingers worked higher, pushing her dress up past her hips to reveal sheer, Barbie pink panties. Oh, my God, I thought, no way in hell this is happening right outside my door.

I cleared my throat loudly, but the two offenders didn't seem to notice me. "Excuse me," I practically shouted through gritted teeth as the man turned the woman so that he could reach for the doorknob behind her. Before they disappeared into the confines of his den of iniquity, the man's sharp jaw tipped up in my direction. Then the prick had the audacity to wink at me and rasp out between heavy breaths, "Welcome to the building" before the door slammed behind him.

I immediately returned to the safety of my apartment to call the front desk and complain about the scandalous behavior of my neighbor, but no matter how many times I complained, nothing ever changed. Weekends were the worst because he threw extravagant parties that I was certain featured a number of illicit substances and women-for-hire. His night-time activities were so raucous that I could actually hear the screams from my own bedroom. Within a few weeks, I had resorted to sleeping with noise canceling headphones to drown out some of the racket.

I couldn't even fathom how one man could possibly have sex that often with that many different sexual partners. There was a different woman every night, and some nights featured two or three guests of honor. One time, I came home after a late night at my office - where I work as an assistant editor for a fashion magazine - to find a red lace thong discarded on the floor in front of my door. My night had been incredibly stressful because my boss was breathing down my neck with impossible deadlines, so the rage I felt at finding someone's dirty panties in my path was considerable. I lifted the offending garments with a pen that I found in the bottom of my purse and knocked incessantly on his door. When he opened the door in nothing but a pair of low slung boxers, I threw the panties in his face and stormed back across the hall without a word.

He was an arrogant, entitled bastard, but I refused to let him scare me off. This apartment was exactly the space I needed, and I wouldn't be able to find anything nearly as perfect for a few months, at least. I would just keep complaining until management finally got tired of me and did something about it.

Chuck Bass might be a stubborn jerk, but I'm Blair Waldorf and persistence is one of my most defining characteristics.

I will win. I always do.

I plopped down onto a bar stool at the island, and dug in my bag for my cell phone, trying to push Chuck from my mind. It was Friday evening, and I had a rare night of freedom that wouldn't be occupied by work. I swiped through the numerous notifications on my phone, and frowned when I saw three missed calls from Serena. That's odd; she rarely calls instead of texting, and when she does, it's never more than once.

I pushed the button to play the voicemail that she sent me half an hour earlier: "B," her bubbly voice traveled through the speaker on my iPhone, "I've got some exciting news. Call me back!"

I sighed aloud. Knowing her, she was planning a spontaneous trip to Ibiza or she's befriended a random celebrity. I kicked off my Manolos and headed to the master bedroom to get dressed in a slinky teddy and long silk robe. I haven't been on a date since I moved back to the states, so my lingerie collection hasn't had much of a purpose, other than the fact that I prefer delicate sleepwear to frumpy pajamas. Even if I don't have a man waiting to run his hands over the dainty fabric of my nightwear, I still deserve to feel sexy.

I carefully combed out my brown curls and placed my jewelry in the dish on my nightstand. I set my worn copy of Pride and Prejudice on top of the comforter and climbed under the sheets. As I settled back into the satin pillows, I returned Serena's call.

She answered on the first ring, "B, where've you been?!"

"Sorry, S," I said, "I just got home from work."

"I have the biggest news!"

"Wha -"

She cut me off, squealing so loudly that I cringed at the high pitched noise coming from the receiver, "We're engaged! Nate and I are getting married!"

My heart leaped into my throat as her words slowly sank into my muddled mind. Nate. and Serena. Engaged.

"What the hell?!" I wanted to scream at her, but instead I opted for a quiet "Congratulations." I'm not sure, but I think I might have stuttered a bit. "That's wonderful news." I can't bring myself to sound excited, but she doesn't seem to notice. Serena has always been self-absorbed like that, hence the willingness to sleep with her best friend's boyfriend.

Okay, maybe I'm still holding a grudge, but I don't think anyone could really blame me.

"Listen," I could almost see her bright smile behind her words, and I felt a twinge of guilt for not being happier for her. It's been six years; I'm not a teenager anymore. It's time to let the animosity go. That's easier said than done though. Her smooth voice shook me from my thoughts, "The venue I want only has one open date for the rest of the year -"

"Oh, wow," I observed, "You're already planning…"

"Yeah, we're going to be married in Los Angeles, B," she said a bit quieter, "I know you were hoping I would come back to New York this year, but we both just feel at home in LA. I think we're here for the long haul."

It hadn't hurt as badly as I expected when Serena and Nate moved to California together last year. Maybe it was because I lived in another country at the time, but I always assumed that we would all end up in New York again at some point. Her news caused my heart to constrict painfully in my chest, and I choked down a sob. No matter how much she'd hurt me, she's still my best friend, and I missed her terribly. "Oh, that's, um, that's great, Serena. I really am happy for you."

"We'll still come back to New York often, B," she soothed, "The flight's just a few hours…" her voice trailed off, "Anyway, that's not why I called. Magnolia Hall - the venue I've been dying to book - has availability in three weeks. I know it's quick, but I was hoping you could fly out -"

"Three weeks?" I nearly shouted as I sat up in bed. Serena had always been impulsive, but planning an entire wedding in three weeks?!

"I know," she sighed, "I have a team of seamstresses willing to work around the clock for my dress and bridesmaids' dresses. Apparently a van der Woodsen/Archibald wedding is a big deal or something," she laughed nervously. "I need you here, B. I can't do this without you. I know we've had our differences, but you're my best friend. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a sister. I don't want to walk down the aisle without you by my side."

"Of course I'll be there, S," I answered truthfully, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Great!" I could hear the relief in her voice, "I know that this is all very sudden, so no pressure, but should I put you down for a plus one? Sorry to ask, but I need to get the numbers to the caterer this week."

My heart pounded unsteadily against my chest, each heavy thump taunting my single status. I don't like attending events, especially weddings, alone, but I've done it plenty of times before. This is Serena and Nate, though; it's different this time. This is the man that I once thought I would marry, that my parents and his parents thought I would marry. I've worn the ring that now graces Serena's hand on my left ring finger, for crying out loud. Many of our former classmates - including those who saw my provocative dance and Nate and Serena's sexcapades caught on film - will be in attendance. My pride may have been wounded back then, but showing up to my best friend's wedding to my ex-boyfriend alone, standing by her side while they vowed themselves to one another forever without a date of my own was sure to be my undoing. For this reason, I did the second stupidest thing I've ever done in my life, and answered with feigned nonchalance, "Of course. Is that even a question?"

"Well, I thought," she said gently, "You haven't dated anyone in a while, so -"

"I am," I cut in quickly, "I am dating someone. I just haven't told you yet because it's still new, and I just wanted to see where it was going before -"

"Ah," her squeal came through the phone for the second time, piercing my ear drums as if she was standing right beside me, "B, you sneaky little…what's his name?!"

A name? A man's name? My mind blanked and I couldn't think of a single male name. I struggled as I tried to run through a list in my mind only to come up empty.

"B?"

I will never be able to explain why a smug smirk and sharp jawline appeared in my mind at that very moment or why I was stupid enough to speak his name aloud, but before I could stop my eager tongue, the words left my lips and I was screwed. "Chuck. His name's Chuck."

Fuck. My. Life.

A/N: Let me know what you think. Is it worth continuing? I will still be focusing heavily on Come Rescue Me, but this story just gave me a little bit of reprieve from the angst for something a little lighter and sillier.