Page 48 of A Mistake of Worth
Because getting Henri out was only half the battle.
Now it was time to burn Marc Saint-Clair to the fucking ground.
Chapter nine
Henri
HenristoodinMichael’smaster bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, droplets trailing down his chest from the still-steaming shower. The heated floor tiles radiated warmth up through his bare feet, a small luxury he hadn’t known he needed until he’d stepped onto them. Thick bath sheets that actually absorbed water. Silence that didn’t carry consequences.
The mirror didn’t fog—its climate-controlled center remained crystal clear—but Henri had the urge to wipe a hand across it anyway, a habit from another life.
He stared at his reflection.
There were no bruises.
Not even faint shadows now. The last traces had vanished days ago, erased by that absurdly expensive “Smooth” cream Michael insisted on applying each night with careful, reverent hands. Henri hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t needed it. But Michael had done it anyway.
And now his skin was perfect again.
He should’ve been relieved.
Instead, his stomach twisted with something he couldn’t name. Loss? Grief for a thing he wasn’t supposed to grieve…
He looked whole, but he didn’t feel it.
The unmarked skin was a lie. Henri was pretending to be someone who hadn’t spent twenty years learning to flinch at raised voices and sudden movements. Someone who could make simple choices about breakfast without his heart racing.
He let out a breath, pressing both palms to the cool marble counter. Anchoring himself. Trying to want the clean slate he’d been given.
But clean slates meant starting over. Figuring out who Henri Rohan was when he wasn’t Marc Saint-Clair’s carefully curated possession.
And he had no idea how to do that.
Marc was in Porte du Cœur. Henri was here, an ocean away in London, in Michael’s townhouse with its heated floors and climate-controlled mirrors.
Safe, Michael kept saying. Protected.
But for how long?
The acquisition would close eventually. The board would expect him back. His VPs needed face-to-face leadership, or at least, that’s what he’d always been told. That’s what the culture demanded in PDC. He couldn’t run La Sauvegarde’s finances remotely forever. Could he?
And if he went back… would he have to go back to Marc too?
Gabriel had made it clear he’d protect Henri, that he’d burn the Saint-Clair empire to ash if that’s what it took. The investigation was moving forward. Leo was building something airtight. Michael had promised—promised—that Henri was safe here.
But promises weren’t certainty.
With Marc, he’d known the rules. Known the consequences. Known exactly what would happen if he stepped out of line. Brutal, yes. Crushing. Soul-destroying.
But predictable.
This kindness… Michael choosing his clothes, making him breakfast, and demanding nothing in return, this was uncharted territory. Henri had no map. No guide. No rules to follow that would keep him safe.
What if he was doing it wrong? What if there was a right way to accept care, to exist without constant supervision, and he didn’t know it? What if he made the wrong choice and everything shattered?
What if part of him needed the structure? The clarity of knowing exactly what was expected, even when those expectations were impossible?
His reflection stared back at him, unmarked and unfamiliar. A stranger wearing his face.
