Prologue

He didn't know why he'd come; clearly some part of him was fixed on self torture. He needed to see her, even though he knew how much pain it would cause him. He needed a glimpse, however fleeting, needed to gaze upon that face once more.

Chuck stopped outside the glass window, seeing her - as if it would ever take more than a glance to recognise her - and Blair's eyes locked on his; she alone had sensed him, instinctively, instantly, even through the glass.

The moment seemed to stretch forever; her brown eyes, still so full of hurt; he could see the aching in them.

But she could only stare at him in silence, helpless.

They were only separated by a sheet of glass; she was on the inside, in the warmth and light, and he was out on the cold dark street.

But he couldn't go in.

He couldn't bring himself to do what every inch of him longed to do, to go into the warmth and take her in his arms and kiss all her pain away.

Because he was too angry, and it hurt too much.

So he only had one option left; he had to get away. Had to do what Chuck Bass always did, and run away. He would never be with her. He would never have her, and that was the way it would always be. Something always got in the way, and this time it was the image of Blair and his uncle.

Tell me it was for something

Maybe it was. But it's not any more.

And he had to get out, so that he could actually have a chance at maybe believing those words.

"Arthur," Chuck spoke into his phone, voice rough. "I need the private jet ready for a flight out of here tonight."

The man didn't hesitate. He knew better than that by now.

"Of course, Mr Bass. Where to?"

Chuck paused then; he hadn't given that any thought. He didn't care where to. Anywhere but here.

"Mr Bass?"

Chuck caught the strains of another phone conversation as a woman hurried past him on the street.

"Mais oui, bien sur..."

Well, that would do.

"France."