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Three years after I kissed Andre Moreau on Centre Court, we have a life. A flat in South Kensington. A love I thought nothing could break.
Then he breaks it.
One confession. One night he can’t take back. And suddenly the man I built my entire world around is someone I don’t recognize.
I leave. I fly to the other side of the world and play tennis like a man trying to outrun his own heart. I tell myself the silence is easier. I tell myself not to look at my phone every night, waiting for him to say something that I’m not sure could fix this anyway.
Then a painting arrives at my hotel room — and it’s me. Every brushstroke says what he couldn’t.
The question isn’t whether I still love him. It’s whether I’m strong enough to go back.
ANDRE
I destroyed the best thing in my life on a night I can barely remember.
Blake is gone. The flat is quiet. My brushes are the only thing keeping me sane — and every canvas I touch turns into him. Golden hair. Blue eyes. The expression on his face when I told him the truth.
I’m trying to find my way back. Slowly. Carefully. The way you rebuild something you shattered with your own hands.
But the universe isn’t finished with us yet — and what comes next will cost us both more than either of us imagined.
Now the man I don’t deserve is standing in front of me, choosing me over everything he’s worked for. And I have to decide whether loving him means letting him stay — or letting him go.
