Page 112 of A Mistake of Worth
The worst had been the call. One missed ring, then the line connected. Michael’s heart had thundered so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.
And silence.
Breathing, faint and uneven. Then nothing.
Michael knew it had been Henri. He would have staked everything on it. He’d pressed the phone to his ear until it hurt, straining to hear something, anything. Had Henri been reaching for him? Had he lost his nerve? Had Marc caught him?
The line had gone dead, and Michael had sat there for twenty minutes, phone still pressed to his ear, waiting for it to ring again.
It never did.
He rose now, restless, and crossed to the tall windows, looking out over Regent’s Park. Couples strolled the paths, children chased kites in the fading light, cyclists slipped by in neat lanes. Life went on, simple and oblivious.
Michael pressed his palm to the glass, the cool surface grounding him.
What would life look like if Henri was free?
The question haunted him. Not the practicalities—those he could solve. Money, security, distance from Marc. All of that was manageable.
But the rest?
Could Henri survive freedom? Could he navigate a world where he didn’t have to perform perfectly just to avoid punishment? Could he learn to want things for himself instead of parsing what others wanted from him?
Could Michael be patient enough to let him figure it out?
And the question that kept him awake at night: Could it even last, what they had?
It didn’t feel temporary. Nothing about Henri felt temporary. But Michael had no illusions about what he was asking Henri to do. Leave everything familiar, even if that familiarity was poison. Trust a man he’d known for mere weeks. Build a life from nothing while the world watched Marc’s empire burn.
It was too much to ask. Michael knew that.
He was going to ask anyway.
He turned back to the dining table, papers strewn across the surface. Rhys’s notes glared up at him. Burn rate projections, client acquisition reports, a half-dozen emails flagged urgent. MapricX was growing fast, faster than either of them had anticipated.
He remembered Rhys’s groan two nights ago over video call. “I’m drowning, Michael. Numbers, budgets, forecasts. I’m a tech guy, not a fucking finance guy. If we want real credibility, if we want to stand toe-to-toe with the monsters, we need someone who can sell the financials. Someone with polish. Gravitas.”
Michael had known the answer before Rhys even finished.
Henri.
It wasn’t just personal, though God knew his heart ached with the want of it. Henri had presence. Brilliance. Quiet strength sharpened by years of survival under Marc’s thumb. He could walk into a room of investors and not only hold his ground but control it.
Michael had watched him do it years ago at that garden party in Porte du Cœur. Henri moving through conversations like a chess master, always three moves ahead, reading people with surgical precision. And he’d done it all while Marc watched, while every word and gesture carried the weight of potential punishment.
Imagine what he could do without that weight.
Michael sank back onto the sofa, pressing his hands together. He could build it. An executive position, a framework strong enough to shield Henri from Marc’s shadow. MapricX could give him safety. Dignity. A future.
And maybe, selfishly, it would keep him close.
His phone buzzed on the table, sharp against the quiet.
Michael reached for it, expecting another encrypted message from Gabriel.
But the number flashing on the screen froze him.
US country code. Porte du Cœur area code.
