Bart Bass had lived a hard life. He'd been very hopeful in his early twenties when his blend of charm and personality with an aptitude for numbers had started to show themselves as valuable assets. He'd barely had time to attend his graduation from college, so demanding was his growing business. One of the only things he had found time for was to linger at his lover's side for the birth of their child.
His eyes flicked across his desk to the most recent photo he had of the boy – half a decade old at least. The day he first held his son he'd been in raptures. After it dwindled to the two of them was when he'd truly thrown himself into work. Looking at that picture of a smiling, sporadically-toothed seven year old and knowing how he'd failed him so completely made Bart feel hopeless.
He hated feeling hopeless.
For that reason, he couldn't stand fluff and mediocrity, the pretences of social niceties. But then again, he moved in the world of big business and that meant dealing with old money on their terms, so he stomached their excesses. Which made it odd that he always found Eleanor Waldorf entertaining. She went all out for her soirees, over the top to the point of comedy. The appearance of a goat at her last Moroccan themed evening had made him genuinely laugh with mirth. She played the socialite as well as any woman he knew. He could see though, that she ran a very successful business that hadn't been handed to her, and wasn't just coasting through her charmed life. She'd built that emporium from the ground up and managed to slip slide through the scorn of her ugly public divorce. He respected her as a businesswoman who could recognise her weaknesses but be selfish in the process. And on top of all that she could be entertaining.
So for the past fifteen years he had therefore counted her as a friend. If they didn't have that history, if he didn't know how shrewd her mind was, he would have flat out laughed at the premise for her phone call this afternoon.
As it was he stared at that framed photo of an innocent boy on his desk, mentally compared it to the surly teenager of today, and couldn't believe her. It was true he didn't overly coddle his son but a Private Investigator or two kept him up to date on the boy's doings so he knew one thing for absolute sure. Chuck did not enjoy relationships. In his sixteen years he had women to warm his bed and a handful of boys in his class to laud over. Apart from that there was a small clutch of what he considered the boy's actual friends: – Nathaniel, the human equivalent of Chuck's pet dog; Serena, female equivalent of Chuck who would attend any party thrown; and Blair Waldorf to irritate his nerves and join him in devious dealings.
The diminutive brunette in no way suited Chuck's type for bedding – she wasn't easy, compliant, or for hire. He sincerely doubted Chuck could be bothered to go to the effort. And he doubted Blair, who was only taken out by the respectable Nate Archibald, would suddenly come about face and get involved in a dalliance with his son.
Bart knew Eleanor though. That perfectly balanced business mind in her old money upbringing. She had plans for her daughter that involved business or congress, the decision hadn't been made yet but he'd heard her speaking of it. If there were an ounce of doubt about Chuck she never would have risked Blair's reputation and come to Bart for help. Especially after the scandal that was her husband's departure from the island of Manhattan.
This made him incredibly curious. He thought he knew everything there was to know about Chuck. Andrew Tyler was very good and kept frequent reports on the teenager's antics arriving in his inbox. So could it really be true that his heir was getting mixed up with one of society's most demanding princesses?
He took another look at the aged picture of the boy that had been left in his care, and propelled himself to his feet. Private Investigators kept him up with the necessary details but if this was for real, if a disaster of this proportion really did loom on the horizon, then it needed to be averted before it occurred. No damage control would be enough. It was the only thing that coaxed him out of his grand third floor office before 6pm on a weeknight.
For the first time in five months he ascended in the Palace elevator to the eighteenth floor and made for the suite adjoining his own. It was real concern for his son that made him want to confirm that, as astute as Eleanor could be, this time she'd called it wrong.
He may have been a bad father since he brought Chuck home from the hospital but in this case he knew exactly what to do.
He was already rolling his eyes as he pulled his key from his pocket, assuring himself this was ridiculous. His son had surely come home after school hours ago, just like he did every day. That's what he was going to find when he went in there. Probably some of the room service staff too but such was the burden of a son who didn't yet understand the importance of maintaining a line between business and pleasure.
"Chuck?" he called, letting himself into the suite and looking around determinedly.
He owned this suite and everything in it. There were no qualms about invading a teenager's privacy. There was a growing horror though, when he received no response from his sole heir. Bart searched the empty set of rooms, finding them devoid of their single inhabitant. Or any women he may be stashing.
Bart's eyes narrowed. Tonight, he was intent on getting to the bottom of this situation so the preposterous notion didn't linger his conscience. He could afford to wait. Determinedly he moved to his son's bar and poured himself a scotch, settling on the couch to wait with that cold patience which became sharper every minute that ticked past. Half an hour passed before the door opened and Chuck casually sauntered in. Perfectly timed to have left the Waldorf's when Eleanor claimed she had seen him. With a very happy, self-satisfied grin on his face and more than his usual coy smugness about him.
Bart's eyes narrowed and he got to his feet. This was not good.
"Father," Chuck greeted, clearly surprised to see him but unable to suppress that ridiculous grin. All he could do was bite his lip to try and temper it.
For god's sake he looked like a freshly deflowered virgin in love.
"Go change. We're going out to dinner," Bart instructed coolly, barely able to keep his temper.
Chuck looked at him questioningly, but didn't make a peep of protest. He just dropped his school bag at the door, and disappeared into his closet.
Oh Bart did not like this at all.