Page 64 of A Mistake of Worth
Chapter eleven
Henri
HenrisatintheEcoSphere conference room, his face arranged in what Michael had teasingly called his “listening face”—attentive, engaged, professional. The product manager was walking through the financial integration demo, clicking through screens that Henri could probably navigate blindfolded by now. He’d seen variations of this presentation four times in the past two weeks.
His mind wandered.
Three weeks. He’d been in London for three weeks now, and he only had one left.
The thought made his stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with the strong coffee he’d had that morning. He was terrified of leaving. Not just because of Marc, though that fear sat heavy in his chest, but because of everything he’d be leaving behind. The easy mornings with Michael, the way he could eat whatever he wanted without calculating calories ormeasuring portions, the way Michael never once looked at him like he was a problem to be managed.
This morning’s shower came back to him in flashes. Michael’s hands in his hair. The press of his mouth. The way Henri had gasped against the tile wall, pleasure uncomplicated by fear or transaction. Just two people wanting each other, no ledger of debts being tallied in the steam.
But he was also relieved? The thought felt treacherous, disloyal. Going back to PDC meant returning to normal. To routine. To knowing exactly what was expected of him and how to provide it. There was comfort in that predictability, even if it came with pain.
The question that kept him awake at night was whether he wanted that comfort anymore.
“The integration timeline looks aggressive but manageable,” the product manager was saying, and Henri nodded at the appropriate moment, making a note he didn’t really need.
Should he ask Gabriel if he could stay longer? The thought had been circling his mind for days now. Gabriel would probably say yes—he’d been the one to suggest this extended visit in the first place, ostensibly for business but really to get Henri away from Marc. But would Michael still want to host him? They’d settled into such an easy rhythm, but that didn’t mean Michael wanted it to be permanent.
Henri didn’t really want to return to Marc.
The admission felt like stepping off a cliff.
For twenty years, Marc had been his anchor, his constant, the center around which his entire world revolved. Marc needed him. Marc had always needed him, had told him so countless times. Henri was the only one who understood him, who could handle what he required, who saw past his differences to the person beneath.
But Henri was starting to realize he didn’t need Marc. Not the way he’d always believed.
He had Michael now.
Michael, who never raised his voice, even when Henri spilled things. Michael, who had actually packed up every single dish, mug, and glass in his house and donated them all, replacing everything with pristine new pieces. Michael, who laughed when they discovered the set came with tiny bowls they couldn’t figure out the purpose of. “What are these even for?” he’d asked, turning one over in his hands. They’d decided to use them for ice cream.
It had been so domestic. So normal. So unlike anything Henri had experienced in his adult life.
The testing moment had come two nights ago. Henri had been eating ramen on the couch—Michael had insisted they eat it straight from the bowls while watching some mindless action movie—when Henri’s fork slipped. Hot broth splashed across the cream-colored couch cushion, soaking in immediately.
Henri had frozen, waiting for the explosion. The anger. The lecture about being careful, about paying attention, about respect for other people’s belongings.
Instead, Michael had paused the movie and said, “Oops. No worries, it happens.”
He got up, grabbed some towels from the kitchen, and helped Henri clean up the spill. No irritation, no resentment, no mention of potential staining. Just help. Then they’d settled back on the couch and continued the movie like nothing had happened.
Henri had spent the rest of the night marveling at the lack of consequences.
Last night’s dinner with the EcoSphere executives had been another revelation. When the server had asked for his order, Henri had stared at the menu and realized he couldchoose anything he wanted. Marc wasn’t there to give him a disapproving look if he selected something too rich, too carb-heavy, too indulgent.
So he’d ordered the seafood pasta. Creamy. Decadent. Served with warm bread that he’d eaten three pieces of, butter melting on his tongue like a small miracle.
He’d told Michael about it when he got home, describing every bite with the enthusiasm of a child experiencing ice cream for the first time. Michael had listened with that soft smile he got sometimes, the one that made Henri’s chest feel warm and tight.
“We can make pasta like that,” Michael had promised. “I’ll pick up some shrimp this weekend.”
We.
As if it were a given that Henri would still be there this weekend. Like Michael wanted him to be.
“Mr. Rohan?” The product manager was looking at him expectantly. “Any concerns about the data migration protocols?”
