Page 105 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri had never had a choice. David was walking in with his eyes open, and somehow that made it worse.
“Get out,” Henri said, exhausted rage making his voice shake. “Just… get out.”
David rose and left. The door clicked shut with obscene politeness.
Henri sagged back. The room smelled of paper, wood, and the ghost of things without names. His hands shook once before flattening against his thighs.
London washed over him. Michael’s mouth at his throat in the shower, laughter over coffee, the warmth of dawn beside a body that asked for nothing but presence. The memory glowed with impossible brightness, beautiful and unreachable.
His phone buzzed. Two words.
Good boy.
He set the device down carefully, as if it might explode, and stood. The mirror over the credenza showed a stranger: tie skewed, cheeks flushed, eyes too old. He fixed what could be fixed. Shirt smoothed. Tie straightened. Expression neutral.
The calendar alert chimed on his computer. An earnings panel in three minutes. He gathered the EcoSphere printouts and stepped into the fluorescent silence of the executive hall.
But as he walked toward the conference room, Henri’s thoughts weren’t on integration timelines or ROI. They were on Michael’s hands in his hair, on the way Michael said his name like it meant something precious.
The memory was a lifeline he couldn’t reach, proof that somewhere, in some other life, Henri might be allowed to be more than useful.
He carried that thought with him all the way to the meeting room door.
Chapter twenty
Michael
Saturdayafternoonsweresupposedto be quiet, but the air in Gabriel’s sitting room felt fevered. Curtains drawn against the heat, televisions muted until someone unmuted them just to curse at the coverage. The cycle ran in tight loops: graphics of offshore accounts, charts of shell companies, and photographs of Olivier Saint-Clair shaking hands with a known trafficker.
The images were flawless. Razor-sharp, every detail crystalline, exactly what modern optics delivered as easily as breathing. Which, of course, was why the anchors called them fake.
“Listen to this bullshit,” Alain snarled, reading from his phone. “‘Sources close to Saint-Clair suggest the photographs may have been digitally manipulated, citing their unusually high resolution and convenient timing.’” He looked up, incredulous. “We spent weeks building this case, and they call it convenient?”
Nika paced behind the couch, laptop clutched to his chest. “They want excuses. Give them one, and they’ll use it.”
“‘The story reads more like a thriller novel than legitimate journalism,’” Alain continued, voice dripping with disgust. “We have bank records!”
“Friday evening, dead zone of the news cycle,” Nika added, his voice sharp with frustration. “By Monday, fresher headlines will bury this.”
Lucas’s arm tightened around Jean, who sat sideways in his lap. Jean would always choose Lucas’s lap over any piece of furniture when given the option. The sweater, swallowing his frame, slipped off one shoulder, baring the strap of something glittery beneath. Glitter dusted his nose, his cheekbones. His bare thighs peeked out from beneath the hem of shorts so small that Michael had to look away.
“I’ll talk to them.” Jean’s voice was thin but steady, cutting through their frustration. “I’ll tell them what he did to me.”
The room stilled.
“You won’t,” Lucas said immediately, softly but with iron under it. He kissed the crown of Jean’s hair.
Jean tilted his chin stubbornly. “If they won’t listen to papers or shell accounts, they’ll listen to me. His son.”
“They’ll crucify you,” Alain said flatly. “They’ll tear you apart before you get three sentences out.”
“I don’t care.” Jean’s glittered face was fierce. “It would be the truth.”
“Gabriel already said no,” Nika cut in sharply. “And he’s right. The court of public opinion isn’t justice. It’s a lynching. The blowback would crush you before it touched Olivier.”
Gabriel had given the boy no room to argue before leaving with Ellis, who’d slipped toward the pool with a novel tucked under his arm. Gabriel had followed without breaking stride, leavingthe rest of them cycling through coverage, rage mounting with every dismissive news anchor.
Michael leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “We don’t get to throw Jean to the wolves because the story isn’t moving fast enough. There has to be another way.”
