Page 82 of A Mistake of Worth
“My sister, Lily, she’s finishing high school next year. Smart as hell, but her grades aren’t perfect. Not enough for the scholarships she’d need. I can’t let her end up like my mother. Bitter and trapped.” David’s voice turned urgent, desperate. “Marc offered me a place to live, money for Lily’s tuition, medical care for my mother. Better care than the government provides. All I have to do is—”
“Follow the rules,” Henri said. “Be what he needs.”
“Yes.” David pulled his knees up to his chest. “I had to leave the apartment I shared with four other guys. I don’t miss that...”
“You can still have pieces of yourself,” Henri said carefully. “Keep something separate. Your friends, your interests, your thoughts. Don’t give him everything.”
David was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “But I like it.”
Henri stilled. “What?”
“The control.” David’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. “When he tells me what to wear, where to stand, how to move, it feels safe. Someone’s paying attention. I matter enough for him to care about the details.”
Henri’s chest tightened. That didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. “David, that’s not safety. That’s—”
“I know what it is,” David interrupted. “I’m not stupid. But my whole life has been chaos. My mother and stepfather are useless. I’m trying to keep food on the table and Lily in school. Nothing was ever certain. We never had enough.” His voice dropped. “When Marc tells me exactly what to do, I don’t have to guess. I don’t have to worry if I’m doing it wrong. I just follow the rules.”
“Until you break one,” Henri said quietly. “And then what you saw earlier, that’s the correction.”
“I know.” David’s voice was small. “But at least it’s clear. At least I know where I stand.”
Henri wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that clarity wasn’t worth the cost. But he remembered being seven years old, desperate for his father’s approval. He couldn’t judge David for seeking the same thing in different wrapping.
“Just remember,” Henri said finally, “what feels safe now might feel like a cage later. And Marc doesn’t give back what he takes.”
“I’ll remember.” David lowered his knees, his posture straightening slightly. “Thank you. For trying to warn me. For trying to help.”
“I don’t know if I helped.”
“You did.” David managed a weak smile. “At least now I know what I’m choosing.”
That was the problem, Henri thought. David knew and was choosing it anyway. Because sometimes the devil you could predict was better than the chaos you couldn’t control.
A soft sound from Marc’s couch ended the conversation. Just a shift in breathing, a slight movement. Both of them froze, watching. But Marc simply turned onto his side and settled deeper into sleep.
David stood carefully and returned to his original seat. Henri did the same, returning to his window, his leather depression, his place.
They hadn’t spoken again for the rest of the flight.
Now, standing in the lobby of Le Ciel Tower, Henri expected Marc to take him straight upstairs. That was the rhythm. No delays.
But halfway across the marble lobby, Marc’s grip on Henri’s elbow changed. Slight pressure, enough to redirect his path without looking like it.
Henri didn’t have to ask why.
Gabriel was here.
Leaning with infuriating ease against the concierge desk, talking to the front-door attendant like they were old friends. His jacket caught the light from the ceiling fixtures, fine fabric glinting faintly. The attendant laughed at something he said, head tipped forward in that unguarded way Henri remembered from childhood staff around Gabriel.
Gabriel’s gaze lifted, found him instantly.
Relief flooded his features first. Then concern. Both buried just as quickly beneath a polite half-smile.
But Henri had seen them. That split-second reveal before Gabriel’s control slammed back into place. His brother had been worried. Had probably been waiting here for hours.
Marc’s fingers pressed lightly at Henri’s back, steering him forward. His tone when he spoke was warm, almost pleasant. “Gabriel. What a surprise.”
Gabriel pushed away from the desk. His movements were casual, relaxed, but Henri caught the tension in his shoulders. “Marc. I was in the neighborhood.”
