Page 37 of A Mistake of Worth
“You were just a kid,” Michael said. “You were only seven when Marc started laying claim to you.”
Henri swallowed hard. “He didn’t start hurting me right away.”
That didn’t make it better, and they both knew it.
Michael reached out, fingers gentle as he turned Henri’s face back toward him. “None of this is normal, Henri. None of it is okay.”
Henri’s eyes burned. “I don’t know how to be anything else,” he whispered. “I don’t know who I am without him.”
Michael didn’t let go of his hand. “Then let me help you find out.”
Henri’s gaze flicked up, searching Michael’s face, trying to find disbelief or disgust or pity. There was none.
Michael gave his hand the smallest squeeze. “Starting with today,” he said. “You’re going into those meetings as yourself. No toy. No Marc. Just you, being brilliant at your job.”
Henri didn’t feel brilliant. He felt unstable, gripping the edge of the table to keep from falling. But something about the way Michael said it, as though it were a fact, not a hope, made him want to believe it.
Even if it was just for a day.
Michael shifted, his hand sliding from Henri’s cheek to cup the back of his neck. “I’ve arranged for a car service to take you to your meetings.”
“Oh, I have my rental at the Dorchester—”
“Leave the keys. I’ll have one of our admins pick it up and bring it here.” Michael’s tone brooked no argument. “When you finish each meeting, I want you to text me. Just to check in. Can you do that?”
Henri nodded slowly. “I can.”
“I wish I could be with you today, but I know you can do this.” Michael squeezed gently at the nape of his neck. “You’ve done it countless times before.”
“I have,” Henri said, his voice steadier. “I’ve handled client meetings, led town halls, managed my VPs...” A small smile touched his lips. “This is something I can do. I can, and I will.”
Michael kissed him. Deep, grounding, warm with the taste of banana pancakes and coffee. When they broke apart, he pressed his forehead to Henri’s. “Go shower and change. The car will be here in thirty minutes.”
Henri stood, lingering just long enough to squeeze Michael’s hand before heading upstairs.
By the time Michael appeared in the bedroom doorway, Henri had already dressed in his usual charcoal suit and crisp whiteshirt. He was buttoning the collar when Michael paused, then turned toward his closet.
“Wait,” Michael said. He pulled out a deep-blue silk shirt and held it up. “Wear this instead.”
Henri’s brows lifted as he stepped closer, reaching out to touch the fabric. It was soft, fine enough to make him hesitate. “It’s beautiful.”
“The color matches your eyes,” Michael said simply. “And I like the idea of you wearing something of mine.”
Henri flushed at the admission, but something in him relaxed. He began unbuttoning the white shirt without thinking. The silk was cool against his skin as he slipped it on, luxurious in a way that made him feel oddly exposed.
He paused in front of the mirror. The color did bring out his eyes, intensifying the pale blue until they nearly glowed. His complexion looked warmer by contrast. He looked striking.
Too striking.
Marc would’ve hated it.
Henri didn’t have much say in his wardrobe. Marc bought all his clothing. Tailored suits in shades of black, white, navy, and the occasional charcoal or slate. Neutral. Sophisticated. Undistracting. Henri didn’t remember when that had become the norm, only that it was easier not to protest. It made Marc happy to dress him, to curate every part of his appearance. So Henri let him.
And now...
Now, Michael had handed him this shirt. Not just because it fit, but because it made him seen.
It made him feel good.
