Page 106 of A Mistake of Worth
“We find another way,” Nika echoed, finally closing his laptop with a sharp snap.
The conversation circled, going nowhere. Jean leaned deeper into Lucas’s lap, silent now, glitter catching the muted television light.
The silence grew heavy until Nika said, softer this time, “What we need is someone to make them care. A reporter with enough clout to break this wide, someone who won’t let it get buried over a weekend news cycle.”
“What about that anchor out of London?” Alain asked, already grimacing.
“She got eaten alive by the corporations she named,” Nika said flatly. “Never worked again outside the indies.”
“Fine. Then the one from New York,” Alain pressed.
“He’s bought,” Lucas murmured, stroking a hand down Jean’s arm when the boy shifted. “You saw how fast he turned once campaign money lined his pocket.”
“The Paris Bureau?” Michael offered, though even as he said it he knew the answer.
“State-owned,” Nika dismissed with a shake of his head. “They’ll never touch Saint-Clair.”
The silence afterward felt heavier than before. Jean’s glitter-dusted face pressed into Lucas’s sweater, voice muffled. “Then who’s left?”
No one answered. The only sound was the dampened loop of Olivier’s denial running again on the screen, the anchor’s smile faintly indulgent.
That was when Jacob, the butler, opened the door.
“Sir,” he said carefully, as if announcing a storm.
Henri stepped in.
Michael’s first thought was that the man was thinner than he remembered, all edges under too-pale skin. His second was the deep purple and red bloom beneath his eye, the ugly shadow of fingerprints ringing his throat. A cut at the corner of his mouth had scabbed over, and he moved with the stiff control of someone nursing hidden injuries.
The room went electric with shock.
“Henri.” Michael was on his feet before he knew it.
Henri froze in the doorway, Jacob at his shoulder. His gaze snapped to Michael, widened, and for a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved.
Henri’s hand lifted slightly, reaching. Michael’s chest constricted.
Then they broke at once.
Michael didn’t think. One second, Henri was framed in the doorway, bruised and hollow-eyed, and the next, he was in Michael’s arms.
Henri collided with him, arms wrapping tight, face burying into Michael’s shirt. The sob hit, raw and desperate.
“I didn’t—” His words dissolved, broken by sobs. “Didn’t want to—God, I’m sorry—I had to—”
Michael crushed him closer, hand threading through his hair, the other stroking his back in frantic circles. “No, shh. You don’t have to explain. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Henri clung as if he was drowning, fingers twisted hard enough in Michael’s shirt to hurt, as if letting go would mean being dragged under again. His whole body shook, every breath ragged, his knees catching against Michael’s lap when Michael pulled him toward the couch.
They sank together, Henri curling into him with desperate force, burying himself against Michael’s chest. Michael felt hisown throat burn, tears breaking free, hot against Henri’s hair. Relief, grief, fury. It was all the same storm crashing through him.
“I’m here,” Michael whispered into the crown of his head, voice wrecked. “I’m here, love. I swear I’ve got you.”
Henri’s sobs didn’t stop, but they changed. Fewer words now, more raw sound, his whole frame trembling against Michael.
“I—I,” Henri choked out between sobs, the words falling into French. “Je pensais... I thought I’d never see you again.”
Michael held on, heart breaking with the unbearable truth: Henri was finally, finally back in his arms.
