Chapter 12
He didn't have a driver, he didn't have any friends left, and he was fairly certain that once he returned to the Empire, he wouldn't have a girlfriend, either. He let out a dry, humorless laugh when he realized that it had taken him less than an hour to sabotage his debut back into the Upper East Side. He could hail a cab, he could call any of the on-call drivers at the Empire, hell, he could even Uber, but something felt wrong about climbing into the back of hired transportation after the spectacle he'd just caused. At the very least, he deserved to walk miles in painfully stiff Dior Oxfords, the blisters forming on his heels some form of meager penance for his shameful behavior.
Before he could turn the corner and duck into an alley hidden from view of the curious party-goers who were still chattering about the chaos, he heard his name being called in a familiar shrill voice. Serena sprinted toward him, clutching the hem of her deep burgundy dress in her fists. Her desperate voice called to him again, and for a moment, he thought that he might just have one friend left, but as she approached him, the furious click of her heels against the pavement and the ice in her blue eyes quickly dispelled his wishful thinking. He turned away, intent on ignoring the tirade that she was about to launch into, but she cut in front of him, demanding his attention.
"How could you?" She yelled, shoving her fists hard into his chest. "How could you do that, Chuck?!"
He scowled and grabbed her wrists to stop her assault, "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm not the only one to blame?"
Serena calmed enough to step back as Chuck adjusted the lapels of his tux, but her voice dripped with derision, "How could she possibly be to blame for everything you put her through? I suppose she's to blame for you sleeping with Jenny? For you getting yourself shot? For you disappearing for six years without a word? In your twisted logic, I'm sure you've somehow convinced yourself that she's the real villain here, huh, Chuck?"
"Save, it Serena," he growled, "She's the one who had a baby - what - nine, ten months after I left? You expect me to buy that she was so distraught that she landed in another man's bed weeks after we broke up?" He looked away from her to the cracks spreading through the sidewalk beneath his feet because he couldn't bear the animosity radiating from her form as she crossed her arms angrily across her chest.
"Yeah, okay, Chuck," she sneered, "If that's the story that you've created in your mind to ease your own guilt, then you might as well jump on a plane and head back to Europe. You have your answers staring you right in the face, and you're too scared to acknowledge the truth because it would mean that you fucked up worse than you could've even imagined. You already know the truth; you're just too big of a coward to face up to it." She shook her head in disgust as Nate appeared beside her and braced his arm under her elbow, trying to pull her away. He simply narrowed his eyes at Chuck in silent indication of his own bitterness toward his former friend. Serena gave Chuck one last look of contempt and spat, "I encouraged her to fight for you, to go after you at the airport, to attend the party tonight. Clearly, it was all a mistake that I'll regret for the rest of my life."
He heard Lily's voice from somewhere in the distance asking, "Has anyone seen Charles?" He couldn't stand another confrontation from someone else recounting all of his many sins, even if Lily's version would be far more empathetic than Nate's or Serena's. When it came down to it, they would always choose Blair. He was certain that Lily would offer a reassuring hug and gentle advice, but he couldn't allow her to try to assuage his guilt through some form of maternal obligation.
He continued through the dark alleyway down which he'd started before Serena's unwelcome interruption. His feet followed a familiar path, and before he realized it, he stood in front of a rundown building with the name Gatsby's Lounge haphazardly draped across the entryway where a burly bouncer sat on a stool behind a worn velvet rope. Beneath the gaudy signage, he could barely make out the fading imprint of a cursive V curling into smaller letters. The memories hit him hard, and he was transported to a different time in his life. Suddenly, he was sixteen-years-old, and all of his hopes and dreams rested on the other side of that rope.
He tried to enter the bar, but a large hand on his chest stopped him mid-stride. "ID?" the man demanded.
"I -" He reached for his wallet, but realized that he'd left it in his coat pocket in the limo. He sighed, cringing slightly at his next line, "I'm Chuck Bass."
"I don't give two shits what your name is," the man taunted, "No ID, no entry."
"Look, I used to own this place, when it was Victrola -"
"Yeah, sure, kid."
Chuck growled in frustration at his inability to convince the neanderthal to allow him entry. As he turned to leave, he heard a sultry voice calling from the dark corner to the right of the building, "Chuck Bass, is that you?"
"You know this guy?" The bouncer questioned skeptically.
"It's fine, Todd. He's cool."
Chuck focused in on the owner of the voice, and recognition slowly dawned on him as the woman stepped into his view. She wore cheap shiny black heels, fishnets, and a satin bustier with fringe draping over her breasts. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from her left hand, and her right swiped at the black bangs hanging over her forehead. "It's been a while," she smirked, "Thought you were dead."
"I was," he returned with a humorless laugh. "What happened to this place?"
"We've been through four owners, and three name changes," she shrugged, and dropped the cigarette to the pavement, stamping it out with the tip of her scuffed shoes. "C'mon," she gestured for him to follow her inside.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the bar was the smell of stale whiskey and musty furniture. Gone were the lavish decorative pieces he'd chosen in his youth, and bright brass hardware and violet accents assaulted his senses. The stage and the bar were the same, though, and a feeling of bittersweet nostalgia washed through him. Cynthia led him to the center of the room where he'd once sat with Blair, daring her to dance for him, for herself. He sat down slowly, allowing himself to take in the atmosphere for another moment before he leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes. "Scotch?" she asked.
"Make it a double…or better yet, a triple."
When she returned, she sat across from him and studied him for a moment before asking boldly, "What happened to you, Chuck? You had the world at your fingertips, and now you look like hell."
He pursed his lips and waved his hand in a gesture of defeat, "I'm everything my father said I am."
"Bullshit," she scoffed. "Bart never could see past your indulgences, but we did."
"We?"
"Like I said, we've been through four owners. Only one was worth working for."
The matter-of-fact tone to her voice surprised him, and he asked, "Why'd you stay for so long?"
"What else is a thirty-five-year-old burlesque dancer to do? I bought the place, so I guess, I'm technically the fifth owner. It's not much anymore, but I'm hoping to restore it to its potential. A teenage boy once had a hell of a vision for this place, and I figured it's a shame to let that go."
He smiled sadly, "Glad someone can still see it. I lost my vision a long time ago."
She furrowed her brow pensively and conjectured, "You've lost your muse, you mean."
"My muse?"
"The pretty little brunette who stole my spotlight," she laughed. "The one who had you wrapped around her finger the minute she unzipped her dress."
The setting, the music, the company was all so familiar, and he found himself uncharacteristically open to such a personal conversation. "I didn't lose her," he admitted quietly. "Loss implies accidental recklessness; I destroyed her - intentionally, cruelly."
She tilted her head and took in his tux, his untucked dress shirt, his disheveled hair. He had a tight line playing across his lips and wrinkles creasing around his eyes. She could see the perspiration dotting his forehead and the tension present in his shoulders. "You're not talking about the past, are you? That guilt's fresh," she observed. "You wanna talk about it?" He shook his head no and looked over her shoulder toward the stage in a silent gesture meant to indicate that he was finished with the conversation. She sighed, seeing the same walls he'd built around himself as a troubled youth, "Seems she still has quite the hold on you. The way I see it: do whatever needs to be done to fix it. You only get one muse in life." She patted his knee affectionately as she stood to her feet and left him alone with his thoughts.
His aimless walk, his fortuitous arrival at this place, and his chance encounter with Cynthia had all blocked the repercussions of his actions from his mind for the past hour. Now that he was alone, surrounded by delicious reminders of Blair's seductive innocence, the words that he'd so callously spat at her echoed through his mind as if he was shouting them into the dark lounge: How long did you think I was dead before you were fucking another man? God, what had he been thinking to say such vile things to the woman that he'd hurt repeatedly for years on end? Even if she had been with another man, even if she had cheated, he'd done far worse. There wasn't a single thing that she could do that would ever match his egregious crimes against her.
Serena had been right on one account: he was a coward, and he always ran away. He was trying in vain to alleviate his own guilt by casting stones of feigned betrayal at Blair. It's what he always did, blaming others for his mistakes, refusing to take responsibility for his actions, and trying to justify his wrongdoings; and yet again, Blair was the blameless victim of his sins.
He recalled Nate's words when he'd pulled him from the dance floor: "You don't have a fucking clue what Blair has been through since you've been gone - what she had to go through alone because you're such a coward." What had he meant by that? Chuck had been too amped up at the time to really consider Nate's words, but the emphasis had been on Blair's suffering after his disappearance. What did he have to do with Blair's pregnancy? The thought had barely crossed his mind when his heart started to slam against his chest and his hands grew clammy. Surely, Nate hadn't meant…
"You have your answers staring you right in the face, and you're too scared to acknowledge the truth because it would mean that you fucked up worse than you could've even imagined. You already know the truth; you're just too big of a coward to face up to it."
Oh, God.
XOXO
The first test she took had been a blue dye test. The little plus sign mocked her, but her stubbornness got the best of her, and she headed straight to Google. She found that blue dye was notoriously unreliable, so she felt relief flood her entire being. She let out a chuckle at her ridiculousness and went to bed, snuggling deeply into her pillow. She would pick up a pink dye test in the morning and scold herself for her silliness when it came back negative.
She'd been reckless that night in May with Chuck. Her emotions had gotten the better of her, and for the first time in her life, she had unprotected sex without being on some form of birth control. It had felt so good, so right, and she couldn't bring herself to interrupt their perfect reunion. It had been so careless, but she wanted to feel him completely, to surround him entirely with nothing between them. She felt so connected to him, and the moment had been tragically beautiful - probably the most fitting coupling for their final time. It had been equally passionate and romantic, but now it just felt irresponsible. Memories of him usually made her feel warm and fuzzy, but now they made her feel cold.
The next morning, she cried at the realization that pink agreed with blue. The past few months had been filled with early signs of pregnancy: nausea, vomiting, food aversion, and out of control emotions. The most obvious, of course, was the fact that she hadn't had her period in over three months, but she'd rationalized each of those symptoms as stress related because of Chuck's betrayal and disappearance. Now, there was no denying the truth as it stared at her from the double pink lines on four tests in front of her, along with the unmistakable words on the two digital tests resting on the back of the toilet. She was pregnant, and the father of her child had abandoned her.
Blair threw clothes haphazardly into her suitcase, unwilling to acknowledge the reckless way in which she arranged her expensive designer pieces. Her incessant need for control typically called for meticulously organized luggage, but she couldn't be bothered to care at the moment. She hoped that she could get out the door before Louis returned to question her about tonight's events; she didn't have the patience to deal with him right now. She instructed Dorota to place her luggage in the foyer and retreated to the restroom in an attempt to clean her face of the evidence of her emotional distress. Whenever Louis arrived, she would appear to be his future princess who had an unfortunate encounter with an unstable ex-boyfriend. Nothing more.
"Miss Blair?" Dorota appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, a look of genuine concern clouding her expression.
Blair sniffled and wiped at her face furiously until her raw cheeks were dry of the unwelcomed assault of tears. She turned toward the maid slowly, and asked, "Is Cora asleep?"
"For well over an hour now," she responded quietly, stepping closer to Blair. "Miss, Blair, what happen -"'
"It's fine," she snapped, "I just found out that a Basstard can't change its spots."
"It not seem fine, Miss Blair," Dorota pushed gently, "You mix metaphors."
Blair threw her hands up in exasperation, "Whatever, Dorota! The point is that I was right to want him out of my life for good. Chuck Bass will never -"
The elevator chimed, and Blair gritted her teeth in aggravation. Of course, it was just her luck that Louis would arrive home before she could leave. She turned to Dorota with strict orders, knowing that Louis would not back down from an argument, and she didn't have the patience to appease him. "Stay with Cora," she demanded, "She mustn't hear us arguing. Turn on white noise."
"Of course, Miss Blair," Dorota hung her head low, doing little to hide her worries.
Blair descended the stairs anxiously, but she planted an expression of indifference on her face, hoping that her quick trip to the bathroom did enough to appropriately conceal her tear-streaked complexion. "Louis, I don't want -" she stopped as she saw him standing nervously in the foyer: his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets and his eyes trained on the marble floor made him seem entirely unsure of himself. The very image caused her heart to thump unsteadily against her chest, and she swallowed as she watched him stiffen as she approached. She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, enraged further by his audacity to show up at her home after everything he'd said to her. "Get the hell out of my house, Chuck," she kept her voice low and even, despite the tremors creeping into her hands.
"Blair, please -" he said in a way reminiscent of a time when he had arrogantly berated her for being too supportive, too committed to helping him through his father's death. Stop trying to play the wife. He'd been such an idiot then. He still was.
"No, leave now, or I'll call security," she warned sharply, "You've done enough damage to last a lifetime. Your insults tonight proved that you will never change."
He felt a pang of remorse in his chest, but the panic that he felt when his eyes landed on the luggage momentarily outweighed the guilt, "Where are you going?"
"New York isn't big enough for both of us," she snapped.
"Blair," he pleaded, "I just -"
On wobbly legs, she made her way to the table against the wall where she had carelessly tossed her clutch when she arrived home. She pulled her phone out and with a pointed glare at Chuck, she sneered, "I'm calling security." Her voice shook, betraying her nerves. She glanced anxiously toward the stairs, praying that Dorota had heeded her warning.
His heart constricted treacherously in his chest at the appearance of unshed tears gleaming in her big brown eyes, but he choked back his emotions, unwilling to leave without the answers he desperately sought. His voice was quiet and unsteady, barely a whisper spoken into the air, floating toward the vaulted ceilings before their meaning registered in her mind. "Is she mine?"
Time slowed down, and everything fell into a gray haze causing her vision to become blurry and her limbs to feel heavy. She felt her knees buckle, and she grasped the table to keep from toppling over. She could hear his voice echoing in her mind, but it sounded muffled, as if she was underwater, drowning just below the surface. She reached again for her purse, instinctively fumbling for the bottle of Xanax, but her cloudy vision couldn't quite find the intended target. She slumped forward as her breathing grew erratic and she could no longer control the short, desperate gasps as her lungs tried to find some source of oxygen. Her chest heaved violently; the high neckline of her dress felt like it was tightening around her throat. She swallowed hard, preparing for the dizziness to envelop her when she felt strong arms wrap around her waist and guide her to sit down on the sofa.
She was vaguely aware of him kneeling in front of her, his hands gripping hers in his own, her name a question on his lips, but she couldn't respond. In her confusion, she wasn't sure who handed her the Xanax or the water, but she raised the glass to her lips, shivering as the cold liquid slid down her throat. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Dorota escorting him to the elevator, whispering softly, "Mr. Louis be home soon."
"I'm not going -"
"Look at her," the maid's voice was firm. "She's had enough stress tonight. I contact you soon, but now not the time."
"She can't leave, not when -" he pleaded, his voice wild and uneven, but there was a subtle threat in his words.
"She won't, but you leave now, Mr. Chuck," she ushered him into the elevator, hitting the button for the lobby before he could protest, and turned back to her distraught employer. She draped Blair's arms over her shoulders and helped her up the stairs to bed, intent on fending off Louis's questions when he arrived. She knew that in the morning Blair would have to face the reality of the events that had unraveled so quickly this evening, but, first, she needed to rest. She would need all of her strength in the morning.
XOXO
Chuck found himself on the street with no destination for the second time this evening. He should go back to the Empire, to Eva, but what could he say to her right now? He didn't have any answers to give her, and he couldn't deal with her suffocating form of affectionate support. He made his way to the only other place in New York that had ever felt like home, hoping that he would at least be met with reluctant acceptance.
It was well after midnight when he stumbled into the van der Woodsen penthouse. Mercifully, all was quiet, so he grabbed a bottle of scotch and headed to the rooftop terrace.
As he looked out over the city that had once held his heart, he felt like a stranger in his own body. He had hardly allowed himself to consider the implications of his earlier realization before heading to the Waldorf residence, but in the calm quiet of the night with the New York skyline outlined by twinkling stars that were rarely visible against the city lights, his mind wandered into dangerous territory. He shook his head as the words "father" and "daddy" ghosted through his thoughts, and he raised the bottle to his lips. He downed a generous swig, and then another and another until his thoughts were so incoherent that he fell against one of the large loungers and passed out, bottle in hand.
He awoke to a massive pounding in his head just as the sky was illuminated with orange and pink hues announcing the sun's imminent appearance. He groaned and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. It was 5:36 am, and he felt like hell. His stomach churned violently, and he hated himself just a little bit more than usual. He scrolled through his notifications to find a text from an unidentified number: 7 am. Waldorf Designs. Don't be late.
Shit. He hoped he could find some of his old clothes in the guest room closet that would still fit him and manage a quick shower without waking anyone. Hopefully coffee would clear his head enough for whatever revelation awaited him in the next hour and a half. He was beyond terrified to the point that nothing felt real anymore; it all just seemed like a strange, elaborate dream after a night of indulgence.
XOXO
Blair's eyes fluttered open, and she was taken aback by the strange surroundings and unfamiliar bed. It took her several moments to realize that she was in one of the two guest rooms in her penthouse, and she was grateful that Dorota had been cognizant enough to take her there instead of the master bedroom. She found the maid arranging undergarments, a dress, and shoes on the edge of the bed. "Good morning, Miss Blair," she greeted kindly, moving the breakfast tray from the bedside table to Blair's lap. "You eat up now."
"What time is it?" Blair asked, stifling a yawn.
"Ten to six."
"Then, why are you in here so early?" she whined like a petulant child.
"You have meeting," Dorota stated quietly, eyeing Blair carefully.
"A meeting? Wha-" her voice trailed off as the events of the previous night flooded her memory - Chuck's insults, her slap, Serena's betrayal, and…oh, God. Chuck knows the truth. She felt her chest tightening, and her throat closing up again. She focused intently on her breathing, resolved not to have yet another panic attack. "What did you do, Dorota?"
"I scheduled meeting with Mr. Chuck," she explained matter-of-factly, her boldness a result of years of service, "You need talk to him, and I get you out of house before Mr. Louis or Cora wake up."
"I'm not -" she stopped herself. If she didn't talk to Chuck, when would it end? Would she take Cora and keep running? What were her options now really? God help her, she knew Chuck well, and she knew that once he knew the truth, he wouldn't let her rest. He would never give up. She gulped down a bite of a croissant, and relented, "Tell Cora how much I love her when she wakes up; tell Louis…"
"I tell him last night you have important meeting with new buyers that couldn't be rescheduled," she smiled proudly, but it fell as she watched the panic cloud Blair's expression and tears form in her eyes. "Miss Blair," she sat beside her and grasped her hands, "You are strongest woman I know. You can do this."
"What if," she swallowed, blinking back her tears, "What if he tries…"
"He won't," she assured the distressed woman in front of her, "This Mr. Chuck. He capable of plenty, but not that."
Blair nodded and drew a deep breath. She could do this; she could face Chuck. She didn't really have a choice at this point.
XOXO
Chuck found the office building unlocked, and he hit the button for the fifth floor atelier. His palms were clammy, and he wiped them futilely against the charcoal slacks he'd found in the back of the closet. He wore a crisp white Armani button down that had still had the tags on it; the look was decidedly understated for him, but he appeared neat and sophisticated, entirely at place in the luxurious building. He had so many questions that he couldn't think clearly enough to focus on any of them; he wasn't sure if he was sad, regretful, or angry, and he had to continuously remind himself to remain cool-headed so that he didn't send Blair into another panic attack.
When he entered her office, he found her sitting at her desk, sipping coffee, looking entirely composed and confident in comparison to her breakdown the night before. She looked powerful, like the formidable woman she'd always aspired to become, dressed in a deep plum shift dress with a black belt cinching the smallest part of her waist. She was always beautiful, but in that color, that position, she appeared regal, as if he was nothing more than one of her subjects. She nodded slightly toward one of the chairs adjacent to her desk, and he sat wordlessly across from her. If she intended to intimidate him, she'd succeeded. He didn't miss the irony of the fact that she was the only woman on the planet who could unnerve him in this way: her effect on him was almost frightening.
She sat forward, her back straight and her hands folded atop her desk. He waited anxiously for her to speak, unwilling to be the one to break the silence. She studied him slowly, letting her eyes skim from his chest upward, really taking in his appearance for the first time. Over the years, he'd developed a few hairline wrinkles across his forehead and around the corners of his eyes. He'd always looked like a man beyond his years: she'd been drawn to his mature appearance in her younger years. Something about his maturity, his manliness, had been such a turn on for her. He'd never seemed like a nineteen-year-old kid; he'd practically been born in a three-piece suit. Now as she studied him, she could see that his shoulders had broadened, his chest was more sculptured, and she couldn't help but notice how well the fitted shirt suited his physique. He'd grown into his features considerably, and as much as she was loath to admit it, he was incredibly handsome, his chiseled jaw and light stubble accentuating his masculinity. She cleared her throat and spoke softly, an almost mocking tone of voice concealing her nerves, "A lot happened after you left."
He smirked slightly, lowering his gaze to the photos decorating her desk. He could see a picture of her snuggled up to Louis in the snow, her nose crinkled in that adorable way he used to love. Another photo appeared to be of her and a small child, but it was tilted at such an angle that he couldn't quite see it. His heart thudded dramatically against his chest as he rasped out, "So it would seem."
She closed her eyes, drawing deep, purposeful breaths from her chest. When she opened them, he was looking at her expectantly, and her heart burst wide open. With a slow nod, she whispered, "Yes." His eyes narrowed slightly, and her voice quivered as she clarified, "The answer to your question is yes."
He stared at her in silence for several seconds, the only indication that he'd heard her words the slight tremor in his hands clenched against his thighs and the tight twitching of the muscles in his jaw. He stood to his feet, raking his hands through his hair, as if he considered walking out of the room without bothering to respond, but when he found her anxious eyes again, no longer masking her fear, he sat back down. The emotions rushing through his mind were incomprehensible, and he couldn't articulate a response. His mouth had gone dry, and his vocal cords seemed to tangle in his throat. He blinked rapidly and shook his head, though the reason was still unclear to him. He finally found his voice enough to force out, "H-how?"
Tears danced in her eyes, and she had to look away from him to keep them from falling, "Our last night together…before…"
He understood. She didn't have to explain further. "I -" he felt a lump form in his own throat, and he no longer had any clue how he was supposed to address her, react to her, talk to her. She wasn't just his ex-girlfriend; she was the mother of his child. His daughter. "I - what…" He still couldn't form the right words. He wanted to apologize, but an apology seemed wholly inadequate. Then, in the beat of a single second, his mind stubbornly reminded him that she tried to hide the truth from him. He kept his voice even, but he trained his eyes on her as he asked pointedly, "You weren't going to tell me, were you?"
She'd watched many emotions flicker across his face, but she was surprised by the sudden anger reflecting in his eyes. If anyone had the right to be enraged it was her; he was lucky that she'd even allowed him the courtesy of a conversation. "Honestly, no, I wasn't," she responded smugly, a challenge replacing her anxious tone. She felt frustrated that he would dare question her motives, so she aimed straight at his heart, hoping to inflict even the smallest fraction of the pain that she'd suffered for the past six years, "I've hated you for what you did to me, Chuck. You served your purpose as her sperm donor. She's the only good thing that came out of that sham of a relationship."
"So, you were just going to hide her from me? You were going to run away to another country? You were going to let another man raise my daughter?" His voice rose with each accusation and suddenly he was standing inches from her desk, his hands balled into fists as fury overtook all of his other emotions.
She stood, too, and approached him slowly until she was directly in front of him. Her stilettos allowed her to match him height-for-height as she snarled, "Your daughter? You can't be serious! You gave up that right the minute you decided to run away like a scared little boy. She's my daughter, Chuck. Mine. I gave birth to her; I raised her ALONE, while you were too busy trying to erase your mistakes instead of facing up to them!" She was yelling by the time she finished her tirade, and angry tears streamed ceaselessly from her eyes.
The truth of her words hit him hard, and he felt the air knocked from his lungs. He backed away from her and slumped into the chair. This innocent child, their daughter, was five-years-old, and she didn't know him. He knew how it felt to grow up without a parent, and regret flooded his whole being. He could try to justify his absence: he didn't know about her, but it did little to alleviate the guilt he felt. He buried his head in his hands, the gravity of it all weighing him down. "I'm sorry," he whispered quietly. "I can't…I'm so sorry."
Blair felt a pang in her chest as she watched him unravel, seemingly falling apart before her eyes. He was a fractured shell of his former self. The designer clothes and fresh haircut did little to hide his brokenness, and her heart ached for him in spite of her anger. She sighed deeply and leaned back against her desk. What words could she say to him? She didn't forgive him, so she couldn't tell him it was okay. She lifted the platinum framed photo of Cora on the day she took her to enroll for kindergarten at Constance. She had a wide grin on her face as she proudly held up her new school uniform. Her hair was pulled back with a red headband, and she looked like a perfect mixture of her parents. Her almond eyes twinkled brightly, and there were times that Blair swore Chuck was staring back at her through the frame. She handed it to Chuck. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was something. "She has your eyes and your cynicism."
He took the proffered photo tentatively, and his heart stopped beating for a moment as he took in the image before him. She was a mini Blair through and through, right down to her confident smile and chestnut curls. He thought she was the most beautiful child he'd ever seen, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. His chest swelled with a strange mixture of pride, awe, and sorrow. As if in a trance, he traced his finger over her small face, and he didn't bother fighting the tears that formed beneath his hooded lids. A small smile filled with sadness and longing spread across his lips, and he murmured more to himself than to Blair, "She's beautiful, just like her mother." He reached the frame back to Blair with a shaky hand, and asked quietly, "What's she like?"
"She's resilient, intuitive, and stubborn. She's smarter than me, but she's also kind and compassionate. She's the most amazing little human, and every day, I can't understand how I am lucky enough to be her mother." Chuck watched Blair carefully as she described their daughter, and he was comforted by the love oozing through her words. The contempt that laced her voice earlier was completely replaced by adoration and pride, and Chuck felt himself reacting in the most unexpected way. He'd always respected Blair's tenacity and wit, but seeing this maternal side of her made him feel things that he couldn't quite define. It was beautiful and tragic all at the same time.
He lowered his eyes to his hands, a small tear glistening in his lower lash line before he swatted it away. No other person had ever seen him so vulnerable as Blair, and he found that now, all these years later, he still didn't feel shame in revealing his emotions to her, a display that he would never allow anyone else to observe. He knew that he had no right to ask his next question, but Blair seemed to have softened toward him slightly, so he took a chance, "I want to meet her."
Blair let out a deep, frustrated sigh, "Chuck, I don't think -"
He sat forward, reaching out cautiously for Blair's hand. When she didn't resist him, he looked her in the eye and continued, "Blair, I know that I've screwed up enough to last a lifetime. I don't deserve your forgiveness; I know that. I don't deserve a relationship with our daughter, but I'm asking for your mercy. I can't change the past, but I can try to make amends. I want to know our daughter. Please." His tone was imploring, his eyes silently begging for a chance. "If at any point, you are uncomfortable, all you have to do is say the word, and I'm gone."
She pulled her hand back from his and folded her fingers delicately in her lap, unable to meet the desperation in his eyes. "Chuck, I understand what you're saying," she began carefully, "But she's only a child. It's too much for her; she won't understand if you're there one minute, and then disappear the next. I won't do that to her; I can't put her through that. I'm sorry."
He pursed his lips in a tight line, his expression so sullen she wanted to reach out to him. "Does she know who I am?" he asked.
Blair affirmed his question soberly, realizing that there was a deeper implication to his words than mere curiosity. His photo was plastered all over the national media at the moment; soon they wouldn't be able to turn the corner without the name and face of Chuck Bass staring back at them from every magazine and newspaper on the shelf. There was almost no chance that she would be able to keep Cora from knowing of Chuck's presence in New York, and then what would she say to her daughter? This way, at least she could do it on her terms; she really didn't have much of a choice in the matter. She exhaled in exasperation and warned, "Tuesday. Louis heads back to Monaco late Monday night, but Chuck, we do this my way. Cora will always be my first priority. Always. I don't care who I have to hurt, if it comes down to it, I will protect my daughter at all costs. Understand me when I say this: I'm doing this for her, not you. She's spent her entire life wondering about her father - don't let her down." While the warning was clear, Chuck could still read the underlying request in Blair's words. She was even more scared than he was, nearly overcome with the fear that she was making the wrong decision - one that could cause an innocent child a lifetime of trauma. They both knew better than anyone that invisible scars hurt far worse than the physical ones.
He nodded solemnly, hoping that she understood his commitment to doing the right thing by Cora. "Thank you," he rasped, emotion evident in his voice. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he was well aware that his words were worthless. He'd abandoned Blair - hurt her, betrayed her, lied to her - too many times for his promises to hold any merit. All he could do now was prove himself to her through his actions and maybe earn her trust back over time.
Blair nodded in acknowledgement and returned to her desk, drained from the entire ordeal. She hadn't expected to agree to a meeting, but somehow Chuck's power of persuasion had convinced her that it was the right choice in the long run. He was so familiar to her, but there was a new vulnerability in him that she'd never seen before. She was used to his self-loathing tendencies, but it typically presented itself in the form of arrogance and indifference to mask his insecurities. Instead, he was humble and receptive. It had thrown her off because she had prepared herself to deal with his stubborn conceit; she'd expected his misplaced anger that he used as an excuse to avoid taking responsibility. She had been ready to fight and argue, but he'd given in so easily. She didn't know what to do with a Chuck who was so willing to make concessions in favor of someone else. He seemed almost selfless in his pursuit of a relationship with Cora, as though he was more concerned with her well being than his own need to assuage his guilt. It was perhaps the reason that she had relented reluctantly.
Tuesday was sure to be a life-altering experience, and she was terrified of what it would all mean in the end. Before then, she had to talk to Cora in what would probably be the most important conversation she would ever have with her daughter. Words had never mattered more, and she suddenly felt speechless. If she said the wrong thing or made the wrong move, she could lose her daughter forever, and she'd die before she allowed that to happen.
A/N: Dear readers, I'm sorry that it's taken me longer than normal to update, but this chapter gave me fits. I scrapped two different drafts before I finally finished. I was torn on Chuck and Blair's interactions. There's so much hurt and anger there, but there's also loss and regret. They're 25 now, so they aren't children anymore. I did my best to find a balance of all of those emotions, and I hope it translated well.
I know that you all were hoping for Chuck/Cora interaction this chapter, and honestly, I had expected to include it. This chapter became longer than I anticipated, and I couldn't cut it down. It just wouldn't have fit to cram Cora into this chapter, so their first meeting will be the central focus of the next chapter.
Thank you all for sticking with me, and I anxiously await your thoughts. I hope to have the next update out within a week, but I'm not making any promises.