Page 111 of A Mistake of Worth
Michael leaned back, one arm stretched along the sofa, a sardonic curl lifting his mouth. God, he wished Henri were here to see it. To see Marc’s empire pulled apart piece by piece on international airwaves.
Henri would have sat perfectly still, Michael thought. Spine straight, hands folded in his lap, but his eyes would have gleamed with something dark and satisfied. Maybe his fingers would have trembled just slightly. Maybe he would have reached for Michael’s hand without looking away from the screen.
Michael’s chest ached.
“These crimes are not victimless,” Jaheel continued. “These are people, families, destroyed. And for too long, Saint-Clair’s money and his name have insulated him from accountability worldwide. That ends now. My team is turning over every scrapof evidence to the FBI and Interpol. If France and the United States lack the courage to prosecute, the world will not.”
Michael almost laughed. The Lafayette Square team had gathered enough, yes, but Jaheel had gone further, digging deeper, dragging out rot they hadn’t found.
The BBC anchor returned, tone grave. “Following Mr. Sabato’s revelations, the French government has suspended multiple contracts with SC Holding and its subsidiaries. Officials also confirmed raids are underway at warehouses tied to Saint-Clair supply chains.”
Another graphic appeared: a sleek white yacht pulling away from its mooring. “Olivier Saint-Clair has not been taken into custody. He was seen boarding his personal yacht yesterday. That vessel is no longer docked at Lake Saint Louis.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. Olivier was running.
“Marc Saint-Clair, eldest son and current President of Three Rivers Insurance, released a statement this morning describing himself as ‘shocked and appalled’ by his father’s alleged crimes. He pledged to restructure the company to remove Olivier’s oversight.”
Michael snorted. Of course you did, Marc.
“His brothers also provided comments. Alexandre appeared genuinely shocked, severing any remaining business ties. Philippe, currently serving with Médecins Sans Frontières during an Ebola outbreak in Côte d’Ivoire, was more blunt when reached by satellite phone. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said curtly. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, people are dying here and I have actual work to do.’”
Michael felt something akin to grim admiration at that. At least one of them had a spine.
“Jean Saint-Clair, youngest son, could not be reached. Questions are mounting whether Jean and Gabriel Rohan’spartner, Ellis Anouilh, were taken under Olivier’s orders earlier this summer.”
The anchor continued. “Neither Gabriel Rohan nor Ellis have spoken publicly. A spokesperson for the Rohan family described Olivier’s actions as ‘appalling and deserving of the full weight of the justice system.’”
Michael muted the television. His grin lingered, bitter at the edges. Marc was cornered now, whether the bastard realized it or not.
But the thought only held for a moment before the ache hit again, sharp as ever.
Henri.
It had been three weeks since the initial leak broke. Three weeks of watching the news cycle devour Olivier Saint-Clair piece by piece. And nearly six weeks since Michael had held Henri in his arms in London, before everything shattered.
Six weeks.
Michael closed his eyes and could still feel the weight of Henri against him on Gabriel’s couch three weeks ago. The way Henri had clung to his shirt like a drowning man, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The bruises on his face already yellowing at the edges, but the ones inside still raw and bleeding.
Michael had held him and said nothing because there were no words. He’d just breathed in the scent of Henri’s hair and memorized the feeling of him, solid and real and there, because some part of Michael had already known it wouldn’t last.
He let the silence stretch now, only the faint hum of the television screen filling the townhouse. The Chester Terrace had always been quiet. He’d never minded it before, but tonight it pressed on him like a physical weight.
He glanced around the living room again, at the uncharacteristic sprawl: an empty espresso cup sweating on thetable, a pair of cufflinks abandoned on the sideboard, papers stacked haphazardly by the armchair.
Henri’s absence was written in the mess.
The man had been compulsively tidy without being self-conscious about it. Shirts hung, cups rinsed, pillows straightened as if order was oxygen. He’d moved through Michael’s space like he was trying to earn the right to exist in it, and Michael had caught himself watching those small gestures with something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.
The way Henri’s fingers had smoothed the throw blanket over the back of the sofa each morning. The way he’d aligned the spines of books on the shelf without comment. The way he’d placed Michael’s reading glasses on the side table each night, perfectly centered.
Michael hadn’t realized how quickly he’d grown used to it, how much peace it had lent this space, until he was left with the disorder.
His chest tightened. Over a month without Henri now, longer than they’d been together. And yet he felt like he’d been robbed of years.
Gabriel’s reports didn’t help. “Picture of health,” he’d said during their last encrypted call, his voice taut with frustration. Henri immaculate at La Sauvegarde, hair neat, tie perfect, meetings handled with unshakable composure. The mask held flawlessly. Nothing to betray the bruised man who had sobbed in Michael’s arms.
Michael wanted to scream every time Gabriel said it. Picture of health. As if Henri’s ability to function meant he was fine. As if survival and living were the same thing.
