Page 33 of A Mistake of Worth
“I don’t like it,” Michael mumbled.
“I know.” Henri pressed back against Michael’s chest. “But I was good at it,” he continued, as if trying to soften the blow. His voice went hollow. “At making Marc happy. At understanding what he needed. He said I was the only one who saw him, who didn’t judge him for being different.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I just had to learn his moods, his preferences. Be whatever he needed me to be.”
Michael pressed his forehead against the back of Henri’s head, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You were seven years old.”
“I know how it sounds.” Henri’s voice was barely audible now. “Being sold to keep the company afloat. It’s humiliating.”
“You weren’t Maximilien’s to trade away.”
Henri’s laugh was sharp, painful. “Mother was too drunk to notice or care, assuming she was even in the country. She spent most of her time on the Riviera.” His voice grew contemplative. “Looking back, I can’t blame her for running.”
Michael took several measured breaths, his hand continuing its steady circles on Henri’s arm. The urge to rage against Maximilien, against Olivier, against the entire situation burned in his chest, but Henri needed calm right now, not anger.
“Did Gabriel know any of this before?” he asked carefully.
Henri shook his head against Michael’s chest. “Not until I returned Jean.”
“Returned Jean?” The words sent a chill through Michael.
Henri was quiet for a moment, and Michael could feel him gathering himself for another difficult revelation. “That story in the media about Sentinelle rescuing him from kidnappers? Complete fabrication.” His voice grew flat, detached. “Father had Jean taken. He was at the Saint-Clair estate the entire time.”
Michael’s arms tightened involuntarily. “How did you—”
“I bargained for his freedom.” The words came out clipped, final.
Michael didn’t need Henri to spell out what that bargain had cost.
“I can guess what that involved,” Michael said.
“Yeah.” Henri’s fingers had stilled on Michael’s arm. “It wasn’t pleasant.”
“And Gabriel had no idea about any of this until then?”
Henri shifted slightly, pressing closer. “Gabriel was nineteen, about to start university. Father had him completely focused on preparing to take over the company someday. He had his own complicated situation with Lucas and Alain, but...” Henri’s voice grew wistful. “Gabriel never treated them like property. I used to watch them together and feel so jealous.”
Michael could picture it—a young Henri watching his older brother’s relationships, seeing care and choice where his own life offered only control and compliance.
“I didn’t want to burden Gabriel with my problems,” Henri continued. “He had enough pressure from Father already. And when you’re that young, asking for help feels impossible. You think this is just how things are.”
“Gabriel would have helped you,” Michael said softly.
“Probably.” Henri’s laugh was hollow. “But by the time I realized that, it was too late. Marc had become more volatile as we got older. He needs everything perfect, exactly to his specifications. When he feels like he’s losing control of a situation...”
“He takes it out on you.”
“Yes.”
The single word hung in the air between them. Michael pressed his lips to the back of Henri’s neck, feeling the tension radiating through his slight frame. Twenty years of this. Twenty years of being someone’s emotional outlet, their stress relief, their possession.
“Henri,” Michael said carefully, “what happened last night—the video call, the toy—is that typical?”
Henri interlaced their fingers, his grip tight. “He hadn’t spoken to me for two days. He’s angry that I was sent here, that he has no business reason to follow me to the UK.”
“Should we expect more performances—”
“We?” Henri cut in, his voice uncertain.
Michael buried his face in Henri’s neck. “Yes, we.”
