Page 79 of A Mistake of Worth
“Good thinking. Call them now. I’ll start checking flight manifests, private jets leaving London today.” Gabriel paused. “Michael, if Marc has him—”
“Then we get him back,” Michael said, the words coming out harder than he’d intended. “Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes,” Gabriel agreed. “But Michael, you don’t need to come here. I can handle this. I’ll find him, I’ll get him out of there—”
“No.” Michael’s voice was firm. “I have to come. I have to.”
“Michael—”
“I can’t just sit here in London knowing Henri is with Marc. I can’t.” Michael ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “I’m in the middle of finalizing a major contract, and they’ve been demanding. I need at least two days to delegate properly. Maybe three. These Danish investors have been needy as hell, and if I just disappear without proper handoffs—”
“That’s a long time.”
The words cut deep. Michael’s jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not imagining what Marc is doing to him right now? But if I abandon my clients without warning, without transferring responsibilities, I could lose everything I’ve built. And then what good am I to Henri? What kind of future can I offer him if I’ve destroyed my career?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Gabriel exhaled slowly. “I’m just—I failed him, Michael. I sent him to London thinking he’d be safe, and now—”
“We both failed him if we’re assigning blame,” Michael said. “But right now, we fix it. I’ll get there Tuesday at the latest.”
“Keep me informed of your travel plans,” Gabriel said. “I’ll start working on finding out where Marc is keeping him.”
“Be careful,” Michael warned. “If Marc knows we’re looking—”
“Let him know,” Gabriel said, cold fury in his voice. “Let him know we’re coming for Henri. That might be the only thing keeping Henri safe.”
The line went dead.
Michael sat for a long moment, staring at the note in his hand. Then he dialed EcoSphere’s main line.
It took three transfers before he reached security. A woman with a bored voice answered. “Security desk, this is Sandra.”
“This is Michael Taylor. I need to know if anyone saw Henri Rohan leave the building today. Or yesterday. He had a meeting that should have ended around four.”
“Sir, I can’t give out information about our employees or visitors—”
“He’s missing,” Michael said sharply. “He left a note that suggests he was taken against his will. I need to know whether your cameras caught anything. Who he left with, what kind of car, anything.”
A pause. “Let me check the logs.” The sound of typing. “Henri Rohan signed out yesterday at 4:27 PM. No unusual activity noted.”
“Can you check the cameras? Please. This is urgent.”
More typing. A longer pause. “I’m looking at the footage now. He walked out the main entrance alone, stood on the sidewalk for maybe a minute. Then, a black car pulled up. Looks like a private car. He got in the back seat.”
Michael’s heart hammered. “Did you see anyone else? The license plate?”
“The angle’s not great. Plate’s partially obscured.” She paused. “Wait. Someone got out of the car before Mr. Rohan got in. Opened the door for him.”
“Can you see who?”
“Male, tall, dark suit. That’s all I can make out from this angle. I’m sorry, sir. That’s all we have.”
Michael thanked her and ended the call, his mind racing.
The rest of Friday evening blurred. Michael called his business partner, Rhys, and initiated the process of transferring urgent matters. Sent emails. Made lists. His hands kept shaking.
Around midnight, he found himself standing in the bedroom doorway.
Their bedroom. The thought came unbidden. In three weeks, it had become their bedroom. The indent in the pillow where Henri’s head had rested just this morning. The faint scent of Henri’s soap still lingered in the air.
