Page 88 of A Mistake of Worth
He typed careful, professional responses, maintaining the facade of his CFO persona while his world crumbled in the next room. The cognitive dissonance was nauseating. Pretending everything was normal while watching his replacement being trained.
Because that’s what David was, wasn’t it?
Henri’s hands stilled over the keyboard as the realization crystallized. Marc was teaching David the routines, the preferences, the careful choreography of service that Henri had perfected over twenty years. The gentle corrections, the patient guidance, the way Marc’s voice softened when David pleased him. It was all so different from how Henri had been broken in.
But why would Marc need a replacement if Henri was still useful?
The question gnawed at him, each possible answer worse than the last. Was Henri being phased out? Had his taste of freedom in London made him too unreliable? Too contaminated by the memory of choice?
Or maybe Marc simply enjoyed the novelty. Henri was a known quantity. Trained, predictable, worn smooth by decades of use. David was fresh territory to conquer, new responses to catalog, different sounds to coax from his throat.
The worst possibility crept in last: maybe Marc was keeping them both. Henri to handle the domestic perfection he’d mastered, David for the intimacy Henri had apparently failed to provide correctly. Two pets with different purposes, different values.
Henri’s reflection stared back at him from the computer screen, and he saw himself clearly for the first time. Not the CFO of La Sauvegarde, not Michael’s almost-lover, but a piece of equipment whose warranty was running out.
He didn’t know how much time had passed before the door opened and Marc entered, taking the couch near the window. Henri remained at his desk, hands stilling over the keyboard. He felt the weight of Marc’s presence immediately, his shoulders automatically straightening into the posture Marc preferred.
“It’s past noon,” Marc said eventually. “David’s taking a nap. I wore him out.”
Henri kept his tone even. “He deserves rest.”
Marc’s smile was slow and deliberate. “Kneel.”
Henri stood from the desk chair, his knees starting to bend—then he caught himself. He was still clothed. With Michael, he could kneel fully dressed, could receive comfort and praise without the vulnerability of nakedness. That gentle acceptance felt like a lifetime ago.
Henri’s hands moved automatically, muscle memory overriding conscious thought. He unbuttoned his shirt with practiced efficiency, folded it precisely. His pants followed, then his underwear, each piece stacked neatly on the desk. The air was cool against his bare skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature.
Only when the last garment was gone did he cross to Marc and kneel properly, palms up, eyes down, the position burned into his nervous system after twenty years of repetition.
Marc’s hand shot into his hair, the grip brutal as he yanked Henri forward. Pain exploded across his scalp, and Henri had to bite back a gasp.
“You are mine,” Marc said, voice cold and vicious. “No one else’s. You’re not human, Henri. You’re property. My property. Property cannot give itself away. Only the owner can do that.”
Henri kept his eyes steady, swallowing the bile rising in his throat, refusing to let the tears fall even as his scalp burned.
Don’t think of Michael. Don’t think of gentle hands and whispered endearments. Don’t think of what it felt like to be chosen instead of owned.
Marc’s bare foot came down deliberately, pressing against Henri’s exposed cock. The pressure was immediate, a sharp, grinding pain that radiated upward. Henri’s body stiffened, every muscle locking in place, but he did not shift, did not move. He allowed the pain, his breath shallow and controlled. The rough carpet bit into his knees, grounding him as the agony pulsed through him.
“You will never see Michael Taylor again,” Marc continued, his grip tightening as Henri’s vision blurred at the edges. “If I catch you speaking to him—one text message, one email, one fucking phone call—you know what I’m capable of. And it won’t be you who pays for it first.”
Henri’s stomach churned with nausea, but he forced his voice to stay steady.
“I understand.”
“I can loan you out,” Marc said, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow felt more dangerous than shouting. “Or give you away. To anyone I want. Sell you to the highest bidder. Trade you for something more useful.”
Henri’s throat tightened, but he forced the words out.
“Yes.”
Marc released his hair and shoved him backwards with a foot to his chest. Henri hit the carpet hard, his hands automatically moving to catch himself as he sprawled on the floor. He remained there, trembling slightly, fighting the urge to curl into himself as Marc towered over him.
Marc scooped up the neatly folded clothes. “You will not be dressed again until I allow it. This is what you are, Henri. This is what you’ve always been. The clothes, the job, the pretense. All of it mine to give or take away.”
Henri remained on his hands and knees, the carpet rough against his skin, understanding flooding through him with crystalline clarity. This was his punishment for London. For three weeks of pretending to be human. For daring to believe he could choose his own life.
At the doorway, Marc paused, frowning. Then he reached into the hall and dragged David into view by the arm.
