Page 80 of A Mistake of Worth
Michael crossed to the bed and sat down heavily on Henri’s side. The sheets were cool, undisturbed since this morning when they’d both gotten up. Henri had been talking about an off-season polo match he watched. He’d been animated, gesturing with his coffee mug, his eyes bright.
That was less than twelve hours ago.
Now he was gone.
Michael lay back on Henri’s pillow, curling on his side. The scent of Henri’s shampoo, faint but unmistakable, surrounded him. Citrus and something herbal.
His chest cracked open.
The sob came, violent and raw. Then another. Michael pressed his face into the pillow, his whole body shaking with the force of it. All those mornings. Henri was slowly learning to ask for what he wanted. Starting to believe he deserved to take up space. Beginning to laugh without fear.
Gone.
Michael cried until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. Until exhaustion finally dragged him under into fitful sleep, still curled around Henri’s pillow.
Saturday and Sunday passed in a haze of phone calls and emails. Michael moved through the motions mechanically, delegating responsibilities and setting up contingencies.
Gabriel texted sparse updates:
Talked to Lucas. Found a private jet left London City Airport Friday evening, 7:30 PM. Destination PDC. Passenger manifest lists three names: Henri Rohan, Marc Saint-Clair, and a David Mitchell. Our records show Mr. Mitchell is an intern in our HR Department.
What could that mean?
No idea.
Michael stared at the message, his hands clenching around the phone.
Henri had been with Marc for over forty-eight hours.
He booked the earliest flight he could manage. Tuesday morning. By the time he landed in PDC, it would be five full days since Henri disappeared.
Five days of whatever hell Marc had planned for him.
Michael spent Sunday night packing. He moved through the house, gathering clothes, his laptop, and documents. In the bathroom, he found Henri’s toothbrush still in the holder next to his own.
He packed it.
When he opened the closet, his cashmere sweater hung where Henri had left it. The one Henri loved to steal, that he’d worn curled up on the couch last night while reading. Michael pulled it out and held it to his face. It still smelled of Henri.
He packed that too.
By the time Michael’s taxi pulled up to Heathrow Tuesday morning, he felt restless, frantic. The need to move, to act, thrummed through his veins. Three full days had passed since Henri disappeared. Three days of whatever hell Marc had planned for him.
Henri was back in PDC by now, probably believing no one was coming for him. Probably already falling back into those patterns of submission and self-blame that Michael had worked so hard to help him break.
Michael settled into his seat, London disappearing beneath him through the small window, and tried not to think about what Marc might be doing to Henri right now.
He was going to find him. Whatever it took.
But first, he had to get through the longest flight of his life.
Chapter fourteen
Henri
Thecarcametoa stop beneath the glass canopy of Le Ciel Tower. Even at this hour, the air outside was thick with late-summer warmth, the city’s night hum bleeding through the muted purr of the engine.
Porte du Coeur never really slept. There was always light somewhere, movement in the periphery, but the tower’s private entrance stood apart. Polished stone, the faint scent of the florist’s arrangements near the doors, the quiet presence of uniformed staff who knew exactly when to open them without being told.
