Blake flew into JFK on Wednesday afternoon. The flight was long and quiet, giving him too much time to think. He rented a car at the airport, the heavy gray sky matching his mood as he merged onto I-95, driving north toward Connecticut. The familiar landscape rolled past the window — the dense trees, the sprawling estates hidden behind high stone walls, the manicured perfection of a world he had left behind.
He didn’t go to the family estate. He had booked a room at the Delamar, a luxury hotel on the harbor in Greenwich. He couldn’t stomach the ideaof sleeping under his father’s roof, of walking the silent, immaculate halls where he had spent his childhood trying to be perfect, where every trophy was a demand for another, and every failure was a personal insult to the Harlan name.
The hotel room was impersonal and quiet, overlooking the gray water of the harbor.
He ordered room service he didn’t eat, watched television he didn’t see, and tried not to think about the last time he had been in this town. He called Andre twice, just to hear his voice, the low, steady cadence of his French accent grounding Blake in the present, pulling him away from the ghosts of his past.
The funeral on Thursday morning was exactly what he expected — a model in old-money restraint.
Christ Church, with its towering stone spire and magnificent stained glass, was filled with the elite of Greenwich society: surgeons, hedge fund managers, politicians, and socialites, all dressed in impeccable, understated black. The air smelled of expensive perfume, damp wool, and the faint, sweet scent of lilies arranged in massive displays near the altar.
Blake stood near the back of the church, a tall, solitary figure in a dark suit. He felt the eyes on him — the whispers, the subtle nudges.There’s the Harlan boy. The tennis player. The one who … well, you know.He could feel the weight of their judgment, the polite, veiled curiosity of people who had watched his public coming out with a mixture of horror and fascination.
He ignored them, keeping his eyes fixed on the altar, focusing on the memory of his grandmother. He remembered her sitting in the sunroom,a book in her lap, slipping him a peppermint and telling him that he didn’t have to win every match to be worthy of love. She had been the only soft place to land in a house made of sharp edges.
When the service ended, the congregation began to file out into the bright, humid July air. Blake waited near the heavy oak doors, watching the crowd disperse, dreading the inevitable encounter.
“Blake.” He turned. His mother was standing there, wearing a black silk dress and pearls, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe chignon. She looked older than he remembered, the lines around her mouth deeper, the skin around her eyes fragile. The polished, impenetrable armor she usually wore seemed thin today, cracked by the loss of her mother.
“Mom,” Blake said softly.
Lydia stepped forward and hugged him. It wasn’t her usual, practiced embrace — it was tight, longing, her fingers digging into the fabric of his suit jacket. She smelled of Chanel No. 5 and grief. “I miss you so much, darling,” she whispered, her voice trembling against his shoulder. “I miss you every day.”
Blake closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around her, an ache blooming behind his sternum in his chest. “I miss you too, Mom.”
She pulled back, her hands resting on his arms, her eyes searching his face. “You look well. You look… happy. Despite everything.”
“I am happy,” Blake said gently. “Andre is good to me.”
Lydia’s expression tightened slightly at the name, a brief flash of the old, ingrained prejudice, but she forced it down. “I’m glad. I just… I wish things were different. I wish your father could understand.”
“He doesn’t want to understand,” Blake said, his voice hardening. “And I’m done trying to make him. I am happy.”
Lydia nodded, her eyes dropping to the floor. “He’s over there,” she said quietly. “By the cars.”
Blake looked past her. Dr. Richard Harlan was standing near a black town car, speaking to a group of men in dark suits. He looked exactly the same — tall, imposing, radiating an aura of absolute authority.
As if sensing Blake’s gaze, Richard turned.
Their eyes met across the crowded courtyard. The distance between them was perhaps fifty feet, but it felt like an ocean. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The noise of the crowd seemed to fade, leaving only the heavy, airless silence that Blake remembered so well.
Richard gave a single, brief nod. It was the kind of nod one might give to a business associate across a boardroom table. Cold. Cordial. Completely devoid of affection.
Then he turned back to his conversation.
Blake felt something crack inside his chest. He had thought he was past this. He had thought that more than three years of distance, of building a life with Andre, of finding his own happiness, had armored him against his father’s disapproval.
He was wrong. It still hurt. It hurt with a fresh, merciless clarity.
“He can’t help it,” Lydia said softly, watching Blake’s face. “He’s… he’s a proud man, Blake. He doesn’t understand.”
“He doesn’t want to understand,” Blake corrected, his voice tight. “There’s a difference.”
“I know.” Lydia reached out, touching his arm. “I’m sorry, darling. I truly am.”
“I have to go, Mom.”
