Page 1 of A Mistake of Worth
Prologue
Henri’shandsshookashe punched in the security code. The familiar sequence blurred under the weight of his panic, every number a small victory against the tremor in his fingers.
Click.
No alarms. No messages. Just the soft release of Gabriel’s front door.
The air inside was warm—wood polish, detergent, something faintly human. It smelled like people.
Like life.
Marc’s penthouse never smelled like anything. Only filtered air and expensive silence.
He pressed his back to the door, forcing measured breaths.
Breathe. Control. You have a job to do.
Forty minutes.
Marc had given him one hour to deliver Maximilien’s message and return. Twenty minutes had already vanished in traffic on Highway 40.
If you were strong, you were on time. If you were late, you absorbed the punishment and learned.
Thirty-nine minutes.
Henri forced his feet down the hallway, following the murmur of voices toward Gabriel’s entertainment room. His reflection caught in a mirror, every line of his suit perfect, expression pleasant, the mask he’d learned to wear so well it felt carved into bone.
No one could see the terror clawing at his chest. He was Henri Rohan, CFO of La Sauvegarde, Gabriel’s polished younger brother.
He was fine. He had to be fine.
He squared his shoulders, smoothed his mask, and opened the door.
The world tilted.
A strangled sound tore from his throat, raw and involuntary. Because there, bouncing naked on Lucas Moreau’s lap, was Jean Saint-Clair.
Jean. Supposedly safe in Sweden. Jean, who Marc swore was at boarding school.
Memory slammed into him: their last meeting at Three Rivers. Jean, sitting uncomfortably in an expensive suit tailored to within an inch of decency, bruises hidden under fabric, his hand trembling around a coffee cup while Olivier Saint-Clair discussed his youngest son’s “entertainment value.” Henri had reached under the table, squeezing those fingers while Marc and Olivier bartered him away.
He’d believed Marc when he said the boy was being sent away to school.
He’d even felt grateful.
But Marc had lied. Of course he had.
The story had been perfect—plausible, comforting. Marc always knew which lies would keep him obedient.
Twenty years, and Henri still fell for them.
Gabriel and Ellis appeared in the doorway as Lucas scrambled for a blanket. Henri barely saw them. His world had narrowed to Jean’s eyes—terror, recognition, plea.
“What the fuck is this?” The words ripped from Henri’s chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Control. He was losing it. Marc would be furious if he knew Henri was shouting, cursing, and losing his composure in front of witnesses. But Henri couldn’t stop.
“You’re supposed to be in Sweden!” His voice cracked. “Marc said—I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe you didn’t tell me, Gabriel!”
