Page 84 of A Mistake of Worth
The ride up was silent except for the whisper of machinery. Henri kept his eyes on the floor display, watching the numbers climb. Thirty-seven. Forty-two. Forty-eight. Marc’s hand rested on his shoulder. Light. Proprietary. David stood just far enough away to avoid brushing against either of them, but Henri could feel his fear in the confined space.
“Who was that?” David whispered, barely audible.
“My brother,” Henri said quietly.
David’s eyes widened slightly. Henri wondered what he was thinking. Whether he’d realized he’d just met his ultimate boss in a lobby on a Friday evening. But David said nothing else, pressed closer to the elevator wall.
Fifty-second floor.
The doors opened onto the cool, quiet hush of the penthouse foyer. Lights were set low, but the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was sharp and bright.
Home.
If that word even applied anymore.
Marc’s shoes clicked over marble, crossing the sprawling lower level toward the glass staircase without a glance back.Henri fell into motion without thinking, the way he always did after travel. Twenty years of this same routine, performed countless times until it was more instinct than choice.
He set their carry-ons by the bench near the entrance, unzipped Marc’s first. David lingered by the kitchen island in the open-plan living area, eyes roaming the space like he wasn’t sure where to land.
“Stay over there,” Henri murmured, catching David’s arm gently. “Don’t touch anything. Marc doesn’t like interruptions when he’s settling in from a trip.”
It wasn’t just interruptions that Marc hated after travel. It was any break in routine, any deviation from the precise sequence he’d established. Henri had learned that lesson the hard way years ago. A misplaced toiletry bag, a shirt hung wrong, and he’d paid for it for days.
The order mattered. Everything in its place, everything perfect.
Henri carried Marc’s suitcase up the glass staircase, his bare feet silent on the cool steps. The second-floor hallway stretched before him, and he pressed his palm to the master suite’s entry panel. The soft chime granted him access.
While the shower hissed through the bathroom wall, Henri worked. He hung suits precisely in the walk-in closet reserved for formal wear, spacing them evenly. Shoes lined up. Worn clothes were sorted for the laundry chute. He moved through Marc’s suitcase methodically, checking pockets, finding the travel kit that needed restocking, and the chargers that went back to their designated spots.
His hands reached for a shirt, and suddenly he was in Michael’s bedroom. Michael tossing clothes into the hamper without thought, laughing at Henri’s protests about wrinkles.We’ll just iron them later,Michael had said, pulling him close instead.Come here.
The kiss that followed had been unhurried, thorough. They’d fallen into bed, the laundry forgotten, Michael’s hands careful and claiming all at once. Henri had felt wanted. Chosen.
Henri shook himself from the memory, chest aching. He folded Marc’s shirt, creases aligned, and placed it in the drawer with the other casual wear.
Henri descended the glass staircase and started the first load of laundry in the utility room off the kitchen. The machine’s hum was a steady counterpoint to the white noise of water from upstairs. David stood awkwardly near the kitchen island, watching without offering to help. Henri didn’t mind. Better to keep him still than to have him put something in the wrong place.
The shower cut off.
Henri began the coffee prep for the morning. Marc would emerge soon, and he’d inspect Henri’s work. Not obviously, but Henri would feel that assessing gaze cataloging every detail.
Henri’s hands moved automatically. Measuring coffee, checking the water reservoir, setting the timer. These motions had once been automatic, part of him. After three weeks in London, each one now felt wrong.
In London, he’d made coffee because he wanted it. Because Michael liked his mornings slow and easy, because they’d discovered Henri actually enjoyed the ritual when it was a choice instead of a requirement.
He’d stood at Michael’s counter in one of Michael’s sweaters, bare legs cold on the tile, measuring grounds while Michael kissed his neck and complained about early meetings. They’d argued about whether to add cinnamon. Michael had won. The coffee had been terrible.
Henri had loved every sip.
Now he measured grounds because Marc expected it, because deviation meant correction, because this was what Henri was.
Footsteps on the glass staircase announced Marc’s descent. He appeared, hair damp, wearing charcoal sleep pants and nothing else. His skin was still flushed from the heat, and Henri caught the clean scent of soap. Marc’s preferred brand, stocked in every bathroom. Bergamot and cedar.
Michael’s soap had smelled like mint and something herbal Henri had never identified. He’d bought three different brands before finding one he liked, and Henri had teased him about his indecision.I’m particular,Michael had said, grinning.Is that a crime?
Marc didn’t look at Henri as he crossed the marble floor. Just turned toward David with that predatory focus Henri knew too well.
Henri stepped forward before he could think better of it, moving directly into Marc’s path. “He’s tired. We all are. Maybe—”
