Page 100 of A Mistake of Worth
Jean slumped against Lucas, the fight leaving him. “Then what? We just... wait? Hope our legal approach works while Henri suffers?”
The room fell into frustrated silence. They had all this new understanding of Marc’s strategic mind, but no clear way to use it.
“We dig deeper,” Nika said finally. “Now that we know what we’re really dealing with, we approach this differently. Look for the financial footprints of his independent planning. Find the evidence of his long-term strategy.”
“How long?” Michael asked.
“A week,” Gabriel said. “Maybe two.”
Michael’s reflection in the window looked like a stranger. Harder. More dangerous than the businessman who’d arrived in PDC a week ago. Two weeks felt like an eternity when Henri was trapped with a diagnosed psychopath who might be calculating his usefulness.
“Then we’d better find something Marc doesn’t see coming,” Michael said quietly. “Because if our careful approach fails, I’m done being patient.”
Chapter nineteen
Henri
TuesdayhadbeenHenri’sfirst day back on the executive floor. Quietly slipping into the office, breathing recycled air that smelled faintly of toner and lemon polish, letting muscle memory carry him from elevator to corner suite like he’d never left for London at all.
The day had been a masterclass in divided attention. Between quarterly projections and budget revisions, his phone had lit up with Marc’s demands:
Show me your desk. Now.
Hallway view.
Where’s your assistant?
Take a photo of your lunch.
Seventeen verification requests before noon, more than Marc usually demanded in an entire week. Each buzz had carved tension into his shoulders until he felt less like flesh and bone and more like something chiseled from stone.
Gabriel hadn’t been in. The door with his initials had stayed closed and dark, and the floor hummed with someone else’s authority.
He’d kept his head down, answered emails, and pretended not to notice the way Patricia Whitmore, head of HR, had paused when she saw him and David step into the same car that evening. Her pause had lasted three seconds too long.
Henri knew Patricia well enough to read the calculation behind her professional smile. The mental notation being filed under “executive conduct review” or “inappropriate relationships.” No comment, no warmth, just the barest flick of her gaze between him and David before she tucked the observation into whatever file HR kept ready for when the board wanted ammunition.
They’d ridden the car service back to Le Ciel Tower in silence. Henri angled toward the window, David sitting too carefully with his hands folded in his lap as if afraid of leaving fingerprints on the leather. Henri had thought about warning him then, telling him to run while there was still time, to vanish before Marc’s orbit calcified around him. But Marc’s number had already been lit on Henri’s phone too many times that day for the thought to be more than fantasy. By the time the elevator opened onto the penthouse foyer, he’d put his voice away with his wallet and keys.
This morning began with espresso, and the first text before the crema settled.
Pic of your desk.
He obliged: a clean shot of blotter, monitor, pen aligned to the edge. Send.
Show me the clock.
He tilted the camera to frame the brass wall clock: 9:07. Send.
Hallway. Now.
Door cracked, phone out, the executive corridor empty except for the hush of carpet and a low murmur from legal three offices down. Send.
It wasn’t new. Henri was used to the rhythm. One or two checks a day, a drop-by in person if Marc was bored.
But this was different. Hungrier. Obsessive.
Each photo more invasive than the last. The frequency felt like fever, like Marc was trying to crawl through the phone and wear Henri’s skin from the inside.
