The Mandarin
Chapter sixteen
Blake checked into a suite on the fifth floor, overlooking Hyde Park.
The room was immaculate, smelling of expensive lilies and polished wood.
It was beautiful, and it was entirely devoid of personality.
There were no paint stains on the floorboards, no smell of baking bread from downstairs, no worn sweatpants draped over the back of a chair.
It was exactly what he wanted.
He unpacked his bags with vacant efficiency, hanging his shirts in the closet, lining his shoes up in the wardrobe. He ordered room service, ate half of a club sandwich without tasting it, and lay down on the massive, perfectly made bed.
Because his days were so rigidly structured — practice at eight, gym at noon, physio at three — his evenings fell into a predictable, isolated rhythm.
He ordered room service at exactly seven o’clock every night.
He didn’t want to go down to the hotel restaurants and face the stares of the other guests, and he certainly didn’t want to venture out into the city.
He had a standing order with the kitchen: the servers were to use their master keys to open the outer door of his suite and leave the tray on the small console table in the foyer.
The heavy double doors separating the foyer from the living room were usually closed, allowing Blake to remain completely undisturbed.
But occasionally, the doors were open.
On his third night at the hotel, Blake was sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at a muted television, when he heard the outer door click open. He looked up as a young man in a crisp white shirt and black vest carried a silver tray into the foyer.
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.
A paparazzi shot of Blake leaving the hotel at six in the morning, his face hidden beneath a baseball cap, his expression grim. A shot of Andre walking out of the studio on The Cut, looking gaunt and exhausted, his clothes hanging loosely on his frame.
By Wednesday, the story had broken into the mainstream press.
TENNIS POWER COUPLE SPLIT? HARLAN MOVES INTO LUXURY HOTEL AS MOREAU SPOTTED LOOKING FRAIL.
Blake saw the headline on his phone while sitting in the back of a town car on his way to the practice courts at Queen’s Club. He stared at the screen, his stomach clenching.
His phone rang immediately. It was his agent, Gemma.
“Tell me it’s not true,” Gemma said, skipping the pleasantries. “Tell me you’re just having the flat renovated, or there’s a plumbing issue, or literally anything else.”
“It’s true,” Blake said quietly, looking out the window at the gray London streets.
Gemma swore softly. “Blake, you have to give me something to work with here. The press is going crazy. They’re digging into everything. They’re calling Pierre’s bakery. They’re staking out Andre’s studio. If you guys are taking a break, we need to release a statement to control the narrative.”
“No statement,” Blake said, his voice hardening. “It’s nobody’s business.”
“It became their business when you kissed him in front of twenty thousand people at Arthur Ashe,” Gemma countered gently. “You’re the most famous gay couple in sports. You can’t just quietly move into a hotel and expect people not to notice.”
“I don’t care what they notice, Gemma. I’m not releasing a statement.”
“Blake—”
“I have to go,” Blake said, and hung up.
He leaned his head back against the leather seat, closing his eyes. The public nature of it made everything worse. It took the private, agonizing reality of his broken heart and turned it into a spectacle for public consumption.
That night, the silence in the suite felt heavier than ever.
Blake didn’t order dinner until nine o’clock. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, the lights off, the only illumination coming from the streetlamps outside the window. The tabloid headlines were playing on a continuous loop in his mind. Power couple split. Moreau looking frail.
He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. The grief, which he had managed to hold at bay with anger and exhaustion, suddenly rose up and swallowed him whole. He began to cry.
It hit him all at once — a wave of grief so total it bent him forward at the waist. His breath left him in long, shuddering pulls, each one dragging up something raw from deep inside his chest. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, but the tears came anyway, soaking his wrists, dripping onto his knees.
He cried for the life he had lost, for the man he still loved, for the uncertain emptiness of the future.
He didn’t hear the outer door open. He didn’t hear the soft clink of the silver tray being set down on the console table.
The double doors to the living room were cracked open, just a few inches.
Nico stood in the foyer, his hand resting on the edge of the tray. He could hear the harsh, tearing sound of Blake’s sobs echoing in the dark room. He hesitated, knowing he should leave, knowing it was a violation of privacy to stay.
But he couldn’t walk away.
Nico pushed the double doors open and stepped into the living room.
“Mr. Harlan?” Nico whispered, his Greek accent thick with concern. “I am sorry to interrupt. But… are you okay?”
Blake jerked his head up, swiping frantically at his wet face. “Nico. You shouldn’t be in here.”