Chapter 105 105: Unified In Ruins
Saint had arrived at the airport feeling like a zombie.
His brain was sluggish, and his limbs creaked as he walked.
He didn't know how he was feeling, Candy's news left him feeling a lot of things at the same time.
Should he try?
No.
Baby clearly made his point.
No one would ever go to that length to hurt someone they claimed they loved.
Yes, he didn't actually sleep with Candy, but Saint felt like he did.
Those sounds were stuck in his head. He heard them every sleeping and waking moment since that night.
He was being psychologically tortured, and for that, he decided he'd had enough.
He needed to protect his mental health before he lost his mind.
What if he tries to reach out and Baby pulls another stupid prank that'll leave him damaged for life?
Who was he kidding? He already told Baby he was done, and going back on his word would make him look stupid.
If exhaustion was a person, it'd be Saint Kross.
The private jet was a nightmare of forced proximity. Sloane had arranged their seats facing each other—a "power move" for the cameras that followed them to the tarmac.
As Saint settled in front of Baby, he could not help but notice the way Baby stiffened for a second before he pretended to relax.
Now that he discovered that Baby never touched Candy, he was starting to see that nothing had really changed in the way Baby reacted to him.
He had been so blind especially by jealousy and rage, that he stopped paying attention to those little details about Baby.
Does this mean he should try?
Can they still be salvaged?
He fixed his lap belt and busied himself with his phone, ignoring Baby as usual.
That was the best he could do, respecting Baby's wishes.
Baby spent the first four hours with his noise-canceling headphones on, staring out the window at the endless Atlantic. His eyes were puffed, but his face was set in a mask of defiance. Every time Saint shifted in his seat, or the scent of Saint's specific, woody cologne drifted across the aisle, Baby felt a fresh jolt of electricity.
He was hurting so much, and he was standing on a very thin line of sanity. If it broke, he'd let everything go. He'd scream, cry, apologise, and beg if he had to.
But what hurt most was what Saint said to him the previous day.
He called him broken again, and this time, he said he was unstable, too.
Was that really what Saint thought of him? Unstable and broken?
If so, then he was glad he ended things. He could have kept fooling himself, thinking he had found 'the one' without knowing he was only a pastime.
However, Baby was no longer sure which of them was broken. Saint called him broken, but he's the one who's turned into a machine.
Saint, for his part, worked. He reviewed game footage on his tablet, his eyes moving with clinical precision. He didn't look at Baby once. He didn't offer a snack. He didn't even acknowledge the way Baby's knee was twitching—a nervous habit which Saint used to soothe with a heavy hand and a quiet word.
He was being the "Kross" his father wanted. He was leaning into the engagement with Kora. He was becoming the stone.
He had made a decision: to let Baby go.
After a few more weeks, this tension between them would subside... he hoped.
Life would be easier that way. No sneaking around, no shadows, just two captains being what the world wanted them to be.
The past is in the past.
After a while, the wheels touched down at Heathrow, and the "Unified" social media accounts posted a synchronized photo of the two of them walking off the plane.
The Narrative: "The Captains have arrived. Focused. Determined. Unified."
The Truth: As soon as they hit the terminal, Saint walked ten paces ahead of Baby, his stride long and punishing.
They were met by a fleet of black cars and a crowd of British fans who had been fed the "Cold Captains" narrative for weeks. They wanted to see the icy brilliance. They wanted to see the perfection.
Sloane was beside them every step of the way, keeping close eyes on her asset.
"Smile, Baby," Sloane hissed into Baby's ear as they approached the flashbulbs. "You look like you're going to a funeral."
"Maybe I am," Baby whispered back, flashing a blinding, hollow smile for the cameras.
The car took them to a Penthouse that felt more like a trap.
The "Unified" branding had reached its peak at the hotel. To save costs and "maximize synergy," Sloane had booked the Royal Suite. Two bedrooms, one shared living area, and a view of the Thames that felt like a prison.
Saint dropped his bags in the foyer, checking his watch. "Press conference in two hours. I suggest you fix your face, Danvers. The British press isn't as forgiving as the locals. They'll smell your weakness from the back row."
Baby stood in the centre of the lavish room, looking at the man he had once called his everything. "Is that all I am to you now? A liability?"
Saint paused at his bedroom door, his hand on the handle. He didn't turn around. "You're a teammate. Act like one."
The door shut.
Baby flinched, biting his lips.
He had made the wrong move. He should never have broken up with Saint. That was so far the dumbest thing he'd ever done.
The pain was killing him for fuck's sake, and Saint’s coldness was the cherry on the fucking top.
He dragged his small luggage into his own room, and the moment his door shut behind him, he slid down the door and buried his face between his knees.
He sobbed like a child, mentally hitting himself for acting so foolishly. He had gone so far with his madness that Saint would literally slam the door in his face if he ever tried to explain.
What was there to explain?
Saint was also a person. He wasn't just sitting around and waiting for Baby to make up his mind about them.
Saint, too, had his own decision to make, and Baby knew he had no say over what Saint decided.
He wiped his eyes and got up, pulling his bag toward the bed.
He kicked off his shoes, fell flat on the bed, and resumed his quiet sobbing.