I dream the same dreams every night and not one of them is Audrey.

I'm in a limousine under the sea. I'm choking for air, seatbelt still tucked neatly in its place. I hear a baby crying, but I do not move. It would ruffle my dress and he would not like that. I am still.

I'm in Paris at the Louvre, stuck inside a frame behind the glass wall. Visitors pass me by to see the Mona Lisa. My face hurts from smiling so much.

I'm in the Empire State building, the top of it actually, waiting for him. I dare not let down my hair. Sometimes I'm in an elevator without any cables and I'm falling. Sometimes, I'm in a movie theater, watching all of this in a loop.

(These are the dreams I am having while I'm trying not to think of you, of him. But they still seep in, like oil and the sea.)

I go to Monaco, after the wedding. Just as planned. I hold Louis' hand as he helps me down the stairs and into the Royal car. The photographers are there and ready to see if I fall on my face. Ready to snap a picture of what they assume would be the peak of my humiliation. I smile so wide they can see my gums and then I gracefully step into the limousine. I always win.

He drops the façade instantly. I am resolved to show that this doesn't hurt. I succeed, as always. One of Louis' handlers scolds me for my satisfied smirk at them before speaking in French to his colleagues as if I do not understand the language. But it just hasn't sunk in for them yet:

I am the Princess of Monaco. I have everything I ever wanted. Everything is wonderful. I am not going anywhere.

My scheduled appearances, dinners and functions keep me busier than any New York socialite could find the time to fill, so much so that I barely have time to myself. Everything is exactly as scheduled. I wake up to an assistant briefing me on the day's scheduled. Breakfast: two sliced melons, one piece of wheat toast, green tea (no sugar or milk). A team of professional hair stylists and personal shoppers dress me. I attend the morning functions—with or without my betrothed—until I am taken to a place for lunch with Louis. Lunch: kale salad, sliced cucumbers, a tablespoon of olive oil and a glass of white wine. Then it's off to a charity or museum committee to raise money for a new art exhibit or something else to uphold the Royal charter for a few hours. I am then taken home to get ready for a royal dinner. Dinner: a four-course meal including a light pea soup, escargot, the chef's latest dish and finally a salad. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I return for drinks to entertain. I return to my separate quarters to prepare for bed. I chat on the phone with Dorota. I read until the early hours of the morning.

I let myself fall asleep, hoping to dream of Audrey. I never do.

Days pass. Months. And finally, Serena breezes into town on her promised visit. I made sure my assistants confirmed her flight and arrival time six times in two weeks. It would be so very like Serena to forget her promise to visit while she's marrying off husband number two in Barcelona or partying in Berlin. I've made sure everything is perfect for her visit: afternoon tea in the palace, shopping in Cannes, a tour of the local vineyards, an inescapable function with the ambassador of Austria, girl's night, flexible hours for when Serena drinks too much.

And then she ruins all my plans by showing up with Nate, of all people. We're giving it another go, they say in unison.

Of course they are. Of course they fucking are.

Louis is purposefully away on business leaving me alone with Nate and Serena. Just like it used to be, but with the roles all reversed. My would-be fiancé and my closest childhood friend brought together again.

We catch up on New York life, Monaco duties. Nate's running a new media company, Serena has a successful sex column. ("Maybe you'll learn some tips to show Louis," Nate teases.) I watch them closely. Nate is still a puppy, deeply in love with Serena (Was he ever not?). Serena still exudes her goddess persona, comfortable in her own skin but not as uninhibited. She's composed in a way, not unlike Lily. He pushes her hair behind her ears, she rubs his hands to soothe him as he tells a story. The sun still shines on her, even in my Monaco palace.

Later, when Nate's asleep it's just us girls. I drink wine, she drinks tea, we laugh—it's how it was supposed to be. I finally have someone willing to talk about all the French literature I've been consuming and Serena nods like she knows what I'm talking about and I'm happy to have someone who can just nod and listen. Just like before.

Serena says, "I'm happy, happy. We're so happy. Everything's finally falling into place. Like it did for you and Louis." She looks to me with trepidation, waiting for confirmation.

I say nothing but flash a smile worthy of Serena's. I learned from the best.

"I miss you, B. It's good being here. You, me, Nate. The way it's supposed to be."

I nod my head, willing to forgive this slight omission of history, still separating me and Nate. Just this once. "I'm happy for you, S. And I miss you too. You'll need to come visit more often. Nate too. My treat."

She smiles, and I can tell there's something else on her mind. That's unusual for my oldest friend. Serena says, "Maybe you can come back to New York soon? 5th Avenue is practically calling our names. It's not the same without my best friends."

Best friends. I thought we were sisters?I look down into my third glass of wine. "I wish I could, but I have far too many responsibilities here to attend to here. We're planning an American royal tour after our one year, though." Serena has a face I've reserved for her too many times: judgment. "What?"

"It's… we just miss you, B. We don't get to see everyday anymore, and when we call it's just short little conversations." There's that 'we' again. A packaged unit. As if the two really believe they're equals. Serena continues, "We're just a little worried. You've lost weight. You don't have any American friends here. You barely call and when you do, you sound…"

"Everything in my life requires responsibilities, Serena. I know you've only just learned what those are, but I'm a princess now. I have a schedule and it's exhausting. I'm sorry if I can't summon up the energy to talk about the weather." That ought to shut her it doesn't. There's not a trace of hurt on her face, just an annoying trace of something else. Compassion. It feels like a dirty word.

"Of course, B. I can't imagine. Forgive me?"

So sincere. So Serena. How can I not? "Always. You're my sister, S. Isn't that what we always do?"

"I just miss my best friend."

She smiles bright, the sight of it hurting my eyes a little. I have to look away. "Me too."

And then it's trips to Paris, trips to the beach, trips to museums, trips to my various functions and galas. Trips down memory lane and back again. (The bad ones, too. But I push them aside and put a smile on my face.) And then a trip home. For them.

"So soon?" I ask.

Nate jokes, "Got to return to the empire—"I flinch at the word. I hate that word."— B. You understand."

"New York calls. B, When will you come to America on your royal tour? Everyone misses you so much."

"One day soon." I pull Nate aside. "You better take care of her, Natie."

"I promise." I smile at that, which grabs Nate's puppy-dog attention. "There's that smile. I can't convince you to hop on the plane with us?"

I can feel myself shifting, involuntarily. The chance to go to my city again is alluring. "I have everything I've ever wanted. A perfect prince, royal subjects, gowns and jewels and power…well, socially at least. Monaco's not the biggest political power on the scene—yet."

"As long as you're happy. I love you Blair. Call us anytime. Take care of yourself."

Nate grabs her hand. It's magic hour, the light illuminating their faces. They're in love. They hold their hands together as they walk away on an adventure.

In the corner of your mind, before you can help yourself, a thought creeps in:

That should have been me.

One of Louis' handlers/assistants informs me that Louis would like to speak to me privately, hours after our latest appearance. I have been alone with Louis only a dozen times since we have been married, most of which were on our 'honeymoon.' Louis needs me like I need food—a necessary and public evil to be discarded behind closed doors as soon as backs are turned.

I enter his study, which is far from my quarters. There are paintings of the men who came before him, ones with their counsel and their wives. My portrait has yet to be made, but I will make sure it is just as magnificent.

"Please, sit down," Louis says. I do as I'm told—the good little princess to his le petit prince.

"Of course, your future grace. What is this about, Louis?"

He shifts on his feet, back and forth, holding himself. "My mother is ill. An aggressive and rare blood cancer. She told me only yesterday. 2 years to live, maybe." He waits a beat, maybe to take in my reaction. I am still. "Our priorities have changed."

"Which priorities, exactly?"

"I have been talking with my mother about last wishes."

Oh.

"She wishes to have grandchildren."

"Don't worry. I'm sure Beatrice will forget to take the morning after pill sooner or later."

Louis purses his lips in a way I've only seen him do with Beatrice or small children. "She thinks we should conceive soon. My mother wants to see grandchildren."

I am still. I allow him to wait in silence while I way my options. The options I have vowed to long avoid.

"I didn't realize your mother was in this marriage," I respond. Louis' face scrunches up, like he wants to snort at the term, but has always been taught to save royal face.

"Of course she is. You joined our name, our legacy, our royalty. She wants heirs from her only son. My mother allowed this marriage to happen. And she gets what she wants."

"We have that in common." I think of my plotting and scheming back in New York—I did as much personal damage to the people around me as Wall Street did to the recession. I get what I want, too.

"That you do." For the first time in our marriage, I see Louis smile. I never realized how much I missed it—so sweet and tender. When he catches himself, he adds, "I'd like to know it's mine this time." Bitterness. An edge to the man I once knew as sweet, kind, quiet. This is what I do to the men who fall in love with me. I crush their lightness and bring out the darkness. And in turn, it brings out my own.

"Well, that would require you to touch me." His reaction can't hide his disgust. "That's what I thought." I walk away, triumphant but not daring to look at him.

He says, "You would make a terrible mother, anyway."

Without missing a beat, "Not unlike your mother then. Do tell me when the funeral is. I'll want to wear that dress she hates."

It isn't until I've made it to into my shower later that I scream into a pillow. He will not see me like this or else he would have won.

I like winning too much.

I wake up to an assistant briefing me on the day's scheduled. Breakfast: two sliced melons, one piece of wheat toast, green tea (no sugar or milk). A team of professional hair stylists and personal shoppers dress me. I attend the morning functions—with or without my betrothed—until I am taken to a place for lunch with Louis. Lunch: kale salad, sliced cucumbers, a tablespoon of olive oil and a glass of wine. Then it's off to a charity or museum committee to raise money for a new art exhibit or something else to uphold the Royal charter for a few hours. I am then taken home to get ready for a royal dinner. Dinner: a four-course meal including a light pea soup, escargot, the chef's latest dish and finally a salad. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I return for drinks to entertain. I return to my separate quarters to prepare for bed. I chat on the phone with Dorota. I read until the early hours of the morning.

I am in Paris for Fashion Week. My mother's collection is there—beautiful, elegant yet mature. It's not what I would have put out there for younger generations, but it aligns with her current business strategy. I am in the best seat in the front row and photographers are taking more photos of me than the models. And in the corner of my eye, I see him:

Chuck Bass.

Or a man who looks like him. A bow tie, expensive taste in clothing, a debonair debauchery in his eye; not quite a twinkle, but something alluring. But there is only one Chuck Bass and he would dare not show his face at my mother's fashion show. He wouldn't. Okay, he would. But that man isn't him. Last I read Chuck was vacationing off a private yacht off the coast of Thailand. Not that I've been reading about him; he just appeared in the society section of the New York Times.

After the show, my bodyguards escort me to meet my mother. She is supposed to have free time this evening, after the press and the courtings and everything else that comes with being the owner of an international fashion brand.

We go out to dinner in the most expensive restaurant in all of Parie, in a private room surrounded by bodyguards keeping out watchful stares and flashing cameras. We discuss the pitfalls of her business—I advise her to appeal younger and, for once, it looks like she is listening—before it's on to an inevitable, yet unfavorable topic: my newlywed marriage.

Opening up another bottle of wine, my mother says. "What's that like? The bodyguards, the press?"

"It's like wearing a second skin at this point." (It isn't.)

"You always did want the spotlight." My mother grinning, recalling a half-forgotten memory. "Still, it must be difficult to share it as newlyweds. Most newlyweds don't need bodyguards to push off the press."

"This is true. But it is fine."

"Prying into your personal life, scooping in for gossip. One of my assistants read the other day that you and Louis were trying to conceive. Imagine that!" She sounds hurt; that I wouldn't tell her. But Waldorf women do not show that hurt easily.

"We're not trying, mother. We've been married for two months."

"Oh, I know darling. You would have told me." She slurps her glass of wine, a little relieved. She studies my face. She always tried to know what I was thinking as a child. She'd stare at me for what felt like hours until I confessed to getting an assistant fired or other normal childhood sins. "Did you know that it was very difficult for us to conceive?"

This is surprising. Sometime in the later years, she learned that she could distract me into confessing in other ways. Dear old Eleanor still has an edge for diversion tactics. "No. I didn't."

"We went through three IVF procedures. Only the last one took. It caused a lot of strain on our marriage, the whole children business. We really should have talked to someone." She lets that sink in, for a moment, pretending to be lost in thought. "Of course, there was your father's laden homosexuality we never uncovered, but still. We wanted more children, but alas."

Too bad you only had me, escapes from the corner of your mind. "Maybe it was just meant to be."

"Don't you mean it wasn't meant to be?"

"Yes, of course, Mother. I misspoke."

Another gulp of wine, my mother wears an unfamiliar expression on her face: a proud smile. "We raised a brilliant, ambitious and beautiful woman. The brightest girl in her class." Another gulp of wine, a slight in her voice now. "And now she's a princess, after all. A royal princess." She pauses. "But all marriage, regardless of royalty, is hard work, darling. It may not seem like it in the first two years, the honeymoon years. But it's a struggle. Of course, had your father not—" she stops herself, determined not to say anything bad about my father this time. I smile; my mother is learning. Even as she gets lost in thought for real. "I was working too much, perhaps. You know, if your father and I would have seen someone in the early years of our marriage, maybe it would have dissolved quicker. We could have been happier much earlier."

She clears her throat. "You've been keeping busy? Besides the royalty duties?"

"I've devoted much of my time to charity. The arts and literature programs—"

"That's not what I meant dear."

"You mean my scheming?" A wry smile graces my lips, I can't help myself. I straighten up. "All that's behind me now." It is my turn to gulp my wine glass like an uncultured American.

"My daughter's all grown-up."

(Maybe. You whisper in my ear. Oh shut up.)

Part of my royal duties takes me to volunteer at a children's hospital for the day in the countryside of France. Monaco is a country populated with ultra powerful, rich, healthy and elite trying to avoid income tax. It's a nice change, even if it takes me to the country.

The hospital is too white, too clean and too adult for a hospital who's patients are children. I meet with many of the kids and teenagers. Many of them rosy-cheeked, squeaky voiced, some of them subdued, others are running around, bald and frail.

One in particular is quite beautiful. She's about six years old, with curly, short dark brown hair and doe eyes. A widow's peak frames her face. Her name is Cordelia. She asks me to read to her, anything and everything to her. She's an avid reader, advanced for a six year old. An English translation of Le Petit Prince is there. She asks me to read to her in English.

But you won't understand it. I say.

That's okay. I like listening to your voice. She says, sleepy all of a sudden leaning into me. In a moment, I feel a glow of warmth flow over me.

As I read to her, one line sticks out to me:

"It is the time you have lost for your rose that makes your rose so important."

I call S for our weekly updates. Instead of her sunny demeanor, S is distant. Distracted. Sniffling. A tell tale sign of bad news. A fight gone wrong with Nate? Is it CeCe and her bad health?

"S, you sound like you've used a box of Kleenexes."

"What? Oh, it's nothing. Nate and I just had a fight and now it's these damn allergies." Her sniffles cause the dial tone to spike.

"Are you sure S, because if Nate did something to hurt you?"

"No, B. We'll be okay. I gotta go. Call you tomorrow? Love you. So much." The dial tone rings in my ear. Time to get to the bottom of this. I search my contact list and hit call.

"I swear to god, if I find out you hurt Serena, I'll fly back to New York this very instant and ruin you."

"Blair? Is that you?"

"I just got off the phone with Serena. She was upset. What did you do? What's going on?"

"A lot's going on. We had a fight."

"About what? You know, S—she runs away when things get real. You just need to—"

"It's about Dan," he sighs, like he's releasing years worth of pain.

Oh.

Back in town to fuck up your relationship, is he? Typical. He was always love with her, anyway. Can't you see that Natie? Why are you always so blind? Why do you set people up to hurt you like that—"Serena didn't want to tell you right away, but I thought you had the right to know."

"What about Humphrey?"

"He tried to kill himself."

Nate's voice echoes through the telephone, but it's like white noise.

"…Blair?"

I hear my shallow breath over the phone.

"How?"

"He tried to jump off a bridge in his car."

A beat.

"It's a shame he didn't succeed."

I hang up the phone.

I dream the same dreams every night until I finally cannot dream of anything but you.

Your stupid muppet hair. The way your throat moves when you laugh. The keys of your typewriter. That time I threw yoghurt in your hair. That time I made you cry. That time you made me cry.

We're in a movie theatre. It's playing the story of us and it's not a good story. It's not a romantic epic spanning continents and empires nor does it end with a fairytale wedding, though that's there too. It's not even the little-indie-that-could where the star-crossed lovers find each other in the end.

Somewhere along the journey, as we're watching the movie of us watching a movie or seeing an exhibit at the MET or driving in that shitty car to Connecticut or falling asleep on that lumpy couch, you are beside me. You whisper:

You can choose to marry Louis. You could choose not to. You could marry Louis and have an affair. You could choose to not have an affair. Or you could be with Chuck and stay together forever. You could marry him. Or you could be with him and then not. You could date someone else. You could marry someone else, be happy with someone else. Someone could die. You could die. You could screw everything over and choose yourself. But the future? It is limitless. We all know that you'll either be happy or not or somewhere in between. Stop being powerless. Destiny is what you make of it.

No, our story isn't even a good story at all. It's the story of how two people hated each other but convinced themselves they were friends, and then maybe lovers and then we fucked it all to pieces. Not with a bang, but a whimper, you whisper.

I wish you were dead. I wish I was dead with you too.

I wake up to an assistant briefing me on the day's scheduled. Breakfast: two sliced melons, one piece of wheat toast, green tea (no sugar or milk). A team of professional hair stylists and personal shoppers dress me. I attend the morning functions—with or without my betrothed—until I am taken to a place for lunch with Louis. Lunch: kale salad, sliced cucumbers, a tablespoon of olive oil and a glass of wine. Then it's off to a charity or museum committee to raise money for a new art exhibit or something else to uphold the Royal charter for a few hours. I am then taken home to get ready for a royal dinner. Dinner: a four-course meal including a light pea soup, escargot, the chef's latest dish and finally a salad. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I return for drinks to entertain. I return to my separate quarters to prepare for bed, and I swallow sleeping pills for a dreamless night of sleep.

The dreams come during the day anyway.

My first mistake is to call my therapist from New York. Her name is Dr. Rebecca Rosewater, and she insists on me calling her Rebecca. I ignore this request. I speak to her receptionist and we schedule a phone appointment for the next day.

My second mistake is not clearing this time off with my handlers. I have a fitting for a charity event for the following week and I'll need to be at a children's hospital in the south of France shortly afterwards. It is only after the press has some alarming tabloid press about my after-dinner eating habits that I am allowed this request.

My third mistake is calling at all.

"You've had quite the year Blair. Lots of changes."

"I've always been good with change."

Silence.

"Okay, even I can hear what a lie that is. I'm not good with change. I never have been."

"Why do you think that is?"

I start pacing around my quarters, avoiding looking at one place for too long. "I like control. The precision of a well-executed sche—plan. I don't like not being in control."

"Are you telling me you don't thrive under chaos?"

"I thrive in any situation I'm tasked with. I'm Blair Waldorf." Grimaldi, you correct to yourself. "Change brings surprises. Knocks your whole life down. I don't like being surprised."

"What's been the biggest surprise this year?"

My eyes find my reflection, against my better judgment. "That I'd get to be a mother. And then that I didn't."

She doesn't say anything. "I really thought it would all work out. Louis would have made a good father. And then maybe I could runaway and be with him and have that thing I never had, not like Serena. It all comes so easily to her."

"Have you spoke to Chuck since?"

"No. I never want to speak to him again." A beat. "I don't want talk about that today. If we do, I'll hang up."

"Okay." I can hear her writing something down. About my issues probably.

Silence. That's all I hear. That and the sounds of someone breathing steadily.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to ask me another question?"

"What would you like me to ask, Blair?"

…

…

Once more there is silence. I walk to the corner of my bed to the nightstand. There's a copy of Le Petit Prince on it.

"Ask me what I want."

"What do you want, Blair?"

"I want to be happy." I can feel the tear roll down my face. I have never felt so small. "I try and remember…I thought maybe my wedding day, briefly. But then… With Chuck, maybe? Before the accident as we ran away together. But now that whole time is shaded blue." I take a deep breathe, exhale. "The last time I fed the ducks in Central Park with Humphrey, maybe. He tried to kill himself last week, you know. I didn't get the details. I haven't been answering their calls…" My cheeks are wet. I sniffle.

"I'm not happy. Why can't I let myself be happy?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here. To help you find out. Okay?"

"Okay."

Three months later, Louis' mother dies in her sleep, relatively painless for a monarch dying of cancer. It's a month before my wedding anniversary and it's a grand big Monaco royal affair. We dress in black. We attend mass. We are photographed thousands and thousands of times. We go through the motions of grieving. Louis looks sad, relieved, unreadable. I never really knew him all that well.

We are back at the palace, late at night after an exhausting day. I knock on his door, to his own separate quarters.

"Blair?"

"May I come in?"

He opens the door and I move to sit on his bed. I pat on the bed, inviting him to sit next to me. He looks wary. "I promise—no scheming."

"Uh-huh."

Deep breath:

"I know this couldn't be worse timing. Your mother has just died. I can't imagine…I know you two were close." I clear my throat. "I think we should get a divorce."

He looks surprised, pushes off of the bed suddenly. "Leaving me for Chuck again? Giving me a warning before you leak something to the press?"

I stay seated. "No. That was a mistake. You didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve any of this. You and I both know you haven't loved me in a long time. Since I lost the baby, maybe." I let that sink in. He turns to look at me, really look at me. We have never spoke of this, not really. It has been unspoken: not since I lost the baby for running out on you with another man. Not since I betrayed you and killed your child.

"And I can't blame you for that. We got caught up in it all. You were this bright, white Prince who rescued me from a dark place. I thought you made me happy—and you did—but it was all dark for so long I thought the light would burn out."

Louis sits back down. He grabs my hand, an act of kindness that proves he's a better man who deserved more.

"My therapist says I self-destruct, that I don't know how to be happy and I end up making other people unhappy. I'm sorry. For everything."

Louis is quiet, a tear also falling down his face. At last, we understand each other. Maybe even forgive? Is that too hopeful? He wipes a tear from the corner of me eye before, finally, he says: "You won't get to be a princess anymore."

"Destiny is what you make of it. I'll live."

On the anniversary of a royal marriage between Louis Grimaldi and Blair Waldorf, the press learns of their separation. Chaos ensues. Reporters flood into Monaco to look for any signs of the missing princess, soon-to-be stripped of her royal name once the separation leads to divorce papers.

Where in the world is Blair Waldorf? They ask.

In a flat in Brooklyn hiding out, of course. The last place anyone would ever think to look for her.

Sorry for the delay. Reviews welcome! The last chapter will hopefully go up soonish. Thanks very much and Cheerio.