Page 49 of A Mistake of Worth
He needed to get dressed. Michael was waiting. There were emails to answer, meetings to prepare for, and an acquisition to manage. Work. That, at least, he understood. That, he was good at. Numbers didn’t judge. Spreadsheets didn’t have expectations beyond accuracy. He could be competent there, even when the rest of his life was standing on ice that might crack at any moment.
But first, he had to walk into that bedroom and let Michael dress him. Accept another choice being made for him and pretend his chest didn’t tighten with confusion about whether he wanted it or feared it or both.
Beyond the open door, he could hear Michael moving around the bedroom—the gentle slide of drawers, the hush of fabric being set aside. Choosing his clothes again.
Michael’s clothes didn’t pinch or chafe or shout ownership. Cashmere, brushed cotton, denim that gave instead ofconstrained. Nothing designed to highlight or provoke. Comfort. Practicality, softened by taste. When Michael handed him a sweater, it was being wrapped in safety, not displayed as property.
Marc’s clothes had been a costume. Tailored within an inch of decency, engineered to humiliate under the guise of elegance. Henri could still feel the ghost of too-tight collars, of sheer silks that clung in all the wrong ways. Every outfit had been a message:You belong to me. Everyone can see it.
The clothes weren’t the only thing Michael had taken over.
Meals. Schedules. Even the quiet reminder to leave on time for work.
Henri should’ve hated it. He’d told himself, back when leaving Marc was a desperate fantasy whispered in the dark, that he’d never let anyone control him again. That if he ever escaped, he’d forge his own path. Make his own choices. Be his own person.
But he’d never believed it would happen. Never thought he’d be standing here, wearing another man’s clothes and eating meals he hadn’t prepared himself. The fantasy had been just that—a fairy tale he told himself to survive another day, another punishment, another carefully orchestrated humiliation.
And now that he was here... he didn’t know what to do with it.
Because when Michael handed him a glass of water or reminded him to eat lunch, it didn’t feel like control. It didn’t feel like Marc’s cold directives or calculated cruelty.
It felt like care.
And that terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
A flutter. A catch in his breath that he tried to dismiss as nothing. He pressed his palms harder against the marble counter, grounding himself in the cool stone, but the sensation only grew.
He’d escaped. He’d actually escaped. And he had no idea what to do with himself.
Michael offered suggestions, yes. Gentle guidance that felt nothing like Marc’s commands. But they were optional. Henri could say no. Could choose differently. Could make his own decisions about his own life.
His breath came shorter. Shallower. The pressure wrapped around his ribs, squeezing until each inhale felt inadequate. His fingers tingled. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, the air too thick, the silence too loud.
He was here, safe and cared for, and he didn’t know if he was allowed to want that. Didn’t know if he deserved it. Didn’t know if Marc would let him keep it.
The not knowing was killing him.
“You almost ready in there?” Michael’s voice floated in, warm and affectionate.
Henri’s breath caught. He forced it out slowly, but it stuttered in his chest, uneven and wrong. “Just finishing up,” he called, and hated how hollow it sounded. How the words came out tight and strained despite his efforts to sound normal.
He stepped into the bedroom, chilled instantly by the contrast to the bathroom’s warmth. The cold air hit his damp skin, and he shivered—or maybe that was the anxiety coiling tighter in his gut.
Michael stood by the bed, holding out a pair of dark jeans and a forest green tee, the kind that clung in just the right places and felt like a favorite even the first time worn.
Henri managed a smile. It felt plastic on his face.
Until he saw Michael’s eyes. Not alarmed, but perceptive. Concerned. Seeing right through him the way he always did.
“You okay?” Michael asked gently.
The practiced response—I’m fine—died on Henri’s lips. His throat was too tight. His chest too small. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.
“No,” he finally managed. His voice too small for the room, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. “Something feels wrong.”
Michael set the clothes on the bed and stepped closer, stopping short of touching him. Not crowding, close enough that Henri could feel his warmth. Could smell his cologne. Could use him as an anchor point in a world that suddenly tilted.
“Talk to me,” Michael said. “What kind of wrong?”
