Page 11 of A Mistake of Worth
Time to perform.
Henri walked back to his desk with measured steps, straightening his suit jacket and smoothing his hair with one hand. He leaned back against the mahogany edge, letting the fabric fall open in a studied casual gesture, a practiced smirk sliding across his lips. The charm was muscle memory now, as automatic as breathing, as necessary as air.
“What would I do without you, Eric?” His voice carried that familiar honeyed confidence, the one that had gotten him through countless boardroom crises.
“Fall apart, probably. Drown in paperwork. Miss all your meetings.” Eric’s tone was dry as he tapped at his tablet, but Henri caught the slight concern lingering in his eyes. Eric had seen him before. Disheveled, struggling to pull the mask back into place.
“You know me so well,” Henri purred, playing up the charm that had gotten him through countless boardrooms, countless dinners where Marc had needed him to be perfect. “My own personal savior. Guardian of my schedule, keeper of my sanity.”
The words felt hollow, but they came easily. This Henri, the flirtatious, confident CFO, was safe. This Henri didn’t fall apart in his office. This Henri didn’t panic about asking permission to leave the country.
“Save it for the interns,” Eric rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched in what might have been fondness. “Some of us have seen you hungover in last night’s clothes, trying to charm your way through a board meeting. We’re immune to your whole...” he waved his hand vaguely at Henri’s carefully constructed image, “thing.”
Henri clutched his chest in mock offense. “My ‘thing’? I’ll have you know this thing gets us excellent press, record-breaking gala donations,” He winked, playing up the rakish playboy act, “and at least three favorable write-ups in PDC Weekly.”
Eric’s snort was distinctly unimpressed. “I’m sure it does. Meeting in an hour, Mr. Rohan. Try not to look destroyed by then.”
Henri’s laugh felt almost genuine. “You wound me,” he said smoothly, raising a hand in theatrical surrender.
Eric shot him a knowing look before departing, and Henri’s smile dropped the moment the door closed. The mask fell away, leaving him hollow and aching.
He sank into his chair heavily, ignoring the pain. His head fell into his hands as the weight of everything crashed down.
The numbers on his screen blurred as his mind circled the same terrifying questions. What would Marc do without him there to redirect his attention? Who would bear the cost of Henri’s absence? The cane welts throbbed with each heartbeat, a metronome counting down to his departure.
He should call Marc. Should try to explain. Should—
His phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. The lunch meeting. Henri blinked, disoriented. When had it gotten so late? The clock showed 12:47 PM.
Shit.
He was late.
Henri shot to his feet, ignoring the sharp protest from his abused muscles. The VPs would already be seated, probably wondering where their charming CFO had disappeared to. Time to perform again.
Located on the eighth floor of La Sauvegarde’s building, the restaurant was a favorite among Porte du Coeur’s business elite. Their private dining room offered a stunning view of the Gateway Arch rising above the Mississippi, its gleaming surface catching the midday sun. The room’s dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows and subtle lighting provided the ideal setting for discussing million-dollar deals over expertly prepared cuisine.
Henri paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. The familiar ritual of performing confidence for colleagues who expected nothing less from their charming CFO. He could do this. He’d done it a thousand times before.
The four VPs were already seated: Richard Benson from Finance, stern-faced as always; Kenta Yamamoto from Operations, absorbed in his tablet; Patricia Whitmore from HR, who’d been with the company longer than Henri had been alive; and James Sullivan from Sales, who was regaling everyone with his latest client dinner story.
A fifth figure sat beside Patricia. A young man Henri didn’t recognize. Delicate features, soft brown hair that caught the light, practically vibrating with nervous energy. He wore a pristine but ill-fitting suit, his pretty face showing an eager expression that betrayed someone who still thought ambition could be charming.
Intern. Had to be.
“Sorry I’m late,” Henri announced, sliding into his chair with practiced grace, letting just enough sheepishness creep into his voice to seem human while maintaining authority. “The EcoSphere numbers needed my personal attention.”
Patricia made a sound that might have been a snort. “Henri, this is David Mitchell, one of our summer interns in HR.”
Henri let his gaze linger just a fraction too long on David, taking in the fine bone structure, the way his lashes cast shadows over warm, brown eyes when he looked down. The slight flush that crept up David’s neck only enhanced the porcelain quality of his skin.
“Welcome to La Sauvegarde, David. I trust HR is treating you well?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Mr. Rohan—“
“Call me Henri, please.” He winked, causing David to turn an even deeper shade of pink. Patricia rolled her eyes while James barely contained his grin. Henri felt something in his chest ease slightly. This he could do. This Henri, charming, confident, slightly inappropriate, was safe.
“If you’re quite finished making the intern question his life choices,” Richard cut in, his British accent crisp, “perhaps we could discuss why we’re investing in a sustainable energy startup?”
