The letter from Andre was still sitting on the nightstand. He hadn’t read it again, but he knew the words by heart.
There was a knock at the door.
Blake frowned, glancing at the clock. It was three in the afternoon. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and Doug knew better than to disturb him on a rest day.
He walked to the door and pulled it open.
A man in a courier uniform was standing in the hallway, holding a massive, canvas-wrapped package that was almost as tall as he was.
“Delivery for Mr. Harlan,” the courier said, shifting the weight of the package. “Sign here, please.”
Blake stared at the package, his heart giving a sudden, painful lurch. He signed the electronic pad, his hand shaking slightly, and helped the courier maneuver the heavy canvas into the suite.
When the man was gone, Blake stood in the center of the room, looking at the package.
There was a small, white envelope taped to the front.
Blake pulled it off, his fingers clumsy. He opened it and read the single line of text.
Please give me another chance. You are the most important thing in the world to me.
He dropped the card onto the coffee table and reached for the edge of the protective canvas. He pulled the tape free, the sound loud in the quiet room, and unwrapped the painting.
The wrapping fell away, revealing the image beneath.
Blake stopped breathing.
He took a step back, his hands falling to his sides, his eyes wide.
It was Arthur Ashe Stadium. It was the two of them, standing at the net, the world blurring into insignificance around them.
The painting was astonishing. It wasn’t just a depiction of an event; it was a visceral, emotional experience. Andre had captured the exact feeling of that moment — the intimidating yet exhilarating freefall of letting go of the secret.
He looked at the way Andre had painted his own face — half-hidden, buried in the curve of Blake’s neck, but radiating a profound, overwhelming relief. He looked at the colors, the vibrant, pulsing warmth that separated them from the cold, harsh reality of the stadium.
It was a love letter. It was an apology. It was a desperate, beautiful plea for forgiveness.
Blake reached out, his fingers trembling, and traced the line of Andre’s shoulder on the canvas. The paint was still slightly tacky in places, the smell of oil and turpentine filling the sterile hotel room, bringing the scent of the studio, the scent of Andre, rushing back to him.
The cold, hard knot in his chest, the armor he had worn for weeks, finally cracked open.
He loved him.
He loved him despite the betrayal, despite the pain, despite the horrifying images that still haunted his sleep. He loved him because Andre was flawed, and human, and capable of making terrible mistakes, but he was also capableof this — of taking his own broken heart and turning it into something beautiful.
Blake didn’t think. He didn’t weigh the consequences, or consider the tabloid headlines, or worry about what Doug would say.
He grabbed his keys, his phone, and his jacket, and ran out the door.
Chapter nineteen
I’m Back
The taxi ride from Knightsbridge to South Kensington felt like it took hours.
Blake sat in the back seat, his leg bouncing with nervous energy, his eyes fixed on the gray London streets blurring past the window. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and reflective, the city washed clean.
He paid the driver before the car had even fully stopped, shoving a handful of notes through the partition, and bolted out the door.
