Exile

7: The Importance of Being

'You might be the bitch of this little pack-, both figuratively and literally, but I am the head bitch of New York City and that means I'm miles ahead of you on the bitch scale.' – Blair Waldorf

..

…..

Blair stretched out feeling perfectly content in her bed as a few sunrays slipping through her curtains, warming her face as she pulled her luxurious silk sheets just a bit tighter to her body permitting herself just a few more minutes of morning perfection; there was something distinctively better about waking up on your own accord without the help of alarm clocks or maids.

She smiled as memories of last night came rushing back to her causing her to kick her legs in childish glee, effectively entangling them with her powder blue sheets; Jacobkissed her, Jacob liked her, Jacob wantedher…God is there a better feeling for a girl than feeling wanted? She wished she could bottle it and store it in her closet for rainy days.

A shrill miauw-ing and a soft thud broke her train of thought.

'Good morning Cat,' she cooed as her Tabby nestled itself on one of her many pillows; of course her cat liked satin, like herself Cat was a connoisseur of luxury and perfection.

The cat just purred lazily, as Blair stroked the ginger cat behind its tiny ears feeling distinctively Hepburn-esque after last night's romantic events and bursting with pleasant,non-scheming energy. She bounced out of bed, much to Cat's dismay and slipped into her clear white La Perla robe which offered her the fabric and old Hollywood glamour her albeit cute pink babydoll lacked.

'I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay,' she absently sang under her breath as she darted into her en-suite bathroom to groom herself for breakfast; it took her less than her usual thirty minutes to complete her skincare regime and hairstyling she put that, and the fact she was forgoing makeup for now, down to her ridiculously good mood.

She practically skipped down the stairs, still humming happily as she stepped into the kitchen and into a marvellously delicious smell: freshly made beignets, she was infatty heaven.

'Good morning,' she said cheerfully noting Roman's presence sitting at the oak kitchen table partially hidden behind a newspaper.

'Bonjour Blair, you seem very 'appy today?' Roman said lowering his newspaper to give her a curious glance as she opened the fridge in search of some nice and pulp-free orange juice. She couldn't exactly blame him for his curiosity; she hadn't exactly been welcoming towards him at first, she had after all tried to break one or more of his bones while skating, but she'd gradually warmed towards him when it became evident he hadn't exactly stolen away her father from her mother nor was he trying to steel him away from her.

'I am happy,' she retorted taking a sip from her tall glass.

'You 'ad a good time with z'at boy you were with last night?' he questioned throwing her a meaningful look.

'I had a good time overall actually,' she retorted democratically, choosing not taking the bait. 'They were all very pleasant company.'

'It sounds nice,' Roman started with a grin. 'Z'ere are des beignets aux pommes on the counter if you are 'ungry.'

'Merci,' she retorted her dark eyes falling onto the deep-fried doughnut-like treats, the delicious cinnamon smell made her mouth water and the rumbling of her stomach reminded her that she had eaten since yesterday at lunch but she was painfully aware of the fact she was staring at calorie bombs full of hideous fat that would transfer directly to her already chunky thighs. She couldn't eat that, she'd burst out of her clothes if she ate that.