The server was in his early twenties, with dark, olive skin, thick black hair, and striking, angular features. He was athletic, his shoulders broad beneath the uniform, but lean rather than bulky.
He looked up, catching Blake’s eye through the open doors, and froze for a fraction of a second. A flash of recognition crossed his face, followed immediately by a warm, surprisingly genuine smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Harlan,” the server said, his voice carrying a thick, melodic Greek accent. He set the tray down carefully. “I have your steak and the sparkling water.”
“Thank you,” Blake said, his voice catching from disuse. He glanced at the gold name tag pinned to the man’s vest. Nico.
“Is there anything else you need?” Nico asked, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary, his dark eyes taking in Blake’s exhausted posture.
“No. That’s all.”
“Enjoy your meal,” Nico said softly, and let himself out.
Over the next week, Blake noticed that Nico was always the one delivering his food.
Whether Blake ordered at six or at eight, it was always Nico who unlocked the door, always Nico who set the tray down with that same warm, lingering smile.
“Good evening, Nico,” Blake said on the seventh night, walking into the foyer just as Nico was setting down a plate of pasta.
Nico’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up at the sound of his name. “Good evening, Mr. Harlan. You had a good practice today?”
Blake paused, surprised. He hadn’t told anyone his schedule. “It was fine. How did you know I was practicing?”
“I read the sports news,” Nico said, a slight flush rising beneath his olive skin. “I follow your career. You are playing very well in Dubai.”
“Thank you,” Blake said, feeling a strange, unfamiliar flicker of warmth at the simple, uncomplicated interaction.
They fell into a routine. Brief, two-minute conversations in the foyer while Nico arranged the silverware. Blake learned that Nico’s full name was Nico Demetriou, that he was from a small island near Athens, and that the hotel was sponsoring him for a work visa. Nico was charming, attentive,and clearly, undeniably interested. He looked at Blake with a mixture of awe and raw, physical appreciation that Blake hadn’t experienced from a stranger in years.
It was flattering. It was easy. And it was a distraction from the oppressive silence of the suite.
It had been two weeks since he had walked out of the flat in South Kensington. Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of living in a state of suspended animation, moving from court to court, existing only in the narrow, defined parameters of his profession.
His phone sat on the nightstand, a silent, accusing presence.
He hadn’t blocked Andre’s number. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. It felt too final. But he hadn’t answered any of the messages, either. He read them, sometimes in the middle of the night when the silence of the hotel room became too loud, the words burning themselves into his memory.
Andre (Tuesday, 03:15): I cannot sleep. The flat is so empty without you. Please, Blake. Just let me hear your voice.
Andre (Thursday, 14:30): I saw the match. You played beautifully. I am so proud of you.I miss you.
Andre (Sunday, 09:00): My mother is asking about you. I told her you were focusing on training. I cannot tell her the truth. I cannot bear to see the disappointment in her eyes.
Blake closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids until bursts of color exploded in the darkness.
He wanted to hate Andre. He wanted to feel a clean, righteous fury that would burn away the love and leave him empty and free. But the anger was tangled up with a profound, agonizing grief. He missed him. He missed the smell of turpentine on his skin, the sound of his laugh, the weight of his arm across Blake’s waist in the middle of the night.
He missed the small, mundane details of their shared existence. He missed the way Andre would sing under his breath while making coffee in the morning. He missed the way Andre would steal the sports section of the newspaper and pretend to read it just to annoy him. He missed the quiet, comfortable silence of sitting on the sofa together, reading different books, their legs tangled together under a blanket.
He missed his life.
But he couldn’t go back. The image of Andre with Talia, with Liam — it was a physical barrier, a wall of glass he couldn’t break through.
The tabloids noticed first.
It started as a whisper on a tennis blog — a fan pointing out that Blake Harlan had been seen entering the Mandarin Oriental alone, carrying his own bags, while his partner’s flat was only a few miles away in South Kensington.
Then came the photographs.
