Page 85 of A Mistake of Worth
The slap came fast, sharp, snapping his head to the side. Stars burst behind his eyes, and his cheek bloomed with heat.
“Don’t.”
Just that. Hard. Final.
Henri held still, tasting copper where his teeth had cut his lip. That old sting, the immediate submission that followed. His body knew this dance, even after weeks away. Step out of line, get corrected, accept it without protest.
He stepped aside.
Marc’s hand closed on the back of David’s neck, steering him toward the glass staircase. Henri caught the brief, startled widening of David’s eyes before they disappeared up to the second floor. A moment later, the master suite door shut. The palm scanner beeped once, twice. Locks engaged with a soft mechanical hum.
Henri stood there in the sudden silence, cheek throbbing, listening to nothing.
The soundproofing was excellent. Marc had paid extra for it. Even if David screamed, Henri wouldn’t hear. The knowledge sat heavy in his chest.
He should move. Finish the shutdown routine. Make the penthouse perfect for Marc’s evening.
His feet carried him to the base of the glass staircase. He stared up at the second floor, at the closed door of the master suite. David’s face lingered in his mind. That flash of fear before they’d climbed the stairs. The boy had said he was there willingly, that he needed this arrangement. But willing didn’t mean understanding. David had no idea what he’d really signed up for. What Marc would take from him. How thoroughly Marc would remake him into something else.
Henri’s hand gripped the railing. He could go up there. Could press his palm to the scanner, knowing it would reject him, that Marc had locked them both in, and Henri out. Could stand outside that door and bear witness, even if he couldn’t help.
But what would that accomplish? David had chosen this. Had admitted he liked the control, that it felt safe. Who was Henri to tell him he was wrong?
Henri’s feet finally moved, carrying him away from the staircase. He couldn’t help. Couldn’t intervene. Could barely help himself.
He finished the rest of the shutdown.
The apartment looked untouched, as if no one had been away. As if the past three weeks had never happened.
Henri moved through the motions with practiced efficiency, but his mind kept drifting. To Michael’s kitchen, where they’d left dishes in the sink. To the way Michael had laughed when they discovered the mystery bowls in their new dinnerware set. To morning coffee shared in comfortable silence, no performance required.
By the time he reached his own room on the second floor, a room he rarely used, his chest felt hollow.
He showered quickly, the water as hot as he could stand. Scrubbed away the airport, the flight, the feeling of Marc’s hand on his skin.
He dried off methodically, leaving the towel folded on the rack exactly how Marc liked it. Henri slipped into bed naked, the sheets cool and sterile against his skin.
Everything matched. The sheets, the duvet, the pillowcases. All the same brand, the same thread count, the same pristine white. Marc had ordered them from some exclusive boutique in Milan, part of a complete bedroom refresh two years ago. Every piece coordinated, every element intentional.
So different from Michael’s bed, where nothing matched at all. The duvet was navy, the sheets were striped, and the pillowcases were mismatched because Michael had laughed and said he couldn’t find the other one. His mother had bought half of it, Michael had admitted sheepishly. The throw blanket at the foot of the bed was from college. One of the pillows had been an odd housewarming gift from Rhys.
It had been chaos. Colorful, comfortable chaos that somehow worked.
Henri had teased him about it. Called it a “textile crime scene.” Michael had just grinned and pulled him closer, said something about how life was too short to worry about matching pillowcases.
Now, lying in the perfectly coordinated bed, Henri would have given anything for that mismatched comfort. For sheets that smelled faintly of Michael’s cologne instead of expensive detergent. For the warmth of shared sleep instead of this sterile perfection.
Michael’s face came to him in the dark. Sleepy and rumpled, reaching across the bed to pull Henri closer.“Five moreminutes,”he’d mumbled into Henri’s neck.“Just five more minutes.”
Henri had laughed, said something about coffee getting cold, about meetings and schedules.
If he’d known it was the last time, he would have stayed. Would have memorized the weight of Michael’s arm across his chest, protective and claiming in the best way. The press of sleepy kisses against his shoulder that asked for nothing but gave everything.
I hope you remember me fondly,he’d written in that rushed note.
But lying here now, Henri realized it was himself he was worried about forgetting. How long before Marc’s control overwrote those precious weeks? How long before he forgot what it felt like to choose his own coffee, his own clothes, his own words?
Tomorrow, he wouldn’t wake to Michael’s gentle hands and soft voice. Tomorrow, he’d wake to Marc’s expectations, Marc’s schedule, Marc’s control slipping back over him.
