Again, sorry for the delay! But I hope you enjoy reading this chapter!

"You're eerily quiet today."

Blair did not bother to meet his gaze, preferring instead to remain stiffly seated on her office chair. "It's called professionalism. I suggest you try it."

Dan let out a weary sigh. "You've been staring at that empty word document for the last half hour. Is…there something in your mind?"
"No," She replied curtly, her gaze still fixed on her iMac.

"Really? So you don't have an explanation for why you looked so miserable last night, or why you couldn't even mumble anything coherent when I asked you if you were OK all fifteen times today?"

"Just drop it, Dan," She said through gritted teeth.

He eyed her skeptically. It was exhausting trying to decipher Blair Waldorf's emotions, especially when she had long mastered the perfect, cold exterior. "Check your phone," he said solemnly.

Blair stared at her Blackberry in apprehension. Slowly, she picked it up and scrolled down to the message she had opened earlier that morning—the very message she had been expecting the moment she ran away from Chuck at the Met steps.

Spotted: The great Chuck Bass at JFK, trying to make a run for it. Perhaps his little heart-to-heart with B last night was a little less heart and a lot more break. Good thing our Queen is duly prepared. I have it on good authority that there's a shoulder in Brooklyn waiting to be cried on. XOXO, Gossip Girl.

That was it. He left. For where, she and the rest of Manhattan did not know.

With formidable effort, Blair finally tore her eyes away from the screen of her cell phone. She met Dan's expectant gaze and gave him a small nod, the only thing her body could offer.

"That's your response? A brief, noncommittal nod? The guy you're in love with just left for God-knows-where and all you do is nod and get back to work?"
"Is there a point to this conversation?" She asked stonily.
Inhaling sharply, Dan ran his hand through his hair. "Blair, you promised you'd stop concealing how you feel, at least with me."

"I know, but can't we do a rain check, just this once?" She pleaded. "I'm no mood to dissect what happened last night or…him." Suddenly, Blair rose to her feet. She grabbed her coat and purse and shot Dan an apologetic look. "I'm just going to call it a day. I'll tell Epperley I'm feeling sick or something. I'm…sorry, Dan."

She may have had an Art History paper to write, a number of fashion showrooms to visit, and not to mention, a whole lot of explaining to do for Dan's sake—but right now, there was only one thing on Blair's mind: Barney's.

Wrinkling her nose, Blair regarded the rows of dresses displayed in front of her. Normally, tulle and chiffon were all that were necessary to brighten up her mood, but somehow, they only further amplified the numbness flowing through her veins. No matter how hard she tried to avoid it or how many pairs of leather, peep-toe pumps and cashmere knit sweaters she purchased, she always found herself face-to-face with the doldrums of her drama-filled life.

She tugged at a paisley, Ralph Lauren skirt, then a Jil Sander sheath dress, then a Derek Lam eyelet print skirt, and still she felt nothing. But when her fingers finally brushed a ribbony fabric even her mother would approve of, it was wrenched to the opposite side by an unknown hand. Flashing with anger, she looked up at its owner and nearly toppled over when she recognized exactly who it was.

"Blair, what a pleasant surprise!" Lily van der Woodsen beamed, as she placed the hanger back in its place and walked towards the brunette.

"Lily, hi," Blair greeted, instantly retreating to her polite self.

"Do you have a minute?" Serena's mom asked with a bright smile. "There's something I have to talk to you about."

Blair nodded easily. "Of course. What about?"

"It's about Charles."

"Oh."

Lily gave her a sympathetic smile. "I understand that you two aren't exactly in good terms at the moment. But seeing as you're the only person to have ever gotten through to him, I was wondering if you knew of his whereabouts?"

Blair's eyes fell to the ground. "I don't. I'm sorry, Lily."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Blair's head shot up in curiosity. "What's wrong?"

Lily beckoned towards a nearby chaise lounge, and Blair sat down next to her, her heart beating rapidly in anticipation.

"Russell Thorpe made another bid for the company this morning. He doubled his offer. And now, it's chaos back at the office," Lily murmured desolately.

Blair's eyes widened. "But that's impossible. He pulled out of his offer altogether just last night."

"That's not what he said this morning," Lily said, shaking her head. "Chuck should be here. Forgive me, but I simply can't wrap my head around how irresponsible he's being. To leave at a time like this, when his company is hanging by the thread—what is he thinking?"

Guiltily, Blair shook her head. "No, Lily. You have it all wrong. It's Russell. I heard him confront Chuck last night. He told him that Bart was somehow involved in the death of his wife. He…he accused Bart of killing his wife and for covering the whole thing up."

"Oh my god," Lily gasped. "Is that why he left? Bart may have been cold but he couldn't…he couldn't have."

Blair gulped. "I know. Chuck's just…confused right now."

"What should we do?" Lily exclaimed, her tone tinged with desperation.

"Look, just give me some time. I'll try to reach him. But Lily, promise me you'll do everything in your power to stop Russell from taking over Bass Industries."

"I will."

Fashion had always been something that Chuck Bass held unto as an I.D. Even at a young age, he was reared to value the sense of worth that a three-piece suit could bestow on a person. Thus, while most kindergarten kids were draped in t-shirts and jeans, Chuck, under the controlling guidance of his father, was always dressed to the nines. Bart told him that it separated him from the hoi polloi, that it showed to the world that a Bass was easily discernible in a crowd. And as the years passed by, Chuck never deviated from that same dictum. Of course, being the rebel that he was, he gave his father's words a new meaning; he explored untraditional color palettes—purples and pinks and other pastel colors; he wore elaborate prints and patterns; he sought ornate cufflinks and posh fits—all in the hopes of somehow extracting him from his father's shadow. Even when he had matured and his clothes ceased to stand out in the same condescending way the uniform of his youth did, Chuck still held unto fashion and its many manifestations as his very own I.D.

But anyone who knew Chuck Bass would not be able to recognize him now. There he was staggering along the cobblestone steps of Paris; his hair was tousled, his eye bags, grotesque and dark, and the crisp, tailored suit combination he was known for was replaced with a wrinkled everyday-man's oxford and simple, dark denim jeans. No, this was not Chuck Bass.

Swaying unsteadily, he held up his bandaged hand to block the tenacious sun from his eyes. It was still marginally swollen from crashing against the concrete wall of the Met, but Chuck couldn't feel anything. He was too inebriated from the countless glasses of scotch he knocked back in the last twenty-four hours. Smirking languidly, he pulled out his steel flask and took a generous swig in broad daylight. When an old woman scowled at him in disapproval, he aggressively brought his face close to hers and hissed, "See anything you like, grand-mére?" Frightened, the old woman shrunk back and walked away as quickly as possibly.

Exhaustion finally won over him and before he could help it, the lower half of his body hit the ground. He was slouching on the pavement, his head buried in his sweaty hands, smelling faintly of scotch. Then, when he convinced himself that he was finally losing it, a small hand rested on his shoulder. His head immediately rose to discern the person standing in front of him.

"Chuck?"

He swore his heart stopped beating for a second. "Eva," Chuck breathed out in surprise. He took in every last detail of her appearance—the way her off-white, floral sundress accentuated her small curves, the way her blonde hair reflected the sunlight. Chuck realized that she was exactly the same, exactly as how he had left her. Somehow, knowing that warmed every bone in his body.

"You're in Paris," She uttered as she neatly brushed his hair to the side with her hand.

"I am."

"Why?" Eva asked in disbelief, even though her lips were curving into a smile.

"I'm…"

"—Are you running away again?" She asked instantly, her tone bordering on motherly reprimand.

Chuck let out a bitter laugh. He took a generous swig from his flask before doling out an answer, "Who knows anymore? I'm Chuck Bass. And as far as I know, no one cares."

When a shadow fell over his face, she placed her small hand over his. "She cares," Eva whispered knowingly. There was no mistaking whom she was referring to.
Chuck inhaled deeply. "But that will never be enough, will it? Not after you…and my dad and me and everything else I destroy."

"Chuck, you've had too much to drink. You're not making any sense. Here, let's sit and I'll buy you a coffee." She pointed at a nearby café and held out her hand for him to take.
"My little savior," He drawled, before clasping his hand around hers as if it were a lifeline. He shifted his weight against hers and she willingly obliged by putting an arm around him and leading him towards the direction of a chair. When she finally got him to sit down, she motioned for the waiter and ordered two espressos in rapid French.

"So how have you been?" She finally asked in concern.

"Never better. Can't you tell?"

Eva smirked. "I must confess this is a new side to you that I'm seeing."

"Is it a side you want to see more closely? Perhaps in the suite of my hotel?" Chuck murmured suggestively.

"—You have people who love you in New York, Chuck," She interjected with a small smile. "You should go back."

"And leave you, when you're dressed in that delectable dress?"

Knowing better, Eva ignored the way he licked his lips. She reached for his hand and gripped it tightly, hoping it would rouse him from his drunken daze. "Chuck Bass. Stop right there. You once told me that everyone in your life left you at some point, but maybe…maybe it's you who's been doing the leaving all this time."

Chuck was about to open his mouth in protest when she beat him to it: "Whatever it is that brought you here, it's irrelevant. So stop running and go home."

Of course, she'd say that, Chuck thought fondly. Though she was palpably ignorant of the circumstances of his departure, of why he was here trying to escape the confines of his grim, pitch-black life back in New York, she, like always, saw the good out of everything. Eva was simply void of any darkness or malice. She turned a blind eye at adversity and iniquity even after her tumultuous past as an escort. It wasn't too long before the familiarity of her doe-eyed innocence—that infectious naiveté she wore like an armband—sent a thrill down his spine.

"I missed you, you know that?" Chuck heard himself murmuring. His grip on his cup tightened ever so slightly.

She gave him a kind smile. "I missed you too, Chuck. But not nearly as much as your friends and family back home have."

Chuck nodded soberly. He took in the sincerity in her gaze and felt a sudden wave of security wash over him. Then, his eyes flicked over to a glimmering spot on her hand—something he realized he, perhaps out of self-preservation, had been quick to miss.

"You're engaged," he said in surprise.

"Yes," She murmured, her eyes falling meekly at the modest ring on her finger.

"Are you happy?" He asked blankly.

"Very much."

That was it then, Chuck thought. The woman he was convinced he had been in love with was officially closing her heart to him. And though he expected feelings of uneasiness and bitterness to come over him, they never came. Rather, he was afforded with a sense of closure that he realized he had been seeking this entire time. Suddenly, he rose to his feet. He looked down at her, not with anger but with a small smile, which she instinctively returned. This chapter of his life was now over. He leaned in just slightly and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek.

"Have a good life then," Chuck whispered into her ear, before dropping a handful of Euros on the table and making his way towards the crowd.

"Chuck, wherever you are, just please come back. You don't have to go through this alone."

"Hey, it's me again. Please, please pick up the phone. Lily's worried sick…I'm worried sick."

Blair stared at her empty inbox. It was almost too unbearable. All she wanted to do was reach out to him, to know that he was OK. Pacing nervously across the floor of her bedroom, she racked her brain for a possible course of action. Suddenly, her phone rang and Blair lost all but every inhibition in her body and sloppily dove for it. Her heart heaving with emotion, Blair quickly opened the text message:

Bon jour, Upper East Siders! Throw away those tissues and open those plush curtains wide; the crazy Bass Hunt has finally come to a close! Word has it that C's back in Paris, consorting with none other than Eva, our favorite French saint—or rather, martyr, after B gets her hands on her, that is. XOXO, Gossip Girl.

So what do you think of Eva's appearance? I figured Chuck needed the closure and her being there to steer him back to Blair was important in many ways.