Page 10 of A Mistake of Worth
His laugh came out too loud, too brittle. “You think this is something I can just walk away from?” He shook his head, the motion too quick, too desperate. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand that Jean watched Marc control every aspect of your life. That he saw things no child should.” Lucas’s voice gentled further, and Henri wanted to cover his ears. “He was eight when you were sixteen.”
Sixteen.
The memory seized Henri, pulled him back to Marc’s bedroom at the Saint-Clair estate. That night remained etched in perfect detail. The shift from Marc’s more boyish “experiments” to something far more violent.
His own muffled screams, his face pressed into the pillow. Marc above him. Too strong, too sure. It felt as though his body was being ripped apart. Marc holding him down, whispering “mine” over and over into his ears as Henri sobbed, begging for it to stop.
Henri’s fingers curled unconsciously against the edge of his desk. His nails bit into the polished wood.
And Jean... Christ, Jean heard? Had Marc’s little brother crept down the hallway, wondering why there were strange sounds coming from his big brother’s room? Henri’s stomach lurched at the thought of an eight-year-old Jean pressed against thedoor, listening to Marc claim what he wanted, listening to Henri break.
Had he known what those noises meant?
Or worse. Had he not known, and only understood years later?
Henri’s stomach turned.
“He saw enough, heard enough,” Lucas continued softly, and each word felt painful. “More than enough. He’s worried about you.”
Worried. As if Henri were some victim to be pitied instead of a willing participant. As if Henri hadn’t learned to crave Marc’s attention, hadn’t learned to find comfort in being owned. The shame burned through him, hot and acidic.
Henri pushed away from his desk abruptly, the sudden movement sending lines of fire across his back and thighs. He welcomed the sharp reminder as he strode to the window on unsteady legs. His hands shook as he gripped the sill, knuckles white with strain. The physical pain was easier to bear than the alternative. Thinking about Jean’s eight-year-old face pressed against a door, listening.
The idea that Jean had witnessed everything, had understood even as a child what Marc was doing to him. And now Lucas knew.
Everyone would look at him with that same terrible pity. The successful CFO of La Sauvegarde, reduced to Marc Saint-Clair’s broken toy.
“Get out.” His voice was raw, barely recognizable. “Tell my brother I’ll go to London. Just... get out.”
The pity in Lucas’s eyes was unbearable. Henri could feel it burning into his back. “Jean just wants—“
“OUT!”
The word tore from him, biting and final. The door clicked shut behind Lucas. Silence rushed in to fill the space.
Henri turned and pressed his back firmly against the window frame. The pressure sent fresh fire racing along the cane welts, each line of pain sharp and immediate. He pressed harder, drawing a hiss from between his teeth. The familiar burn cut through the spiral in his mind, gave him something concrete to anchor to instead of the endless loop of Jean’s eight-year-old face.
The pain was real. Present. Something he could control.
A sharp knock interrupted the moment. Henri stepped away from the window quickly, straightening as muscle memory kicked in. Shoulders back. Expression neutral. The Henri Rohan who fell apart in private was not the Henri Rohan who existed for other people.
“What?” he called out, proud that his voice sounded normal. Controlled.
Eric Thompson stepped in, one eyebrow raised at Henri’s obviously disheveled state. His PA was a delicate thing, fine-boned and pretty, but the look he gave Henri could’ve frozen hell. The particular brand of fury reserved for bosses who made their assistants’ lives unnecessarily difficult.
“I’ve received the schedule for your London trip,” Eric said, tapping his tablet with sharp, precise movements that screamed barely contained irritation. “The London trip that apparently starts today. The one I’m finding out about now, at eleven thirty in the morning.”
Henri winced. Eric ran his life with military precision, scheduling meetings weeks in advance, coordinating with other executives’ calendars, and managing Henri’s reputation with the care of a museum curator. Finding out about a month-long international trip with six hours’ notice was probably Eric’s personal version of hell.
“Which means I now get to spend the next several hours, possibly the rest of the day, rearranging your entire calendar.Canceling a month’s worth of meetings. Explaining to very important people why Henri Rohan suddenly can’t make it to events he confirmed weeks ago.”
Henri watched Eric’s gaze sweep over him. Lingering on his disheveled hair, the slight tremor in his hands, the way Henri’s suit jacket hung askew from his hasty movement away from the window. Eric’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, his professional mask slipping just enough to show the calculation happening behind his eyes. Then his expression smoothed again, but his grip on the tablet had gone white-knuckled.
“You have lunch with the VPs in an hour, followed by the townhall. After that, assuming I can work miracles and don’t have a complete breakdown, I’ll need a list of any additional items requiring attention during your absence.” His tablet made a sharp tap against his palm. “Which, by the way, I’m about to spend my entire weekend rebuilding from scratch.”
The silence stretched between them. Eric’s controlled fury meeting Henri’s barely contained panic.
