Chapter 17

Blair

Friday evening, I had just gotten home from cheer practice when Terrance handed me a letter handwritten by the incalculably self-obsessed, scheming wench I came to know as my mother. It was a cream envelope sealed with lavender wax and an 'S' stamped on the center.

'Blair,

I've scheduled a dinner reservation at Fumè for you and I at nine-o-clock sharp. I need to discuss something with you. Wear the black Elie Saab I had Melanie purchase for you. You'll be taking your father's jet.'

The letter was curt and formal. My eyebrows knitted at the words before me. What was it that she wanted now? The divorce was finalized a week ago, and I knew there was nothing else to discuss. I fished my purse, the time on my phone reading six, and I trudged up the stairs to start.

I took a shower to bathe myself off of the sweat. I had time to do a 15-20 minute sheer face mask and I finished getting dressed at seven-thirty. A flight from Belleview to the Upper East Side took about an hour, and I was never one to arrive ahead of what was scheduled.

The raven-hued, velvet gown had a v-neckline and a leg-split. It hugged my curves perfectly and showed an ample amount of cleavage, along with my toned legs. I paired it with black, open-toed six-inches from one of my favorite Italian designers, Giuseppe Zanotti and a silver clutch from Balmain.

My straightened, dark almond hair fell smoothly down to my waist. I kept my makeup to a minimum, only applying a thin layer of foundation on my face, a nude gloss on my lips and a subtle cat-liner on my eyes.

I was brought to the where my father's jet, handed to him by my grandfather Christopher Westwood, was a quarter to eight.

In no time, I had arrived at Mahattan and was driven to meet my mother at Fumè as planned. The dimly-lit restaurant was filled with the aristocrats that filled the city and I spotted my mother seated near the windows like always. She was wearing a silky, off-the-shoulder gown. The jade color matched the intensity of her piercing orbs and her hair was done into a half-up. Her sharp gaze spotted mine and she stood up as I was escorted to her.

"Mother."

"Daughter."

The obsequious waiter arrived to pull our seats for us. Stephanie requested an 1841 Veuve Clicquot and Jonathan, I read on his nametag, came back to pour us the champagne.

I picked up the flute glass and took a sip, ordering for myself the smoked trout and my mother asking for the smoked duck breast. We sat in silence for a while, drinking our champagne until her lips moved.

"How are your studies? Have you looked into the field of business that you plan on taking up?" she inquired, flicking a piece of hair over her shoulder.

"Yes, I have." I lied through my teeth. Graduation was nearing and Stephanie wanted me to attend Princeton to get a degree in business. Neither of my parents were aware of my plans to take up fashion in the University of Paris.

Harrington Industries was my mother's side of the kingdom, whilst my father's was Westwood Publishing. Whose path I would be following was one of their many fuels for argument. Little did they know, I was only determined on carving my own.

"Have you thought about a place to stay near the University?"

"Not yet."

Dorm rooms disgusted me. The thought of sharing one and living with someone else in such an inadequate, poorly conditioned space made me want to throw up. The one thing I agreed on with my mother was to buy an apartment of my own near the college.

Soft violin music played in the background and I watched the man by the corner play the instrument with such passion. When he was done, applauses erupted from some of the customers and Jonathan, the waiter, returned to serve our food.

Picking up the fork and knife, I dug into the dish, my taste buds tingling at the rich flavor of the sauce.

"What was it that you needed to discuss with me?" I spoke first to cut to the chase.

She dabbed her lips with the red napkin and looked at me straight in the eye. "I'm seeing someone."

My eyebrow rose in amusement, "Oh? That fast, mother?"

No trace of humor was found on the look she gave me. "Yes. He was recently released from the hospital due to an accident. He has a daughter your age and I would like for you to meet them once he gets back on his feet."

"Does father know?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't answer to him. Never have, never will."

"What does he want with you? Are you sure he's not just using you for monetary reasons?" without any filter, the words flew out of my mouth. Honesty was often and brutal, and most of the time it was for the best.

She sent a glare my way and took a sip from her flute glass. "I'll have you know, he is a respectable man who may be far from our world, but he has a heart made of gold."

"Mm. What would a man like that do with a heartless woman like you?"

She seemed unfazed by the insult and proceeded to cut a slice of duck. "The apple doesn't fall very far from the tree, Blair. At least I'm capable of romance. You would never find someone with a heart like yours."

The amusment fell from my face and I only passed her a sardonic smile. I hated it when she used her power to crawl under my skin. She knew exactly how to. I wondered if it was because she used to have a part of her that was much like her daughter, and over the years, learned how to crush it and used the knowledge to do it to me.