Page 42 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri had come back from EcoSphere shattered. His face had been chalk white, pupils dilated, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps that never seemed to reach his lungs. Marc’s messages had done their work. Each notification had stripped away another layer of the confidence Henri had built that morning until nothing remained but raw terror.
It had taken an hour to bring him down from that edge.
Michael had guided him upstairs without saying a word, leading him to the master bathroom. The tub was a massive thing, a beast the previous owners had installed that Michael rarely used. But he used it now.
He turned the taps to full heat, watching steam rise as the water filled the deep basin. Henri stood trembling beside him, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t work the buttons on his shirt. Michael undressed him carefully, reverently, before guiding him into the water.
Henri sank into the heat with a shuddering exhale, knees drawn up to his chest. Michael stripped quickly and climbed in behind him, pulling Henri back against his chest. The tub’s automatic reheating function kept the water warm as they lingered, nearly an hour passing in that quiet sanctuary.
Henri cycled through several bouts of panic. His breathing would spike, chest heaving, fingers clawing at Michael’s arms. Each time, Michael held him tighter, murmured grounding words against his temple, kept him anchored to the present.
Between Henri’s gasps and shudders, Michael’s mind wandered to dark places. He imagined Marc Saint-Clair drowning in the Mississippi, water filling his lungs, those cold blue eyes finally dimming. The fantasy was vivid, satisfying, and deeply unsettling in how much Michael wanted it to be real.
Eventually, Henri’s trembling subsided. His breathing evened out. The water had gone from scalding to merely warm, and Michael finally shifted.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you dried off.”
Henri didn’t protest as Michael helped him stand, water sluicing off both their bodies. Michael wrapped Henri in the largest, softest towel he owned, then dried him with careful attention. Every movement was reverent, deliberate. When Henri was dry, Michael quickly toweled himself off and led Henri back to the bedroom.
He dressed Henri in his clothes again. Soft cotton tee, loose drawstring pants. Henri pulled them close, burying his face in the fabric as though seeking comfort in Michael’s scent.
Michael guided him to the bed, pulling back the covers. Henri climbed in without a word and was asleep within minutes, exhausted from the emotional onslaught.
Michael sat beside him, watching Henri’s chest rise and fall, one hand resting protectively on his shoulder. An hour passed before Henri stirred again.
When Henri woke, he’d been quiet but functional. Henri had said he wanted to review tomorrow’s schedule, and Michael had let him retreat to the office, thinking work might help ground him.
Michael had lingered in the bedroom, shutting the door to take the call with Rhys.
Amber lamplight now spilled from the home office door, which stood slightly ajar. Michael approached, pausing just at the threshold. What he saw inside made his chest ache.
Henri sat at the antique desk, slouched in Michael’s clothes. His fingers hovered inches above the open black package from the Dorchester, the toy glinting under the lamplight. Henri wasn’t touching it, but he wasn’t looking away either. He stared at it with the vacant intensity of someone hypnotized, his breathing shallow and mechanical.
The stillness in his posture, the glassy look in his eyes. This wasn’t about curiosity. It wasn’t even about dread. It was programming. Years of conditioning that ran deeper than conscious thought, deeper than fear.
Marc’s programming.
And even though the phone was off, dead and silent, its ghost still haunted the room.
“I should put it in.” Henri’s voice was barely above a whisper. “He’ll be angry if I don’t. He’ll come for me.” His fingers tracedthe edge of the device. “Everything I am, everything I’ve ever been, it’s all been for Marc.”
Moving into the room with deliberate steps, Michael leaned against the desk. Close enough to reach out, far enough not to crowd. “Those meetings today at EcoSphere, was Marc there with you?”
“No,” Henri said after a moment, looking almost surprised by his own answer.
“Did he tell you what questions to ask? Guide you through the production analysis?”
Henri’s brow furrowed slightly. “No. I knew what we needed to understand about their capacity. About their sustainability metrics.”
“Exactly.” His voice stayed gentle. “That knowledge, that understanding, it’s yours. Your intelligence, your grasp of the market. He didn’t give you any of that.”
Picking up the device and package, Michael leaned down to press a kiss to Henri’s temple. “It’s getting close to dinner time. I’ll order in.”
“Okay,” Henri said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
“Take an hour to finish looking over the production tables for tomorrow’s tour. Is that enough time?”
Henri nodded. “Yes, that’s perfect.”
