Disclaimer:Al is mine, all mine...but Gossip Girl isn't.
He doesn't like to admit it, but, as the car pulls over and stops outside the Palace, he wishes that Al could have been there next to him in the limo; if not for any other reason than to distract him from his ranting mind.
Because no matter how hard he tries - or how many sips he takes from the crystal tumbler in his hand - he can't rid himself of the uneasy feeling in his gut. The words from that late night phone call are echoing in his mind like a broken record.
Do you think it could have been us…I still hate you…
Do you think it could have been us…
I still hate you…
As he enters the familiar ballroom inside the Palace, he subconsciously scans the room to make sure that everything is in order and looking its very best. Pleased with the turn out and the state of the room, he greets some of the board members that are present with a nod as he accepts a champagne flute from one of the waiters.
Taking a gulp of the drink that has now replaced the tumbler from his limo - but is just as useless in assisting him on his mission to relax - he examines the look of the waiters moving around the room.
All of them are dressed in the new uniforms designed by Eleanor Waldorf Designs. The clean cut, classy-looking uniforms are part of the new line that includes the staff of all the hotels owned by the company carrying his name.
She is fully aware that her well-practiced façade is neatly in place and hiding her inner chaos, but it doesn't ease the feeling of doom as she descends the stairs under unyielding scrutiny from her mother.
"Mother" She greets through gritted teeth, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on the navy dress.
"That will do," Eleanor declares. "Now let's go, we are running late."
They ride together in silence. She can tell that her mother is more nervous than she is willing to let on, and since her own state of mind isn't really the perfect example of calm and collected, she doesn't offer any comforting or reassuring words.
Some photographers are stationed outside the Palace to document the event, and as they get out of the car the flashes of their cameras is a nauseating reminder of a morning not long ago in Paris. The memory combined with the flashing lights is making her feel light-headed, and she has to force herself not to reach out and grab hold of her mother's arm as they walk.
"I have some things to attend to," Eleanor explains as they enter the ballroom, looking around the room with the same scrutinizing expression on her face as earlier. Daughters, ballrooms, designs – they are all granted the same inspecting look.
"Please don't cause any kind of…scene," she continues absentmindedly, greeting some of the guests with a nod and a smile. "The last thing I need right now is another scandal connected to the Waldorf name."
As her mother walks away, she lets out a shuddering breath before accepting a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, and downing it within seconds. She ignores the disapproving looks that are coming from two women who are watching her from a few feet away. She recognizes them as acquaintances of her mother's.
As she places the now empty champagne flute back on a tray carried by a waiter passing by, she shoots them a defying glare, and does her best to transfer the rebellious feeling to her gut.
Scanning the room for Serena, she spots him standing on the other side of the vast area, in the middle of a conversation with some rich-looking men that she assumes are business associates of his.
He hasn't noticed her and she is more than grateful not to have his eyes on her as well. The grateful feeling is not including the insight that he still happens to be the most attractive guy she has ever met. There is no one on the face of the planet that can make a simple, black tux look as good as he does. Damn him and that perfect face of his.
Yeah, I think that could have been us…
Yeah, I think that could have been us…
Forcing the memories of a voice in total lack of venom and hate out of her mind, she helps herself to another drink.
He can feel her eyes on him – burning into the back of his head – and he has to force himself not to turn around and look at her, reminding himself that he doesn't want to.
He somehow manages to keep up the incredibly boring conversation he is having with two of his newest investors – both of them so eager to make a good impression that it is bordering on comical.
When one of them finally stops ranting – presumably to catch a breath or something equally necessary – he quickly excuses himself and heads for the bar.
He needs another drink.
She takes her time in the restroom, doing her very best to convince herself that she is not technically hiding ,but failing miserably. She is preparing to leave the bathroom stall when she can suddenly hear the voices of the two women from earlier.
"Such a scandal…" One of the women opens up the conversation.
"Indeed," the other one agrees. "I must say, I am truly amazed that Eleanor allows her to attend so soon after that horrible incident…"
"You read my mind." The first woman replies and she can hear the sound of a compact being closed. "Just look at her; shouldn't she be locked up at the Ostroff Centre?"
"High as a kite." The second woman agrees, "It is nothing short of a disgrace…"
Stepping out of the stall, she slams the door open - the loud noise causing both women to jump. In their favour they barely flinch when they recognize her, and realize that she has heard every word.
"Ladies" She nods condescendingly, and gives them a taste of her very best Ice Queen death-glare, "I guess that the Botox injections have yet to sink deep enough to have any affect on your vocal chords. That really is such a shame."
Brushing past them, she holds her head up high and forces herself to breathe, cursing the heavens for not knowing where to run and hide next - now that her temporary sanctuary has been infiltrated.
Walking out of the room, she hastily turns the corner to sneak past the ballroom and out to the terrace, only to nearly fall over as she bumps right into a solid wall of expensive fabric.
As she stumbles backwards, trying to regain her balance, a hand closes around her wrist to steady her.
"Thank you." She offers this quietly, but as she looks up at her unidentified saviour she instantly regrets her words.
He is exiting the ballroom - lost in thought - when someone walks right into him and knocks what little air he has left in his lungs right out of him.
As the person stumbles he reacts instinctively – reaching out and catching hold of a slender wrist. Then he instantly regrets it as he realizes who it is that has crashed into him.
She apologizes, but as she looks up at him, he can tell that she is also currently regretting the last seconds of her evening.
"Planning on making a habit out of jumping me every chance you get?" He sneers, but then notices the look in her eyes and the tremor of her lip.
The discovery sends a tidal wave of unwanted memories flowing. Memories that once again washes away all the venom from his voice and all the contempt from his eyes.
"What is wrong?"
She doesn't reply but instead immediately tries to free herself from his grip - pressing her lips together so tightly that they become nothing but a thin, pale line - in an effort to hide any trace of weakness.
He lets go of her wrist this time - snatching his hand away as if he has been burned – and she storms off.
When the door to the restroom swings open one more time, he turns around to see who it is as she disappears out of sight. The looks on the faces of the women exiting through the door tell him all he needs to know about why she was so upset.
He recognizes both of them - and one of them in particular, being that she is the wife of one of the men currently spending the evening sucking up to him in every way possible.
"Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Madison."
"Mr. Bass." The woman married to his investor greets him nervously as the two women begin to walk away.
"Mrs. Madison!" He calls out after them, and they both turn around in surprise.
"Yes?"
"If you would like your husband to be able to pay for your rehab visit the next time – and I am sure there will be a next time – I strongly recommend that you stay the hell away from Ms. Waldorf." He spits, then instantly returns to a professionally polite tone of voice that is reeking with sarcasm, as he continues. "Have a great evening."
"There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you!"
"I needed some air," she explains, running her hands up and down her arms to warm herself as she turns around to face her best friend.
She can tell that her indifferent mask isn't very convincing when Serena's expression changes from a smiling one to one of concern.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," she attempts a lie, but knows that the tremor in her voice gives her away. "Just had a run-in with some of my mother's so-called 'friends'…but other than that I am just peachy."
"I am so sorry, B." Serena sighs. "Sure that's it though? Or are you still thinking about Philippe?"
Serena's question makes her realize that she really hasn't thought about Philippe in a long time. Not since that incident in his apartment that landed her in jail. She doesn't care about him, and she most certainly doesn't miss him.
"No," she replies firmly, but Serena looks at her dubiously, eyes filled with doubt.
"I think I was more into the idea of him, than him…" She tries to explain, and realizes as she does just how true it really is. "I am just so sick of never being enough!"
"What?" Serena blurts out in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? You are more than enough, Blair. Any guy should be so lucky as to have you! That Philippe guy is nothing but a brain-dead, coke-dealing asshole, do you understand?"
She smiles dryly at her friend's defensive rant. "I am never enough," she repeats. "Maybe I am just destined to be the betrayed girlfriend..."
And no matter how many times she has lingered on the same thought, speaking it out loud for the first time hurts more than she expected it to.
You will never be enough.
tbc