A/N: I love spacing—it's an addiction!
I know I may not have deserved Blair.
Not to the least, not to the standards of the guy I have been, or the guy I am now.
Chasing after girls. Wanting, longing for, tempted by, and thinking of them as long as I could remember. Being unembarassable.
But I'm not doing this marriage thing for love. I seriously am not.
It's for the money. For the Bass fortune.
Dad could have let me know moments before he's…gone…
That sneaky old man, planning the Waldorf-Bass reunion all along.
I know we've had deep connections. I know we've been family friends, connected through various relatives for generations, but is marriage necessary?
I can't really stand Blair at this point.
Girls whose faces and names I barely can recall, countless rooms and countless nights, even more countless bottles of alcohol I'd injected into my blood passed, I was about through with forgetting her, and, thanks again to Dad, your will's opening date came in, at your preferred time of about a year after your death.
But why?
Why Blair? There's an awful lot of wealthy heiresses to choose from, or, if you really have no choice, the ever popular, one and only Serena van der Woodsen.
I wanted her. I really did. Just because she was a passing craze. Not before Blair, however.
That day in the lawyer's, she was wearing that hot, simple black sleeveless dress, her thick, brown hair in curls, her red hairband holding them up, and her face as stern, cold, even, as ever.
Man, do I miss kissing those red, red lips.
The cheery act was so much of a mask. I just wanted to get right down on my knees and beg, to get this over with, to, well, get the money and go our separate ways.
Like, ever heard of a flash divorce?
But life in Upper East Side is a circle. Not one of us can function without an off switch on the other end of the circuit. It's all about dependence and connections, baby.
Which is why, at this moment, I'm standing outside the Waldorf mansion, hands hidden in my trousers' pockets, the Scarf intact, wrestling with my mind about Blair, and about to knock on the door.
Marriage. Wedding. Rings.
Of course I have thought about them. Fantasized, filming and refilming shots of a dream wedding in my mind.
Only with someone different.
Someone whose last name is definitely not Bass.
Speaking of the Devil…
Esther has just poked her head into my bedroom, calling, "Miss Blair," Uh-oh. "Mr. Bass is here to see you."
My eyebrows rose automatically. That guy, has he ever given up on anything?
Not Chuck. I should have known better. After all, I've known him since we could practically speak.
Not a thing I'd particularly wish to do with him right now.
"Do you mean Chuck…is here to see me?" Time-stalling (and an innocent tone) are essential. I'm going through the back door.
Now Esther's eyebrows imitate what mine did seconds ago. "Why, Miss Blair, it is Chuck Bass…because…you know…"
I wave my hands at her, pretending—I didn't take film in senior year at Constance for nothing!—to be uninterested. Esther looks genuinely confused.
Excellent, first part of the Chuck escape plan: Lying, done.
"Never mind. Let him in, whoever he claims to be." I slide down from bed, grabbing some clothes randomly. "Give me a few minutes to prepare. I'll be right out."
At my last sentence, Esther leaves, closing the door with an understanding nod.
Phew.
I was doing fine without him in my life. I was planning another benefit before his arrival rudely interrupted me, I tell myself, frustrated, while opening the back door with my personal key.
"That's it. Done," I say, putting a lock on the secret back door, back turned to the tranquil New York view.
"Tell me, do you always talk to yourself, Blair?" asks a deep voice innocently.
Damn.
It is Chuck Bass.
He shakes his head. "Pity, pity, Blair. Too bad I know all your tricks."
"What are you doing here?" I glare at him, keeping my distance, but Chuck gives his signature smirk, circling around me in a hypnotizing manner, the same trick, the same binding spell he'd perfected over the years to get lucky with girls like little Jenny.
Well, too bad I know all your tricks, Chuck.
His eyes fix on mine. "Is it wrong to visit a long-time friend, may I ask?"
"It is wrong," I say, holding my breath, "Because you're not welcomed here."
"Never?" God, his tone is so…irritating.
"I should change my question," I tell him in a flat voice, "Why are you here?"
He simply chuckles. "To talk to you? We had a rather nice, short conversation the last time we met."
Yeah, right. So much for sarcasm.
"I don't want to talk."
He sighs.
"About anything concerning you," I say, "We're over. It's been over. And you know, like I know, that you can't do this…this marriage thing."
"But I can—"
"You can't. You've never really loved me, have you? A guy like you, Chuck, you're just doing it for the money."
Bang. I hit right home. For a split second, his confident mood is broken. Chuck looks openly hurt.
"Can't we get this over with?" he changes the topic suddenly in a tired tone. "Look, I miss you. I have."
"And missing me means spending your time with a bunch of other girls?" I turn my back to him, walking away. "Sure."
From behind, he takes ahold of my wrist, I struggling. "I've been distracted. I knew—I…" he says, his voice tangled up.
"I could never understand you, Chuck, and I never will."
"Blair," his grip loosens, "I love you."
I stop walking abruptly, turning to face him again. "It's too late to say that now."
"But—"
"Then show me. That you're not doing this for the money. I can give you all the money I have, Chuck, but it's the marriage. I don't…want to marry someone who…" I pause, keeping the sentence hanged in the air, Chuck standing still in silence.
"And prove it. Prove that you really mean the three words you said."
A/N: Oh My God. Big drama Bomb there.
Let's see what's happenin' next!
Thank you's, thank you's, and thank you's.
Your ever humble fanfic writer :)