A/N So sorry this one took so long! Didn't mean to keep you guys hanging but I've been super busy.. Anyways, here it is, chapter one! Hope you like it!
There're some french and german sentences in this one...and there's a big chance that some of them are all messed up, since I don't speak much french, or german, haha. If you do, and find some errors, feel free to tell me and I'll fix it right away! :)
(Paris, je t'aime - Paris, I love you)
As always, thanks to Abby for the beta-ing! you rock! :)
Disclaimer: Still, I own nothing...
The sun is shining brightly in the clear blue sky as the jet slowly heads for the runway, preparing to leave Charles de Gaulle Airport. The French capital is basking in the sunlight and looking its very best, but he is too exhausted to notice.
He is leaning back against the soft leather of the seat whilst shooting the scruffy, unshaven man slumped in a seat on the other side of the aisle an annoyed look.
Up until yesterday he hadn't seen his uncle since his senior year of high school. The notorious Jack Bass hadn't bothered with showing up to his elder brother's funeral, nor attempted to contact his orphaned nephew. No, he did neither of these things, he was too busy sulking over the fact that he had been left out completely from Bart's will, and left to run a sister company to Bass Industries in Australia.
He finds it more than a little amusing that the one person Bart Bass apparently had believed less in than his own son - had been his younger brother. The will had been fool proof when it came to keeping Jack Bass from ever taking over Bass Industries.
Jack hadn't bothered to contact him until a few weeks after his eighteenth birthday. And even then it was only because the older Bass found himself being refused access to the royal suite at the Palace during a business trip to New York. They had shared a drink at the Palace bar that one time, but that was it. He could honestly say that he had no interest in spending any more time in the presence of what was left of his family – Jack Bass was, and still is, a complete and utter asshole.
Obviously the lack of trust in Jack had been the old man's greatest trait. Whilst he had proved everyone wrong and was doing well by himself – Jack had been too busy nursing his bad habits to be able to do his job properly, thus nearly running the company bankrupt.
When his uncle had gotten himself arrested for a drug offence in Paris two days ago, he had seen no better solution to the situation than to travel there himself and bail his uncle out of jail, trying to minimize the amount of information ending up in the media.
That was how he ended up in the Bass jet at an ungodly hour of the morning, with a pounding head ache brought on by dragging Jack's intoxicated ass through the airport as discretely as possible. He had spent a good twenty minutes trying to convince the officials to allow his uncle to fly despite his current state, only to find himself literally having to pull Jack away from some poor woman in the next minute. The horrified Swiss lady was far from enjoying the complimentary lap dance she was granted after passing through the security control.
The only positive aspect of the morning was that the older Bass had passed out the moment he had pushed him down onto the seat where he is currently passed out. Hoping Jack will remain at least semi-unconscious until he has him safely locked away at the rehabilitation centre, he is taking him outside of Zurich.
He gives the curvaceous stewardess an appreciating smirk as she walks by, before reaching out for the "Le Monde". He browses through the paper as the jet accelerates and takes off. He is not really bothering to read more than the headlines. His French - if you can even refer to his minimal vocabulary as 'his French' – is in no way near fluent enough to actually read the articles.
Once the plane is in the air he flips through the last pages impatiently, looking for the economy section, and letting out a frustrated breath when he doesn't find it.
He is just about to put the paper down when he spots something on one of the pages that causes his heart to skip a beat. This sensation mixes with annoyance as he curses himself for reacting at all.
Inset in a larger picture - that is covering half a page - is one of Blair Waldorf, pressed up against a wall and kissing some sleazy-looking man. Noticing that the bigger picture also shows the same man, fervently groping an older woman, he frowns as he does his best to understand the article.
His French might be less than fluent, but with pictures like those he really doesn't need words. In his opinion the man's whole appearance screams "Casanova" and he understands enough of the article to come to the conclusion that this is nothing less than Blair Waldorf caught with someone else's boyfriend.
The whole thing strikes him as odd – the Blair Waldorf he once used to know wasn't the boyfriend stealing type. Or maybe she was; he is not sure he ever knew her at all. The Blair Waldorf he thought he knew wouldn't have done a lot of things, some of which are permanently etched into his memory. Quickly locking away ancient memories, he returns to the article again.
He doesn't know why it gets to him, seeing her in black and white caught in some big scandal. It is not as if he hasn't seen her face in a photograph once or twice over the past few years, heard her name being mentioned in conversation – his sister is her best friend for god's sake - it is not as if he cares about her or thinks about her. Her problems are no longer his concern.
He doesn't care about Blair Waldorf. He doesn't care about her. He doesn't care if she is sleeping around with some wellborn photographer; he doesn't care about her being on the French equivalence of Page Six.
Still, though, he finds himself reaching for the satellite phone on the wall next to him.
He learned not to use his cell phone whilst on board the private jet a while back, after attempting to during a flight and nearly giving the stewardess a stress induced aneurysm. Lucky for her, he is well trained in mouth-to-mouth. However, now that he isn't travelling alone such pass times are not on his schedule.
Dialling the number he knows surprisingly well by heart, impatiently drumming his fingers on the armrest as he waits for the call to connect.
"Chris? Chuck Bass" He goes straight to business as man on the other end of the line answers his call "I need you to look up someone for me…Find everything there is to know...Philippe de Valois."
Ending the call he looks over to his uncle, now awake and sitting far from an upright position in his seat, swaying heavily from side to side. The poor man even needs to hold on to the armrest to prevent himself from loosing his balance.
"Why are you talking about Philippe?" Jack's slurs, peering over to him.
"You know him?" He questions his uncle incredulously.
"Old friend of mine…" the man slurs, and the look on Jack's face tells him that this information could come in handy. This thought is something that is proven further as Jack continues.
"…maybe I should give him a call…"
"Maybe you shouldn't." He replies sternly, reaching out for the phone again, hitting re-dial "Chris, Chuck Bass again. I came across something..."
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
With the sun shining bright in a clear blue sky, she decides to walk the few blocks to the Vogue offices. She is close to bouncing down the stairs from her studio apartment, a jittery sensation in her stomach. Smiling at the memories from last night and the charity event she attended as a representative from Vogue, as she walks out the door of her building.
Attending such an event isn't all fun and games these days; still, she wouldn't have it any other way. Sure, she had to work for parts of the evening, but with Philippe also in attendance the evening hadn't been completely fun-free. She finds herself grinning at the memory of him sneaking her away from the other guests as she makes her way down the street. Her peep toe heels are clicking happily against the pavement.
Things are going so well. Her life is turning out even more wonderful than she would have imagined, and she had been expecting greatness. She deserves this; she deserves to have a superb career blossoming, she deserves her lovely apartment in the elegant Parisian neighbourhood and she deserves a nice, well mannered, and faithful boyfriend. Especially after everything that he…No, she shakes her head to get rid of the memories. This day is far too sunny to be shadowed by the Devil himself.
Nearby the Vogue offices she decides to treat herself to a café au lait and steps into the tiny café on the corner of the building.
"Bonjour, Pierre" She greets the owner, stepping into the tiny café she has visited so many times before.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle" The old grey-haired man replies, busy placing freshly baked pastries on a plate. The aroma is filling the air, mixing with the smell of coffee and creating a welcoming feeling. Pierre doesn't seem like his usual jovial self as he gestures to his only employee, his grandson, to start making her coffee. There is no need to tell him what she wants; he knows her routines very well by now.
As the boy gets to work, the older man picks up a copy of Paris-Match - a French tabloid magazine she knows his wife usually buys - and then sits and reads while she waits for whatever she has baking in the oven.
"Excuse-moi, mademoiselle" He says, sounding more than a little hesitant "…is you? Non?" He questions, holding out the magazine for her to see.
Looking down on the glossy page she can feel her heart sinking in her chest. Her bright mood is now quickly evaporating because there is a picture of her and Philippe kissing from the night before, a picture she wasn't aware had been taken. Make that a picture of Philippe pushing her up against a wall, her fingers tangled in his hair and his hand gripping her thigh.
This picture is joined by a picture of him kissing another woman, a woman whom she knows very well. There is a loud buzzing noise forming inside her head as she takes the magazine from Pierre and examines it closer.
The noise increases in volume as she realizes that this picture too was taken last night. She is recognizing the navy dress the woman is wearing. She was the one who picked it up from the designer store yesterday, eager to be of use to her close-to-a-nervous-breakdown-boss.
Her boss. The buzzing noise in her head is accompanied by a loud ringing in her ears as she turns around and walks out of the café, not bothering to wait for her coffee or saying anything else to Pierre, who is looking at her with a worried expression on his face.
With her heart racing a mile a minute, there is a huge part of her wanting nothing more than to run away and hide. But being who she is, she fights the feeling and somehow manages to cross the street, enter the Vogue building and take the elevator to the eighth floor.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
His phone rings as he exits the main building of the rehabilitation centre: Haus der Hoffnung, eager to get back to the airport and leave Zurich and relieved that he managed to get his uncle admitted before the older Bass got lucid enough to understand where he was.
"Chris?" He greets the man on the other end of the line "What's the dirt on this one?"
Listening as his PI reveals his latest finds, he can feel a victorious grin spread across his face. This is far better than he would ever have guessed; this is perfect. That sleazy-looking lowlife is going down.
"Excellent" he smirks "I trust you to contact the authorities, and mention my name if necessary, they are unfortunately acquainted with my dear uncle." The last part comes out in an ironic drawl.
Satisfied with how everything is turning out, he gets into the waiting taxi, and as the car heads for the airport he returns to not thinking about Blair Waldorf.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
She manages to keep herself together as she gathers her things and leaves the office, pretending not to hear the half-whispered comments and insults in French when she heads for the elevators.
"…such a scandal…"
"…if you are sleeping your way to the top then maybe you should go for the boss and not the boss' boyfriend…"
Not bothering with goodbyes or pleasantries, she hasn't been able to make friends, and she doesn't have the fight power at this moment to go looking for the few people she would like to see before she leaves.
They hadn't fired her, of course; they had no legal reason to, and the last thing they wanted was another scandal featured in the tabloids. They had simply informed her that given the current situation with the staff her services would no longer be needed in the fashion department. They did, however, have a position open for an assistant in the legal department if she was interested.
That was an offer she had declined with a fake smile. She was not going to go back to being someone's slave, especially not in the legal department and not after two years of working her ass off to get to where she was now. Where she had been, more precisely.
So she had resigned, and as she gathered her things and walked out of the offices she held her head high.
She managed to keep the tears from falling as she made her way back to her apartment. But, slamming the door shut, she leans back against it as hot, angry tears starting falling down her cheeks. Letting out a defeated sob before forcing the tears away, brushing the remains off her face. She has promised herself to never cry about a man again and she intends on keeping that promise.
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
It is close to nine o'clock in the evening the following day when she steps out of the cab in front of Philippe's building. Persuading herself that she isn't hurt - that she just hates his guts - she takes the elevator to his floor.
She wouldn't even have considered going here if it wasn't absolutely necessary, but he has her portfolio. Or rather, he has a bunch of photographs she took a while back, that she brought with her last week to get his opinion on.
She still doesn't quite know she got into her head that she might actually have taken a few decent shots. She had obviously been delusional. He had told her they were shallow and badly composed, and even though he might be a cheating asshole, he is a world renowned photographer. He knows what he is talking about when it comes to photographs and talent.
Though there is one of them that she can't help but love herself - one she took of the Eiffel Tower weeks ago in the middle of the night with all the lights sparkling and the fountains glimmering in the dark - and she wants it back.
Ringing his doorbell, she forces herself to unclench the fist she has unconsciously balled so hard it is beginning to hurt. Her fingernails are leaving red, crescent-shaped marks in the palm of her hand.
When he opens the door it is as if her heart skips a beat and tiny needles prickle her insides – he might be a cheating asshole, but he is still absolutely gorgeous and the betrayal still hurts.
"Blair!" he blurts out in surprise when he opens the door. His blue eyes widen in disbelief before he quickly pulls himself together and shoots her a smarmy smile. "Mon amour, listen…"
"Save it," she snaps, pushing herself past him and into his spacious loft. "I just came for my portfolio."
"Blair, ma belle fille; je t'en prie…" He drawls, following after her as she rushes through his living room area, frantically looking for her black portfolio.
"I am NOT your beautiful girl!" She hisses, in response to his pathetic attempts to calm her down. She resists the urge to throw some of his precious camera lenses, which are lying on a table, in his gorgeous face. He isn't worth destroying an expensive camera lens over, no matter how fulfilling the action would be.
"Chérie, I can explain…" Philippe refuses to give up and walks up to her, placing his hands on her upper arms, he is looking at her with a pitiful expression on his face. As his cheating, deceiving fingers come in contact with her bare skin she can no longer resist the urge she was fighting. Shrugging away from his touch she resolutely sends one of the lenses flying and smashing into the wall.
"Non!" The horrified look on his face resembles one you would see on a cartoon character, and if she wasn't so angry she would have laughed. Instead she shoots him one of her famous death glares and moves on to the bedroom with him following her steps.
Rummaging through a pile of papers on his desk frantically, she finally finds her portfolio, and begins checking its contents to make sure nothing is missing. She is just about to turn around and leave, intending on never, ever looking at him again, when there is a violent crashing sound echoing through the loft. This is quickly followed by the sound of people running and a man's voice yelling something aggressively in French that she can't quite comprehend.
A rush of panic pulses through her veins and she cradles the portfolio to her chest like a shield. She can see Philippe's face freeze in horror before he hurls himself towards the bathroom, disappearing inside and slamming the door shut before locking it.
Looking over to the bedroom door, now knowing what to do or what is gong on, she finds herself looking right into the barrel of a gun, held by a man all dressed in black.
"Police! Les mains en l'air!"
*¨*¨*¨*¨*¨*
Next chapter won't take too long, I promise!
Thoughts?!