Chapter 101 101: East Gardens
The studio air remained thick with the scent of lilies—a cloying, funeral-parlor sweetness that made Baby's throat tighten. The red "On Air" light was dead, but the damage was immortalized in the cloud. Within minutes, the clip of Saint's "tactical decision" comment was already being dissected by millions.
#UnifiedColdWar was trending.
Sloane didn't wait for the set to clear. She intercepted Saint at the edge of the stage, her heels clicking like a countdown on the hard floor.
"That was... unexpected," Sloane said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, silky register. "I asked for a brotherhood, Saint. You gave them a deposition. You sounded like you were discussing a broken fax machine, not the man who shares your jersey."
Saint didn't break his stride. He grabbed his jacket from a production assistant, his movements sharp and efficient. "The public wanted the truth about the 'Unified' front, Ms. Sloane. I gave it to them. We are assets. We are winning. If the netizens want a romance novel, tell them to buy one. I'm here to play hockey."
Baby finally caught up, his eyes dimmed as he was still vibrating with the shock of Saint's coldness.
Saint's eyes flicked to Baby for a fraction of a second—not with the warmth of a lover or even the fire of a rival. It was the look of a stranger checking the time. "Don't forget your flowers, Danvers. It would be a shame for 'O''s money to go to waste."
Baby gulped, swallowing his embarrassment and pain.
The exit from the studio was a gauntlet of "Unified" branding—posters of Saint and Baby back-to-back lined the hallways. As they pushed through the heavy double doors into the morning light, a silver sports car was idling at the curb.
Oliver was leaning against the hood, looking every bit the charming, "seen" alternative Baby had claimed to crave. He held a smaller, more personal box—likely a curated lunch or a gift—and his face lit up the moment he saw Baby.
"You were incredible," Oliver said, stepping forward, his eyes carefully avoiding Saint. "I saw the live stream. You handled Sarah like a pro."
Baby stood frozen on the sidewalk. Behind him, he felt Saint's presence—a cold, dense weight that seemed to suck the warmth out of the sun.
Saint didn't stop. He walked right past them, his shoulder nearly brushing Oliver's as he headed toward his own car. He didn't look back. He didn't huff. He didn't even show a flicker of the possessive rage that used to define him. He simply reached his vehicle, clicked the remote, and vanished inside the tinted glass.
"Baby?" Oliver's hand touched Baby's arm, grounding him. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Baby whispered, though his eyes were fixed on the back of Saint's car as it pulled away into traffic.
"For you," Oliver offered the box to Baby, stepping in front of him to obstruct his vision of Saint's vanishing car.
Baby blinked over to Oliver, smiling, "Thank you." He said simply.
Oliver nodded, "Mind if I ride with you?" He asked, gesturing to Baby's car.
"My car? What happens to yiurs?" He asked, looking around as if looking for an excuse.
Oliver shrugged, "I already called someone to drive it back to my apartment. Unless you don't want me to ride with you–"
"No, no. Of course, you can ride with me," Baby pointed to his car, "Anywhere in mind?" He questioned.
Oliver reached the driver's door before Baby did, holding the door open for him.
"No." He said, smiling.
Baby nodded, "Aimless driving... my forte." He murmured.
Baby's eyes glanced toward the direction Saint had driven, an ache blooming afresh in his heart.
He entered his car and allowed another man to shut his door for him.
"East Gardens," Oliver said as he settled beside Baby.
Baby chuckled, "Though we didn't have a destination."
Oliver ah rugged a shoulder, "impromptu thinking." Je winked.
"Aye aye, captain," Baby replied and drove the car away.
Oliver was silent for a few seconds, and then he said, "You're the captain, Baby. And you're one great captain, trust me, Baby." He reached out and touched Baby's knee.
The touch was brief but purposeful.
Baby's fingers tightened around the wheel.
Oliver has just confirmed that someone else's touch set off something in his soul, something very aggressive that he wanted to bark at Oliver never to touch him again.
Saint had really ruined him. Ruined him for anyone else.
"Ready to take a refreshmg walk?" Oliver asked as Baby's car pulled into the narrow path of the East Gardens.
Baby nodded, hoping the walk was as refreshing as it sounded.
He slowed his car as he approached the tree garage where a few cars were already parked.
"Let's go," Baby said, stepping out of his car.
He inhaled, dragging the fresh garden scent onto his nostril.
It did nothing.
The fresh air was supposed to calm him, to ease his worries. Rather, he felt suffocated and an urgent need to leave and retire into the safe walls of his room.
Baby gulped, staring at people as they walked around the garden, some sitting around on a bench on in picnics, chatting happily with their companion.
"Eatth to Baby?" Oliver cleared his throat, placing a gentle hand on Baby's shoulder.
Baby instinctively stepped away, pushing his hands into his pockets.
"Let's go," Baby said and started walking.
He knew he had agreed to go out with Oliver, but it was more for a selfish reason. Going back to the apartment after that cold jnterveoukd break him more. He needed a distraction. It was unfair to Oliver, but he had nothing else he could do.
The East Gardens were a masterpiece of curated nature, but to Baby, the lush greenery felt like a vibrant mockery of the grey void in his chest. Every blooming flower was a reminder of things that grew and thrived, while he felt like a fossil, hardening under the weight of Saint's cold indifference.
He walked beside Oliver, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a sudden downpour. The silence between them wasn't the comfortable, "shadow" silence he shared with Saint; it was a heavy, expectant quiet that made his skin itch.
Oliver led him away from the main gravel paths, navigating toward a secluded corner of the gardens where the weeping willows grew so thick their branches created a natural curtain over a small, stone-rimmed pond.
"Here," Oliver whispered, gesturing to a weathered wooden bench hidden in the shade. "No paparazzi. No Sloane. Just the wind."
Baby sat, his eyes tracking the ripples in the water. He didn't notice Oliver pulling out his phone. He didn't hear the silent shutter click as Oliver captured the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow look in his eyes, and the way the dappled sunlight caught the gold in his hair.
Oliver took three, four, five pictures—images of a broken Prince—before pocketing the device.
"You're a terrible liar, Baby," Oliver said softly, leaning back against the bench but keeping a respectful distance.
Baby didn't look up. "I'm a professional liar, Oliver. It's in my contract."
"Not to me." Oliver's voice was calm, almost clinical. "And certainly not to Saint Kross."