“I am not here to make excuses for him,” Pierre continued, his dark eyes — so like Andre’s — fixed on Blake’s face with an unwavering directness. “What he did was wrong. It was a betrayal of the worst kind, and he knows it. He is living with it every day.”
Blake said nothing. He couldn’t speak. The lump in his throat was too large, too solid.
Pierre leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression shifting from serious to something softer, something deeply personal.
“Blake,” Pierre said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I know that your father has not been what a father should be. I know that he turned away from you when you needed him most.”
Blake flinched, the words landing like a blow to the chest.
“I want you to know something,” Pierre continued, his voice thick with emotion. “From the day I came to London, from the day I saw the way my son looked at you — you became my son, too. Both of my sons. You understand?”
Blake looked up, his vision blurring. Pierre’s face was open, earnest, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“I am not here for Andre,” Pierre said firmly. “I am here for you. Because you are alone in this hotel, and you are hurting, and no one should hurt alone. Not when they have family.”
The word — family — broke something open in Blake’s chest. The careful, controlled composure he had maintained for weeks cracked, and a single, hot tear escaped down his cheek.
Pierre stood up from the armchair. He crossed the small distance between them and sat down on the sofa beside Blake. He wrapped one massive arm around Blake’s shoulders and pulled him in, the way a father holds a son.
Blake didn’t resist. He leaned into Pierre’s solid warmth, his forehead resting against the warm cotton of the baker’s coat, and let the tears fall silently.
Pierre held him, his large hand patting Blake’s back in a slow, steady rhythm.
“He did not plan it, Blake,” Pierre said quietly, his chin resting on top of Blake’s head. “It was the drugs. It was a stupid, terrible thing that happened because three young people got very, very high. He has not stopped crying since you left. He does not eat. He does not sleep.”
Pierre paused, his hand stilling on Blake’s back. “But I am not here to tell you to forgive him,” Pierre said, his voice firm. “That is your choice, and yours alone. I am here because you need someone to sit with you. You need someone to bring you a croissant and tell you that you are loved, regardless of what happens between you and Andre.”
Blake pulled back, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He looked at Pierre — this enormous, gentle man who had welcomed him without question, who had fed him every morning and treated him like blood.
“Thank you, Pierre,” Blake said, his voice thick and broken. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
“You do not need to know yet,” Pierre said, squeezing Blake’s shoulder. “You just need to eat your croissant and drink your coffee and go hit your tennis balls. The rest will come when it comes.”
Blake let out a small, watery laugh. “You sound like Doug.”
“Doug is a smart man,” Pierre said, standing up and smoothing the front of his coat. He looked down at Blake, his expression warm but serious. “I will come again on Thursday. Same time. With pain au chocolat.” It wasn’t a question.
“Okay,” Blake said softly.
Pierre nodded, satisfied. He walked to the door, his heavy footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He stopped with his hand on the knob and looked back.
“You are not alone, Blake,” Pierre said. “Whatever happens. You are not alone.”
He opened the door and walked out, leaving the smell of fresh bread and warm butter in the air behind him.
Blake sat on the sofa for a long time, the half-eaten croissant in his hand, the coffee growing cold on the table. The silence of the suite was still there, but it felt different now. Less oppressive. Less absolute.
He wasn’t alone.
He finished the croissant, drank the coffee, and went to get dressed for practice.
Chapter seventeen
The Empty Studio
The studio on The Cut became Andre’s entire world.
He slept on the small, narrow cot in the corner, wrapped in a paint-stained blanket. He ate only when his hands shook too badly to hold a brush, subsisting on stale bread from the bakery and lukewarm coffee. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t read the news. He simply painted.
