Page 67 of A Mistake of Worth
Marc held out his hand. “Phone.”
Henri’s fingers tightened around the device in his pocket. His lifeline. His connection to Michael, to everything he’d built here.
“Henri.”
Slowly, Henri pulled it out and placed it in Marc’s palm. Marc turned it over once, then powered it down. The screen went black.
“You won’t be needing this,” Marc said, slipping it into his jacket pocket.
“How?” Henri asked quietly.
“How what?”
“How did you know where to find me? How are you even here?”
Marc’s laugh was soft, almost fond. “Oh, Henri. Did you really think I wouldn’t keep track of my most valuable asset? I’ve known your schedule better than you have. Every meeting, every dinner, every night spent playing house.”
Henri felt the words settle over him. “You’ve been watching me.”
“I’ve been taking care of you,” Marc corrected. “Making sure you were safe. Making sure you didn’t get any permanent ideas about your temporary freedom.”
The car glided through London’s evening traffic with eerie silence. Henri stared out the window at the city he’d begun to think of as refuge, at the streets he’d walked with Michael, at the life he’d been building one small choice at a time.
“The acquisition is almost complete,” Henri said desperately. “Gabriel needs me to finish—”
“Gabriel will understand,” Marc said dismissively. “Family emergencies happen. I’m sure he’ll manage without you.”
They turned onto Michael’s street, and Henri’s chest tightened. Just hours ago, he’d left this morning thinking about what to make for dinner, whether they should watch that new series Michael had mentioned, what it would feel like to sleep in Michael’s arms again.
Now he was about to walk into that warm, safe space and pack up the life he’d been building.
They pulled up in front of the townhouse. Through the front window, Henri could see warm light in the living room where they’d spent so many evenings together.
“Remember,” Marc said softly, his hand finding Henri’s knee in a grip that looked casual but felt like iron, “David’s comfort depends on your cooperation. I’d hate for him to have an unpleasant evening because you decided to be difficult.”
Henri looked at David, who was staring at his hands, shoulders hunched. Just a kid who’d wanted career advice and had somehow fallen into Marc’s web.
“I understand,” Henri said.
“Good boy.” Marc’s fingers squeezed once before releasing him. He opened his door and stepped out, then leaned against the frame, waiting.
Henri got out of the car on unsteady legs, his keys heavy in his hand. Marc closed the door behind him with a soft click. Drew materialized from the shadows near Michael’s front door—tall, broad, wearing the kind of suit that looked expensive but was really armor.
“Mr. Rohan,” Drew nodded respectfully. “Shall we get your things?”
Henri looked back at the Helion one more time. Marc stood beside it, arms crossed, watching. Inside the car, David sat frozen.
Henri unlocked Michael’s front door and stepped inside what had been, for three weeks, the closest thing to home he’d ever known.
Together, they packed Henri’s things. They were all clean, unworn since Henri had taken to wearing Michael’s clothes almost exclusively.
At the door, Henri hesitated. “Can I leave a note?”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “Fine. Keep it short.”
Henri scribbled fast.
He folded it, propped it on the kitchen counter—too short, too rushed, but it was the best he could do under Drew’s impatient watch. A poor substitute for a real goodbye. He hovered for a beat longer than he should have, then forced himself to turn away.
