Page 115 of A Mistake of Worth
The conditions weren’t just cruel. They were calculated to destroy whatever remained of Henri’s spirit, whether Michael succeeded or failed. Marc knew exactly which buttons to push, exactly how to make Michael doubt everything.
Michael pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. He wanted to scream. Wanted to put his fist through the window. Wanted to board the Rohan jet to Porte du Cœur and tear Marc apart with his bare hands.
But underneath the fear, underneath the sick certainty that Marc might be right, one truth burned clear: Michael would pay any price, endure any humiliation, face any trap if it meant giving Henri even the smallest chance at freedom.
Even if Henri chose Marc in the end.
Even if Michael walked away empty-handed and broken.
The chance was worth everything.
His phone buzzed.
A text message. No words. Just an image.
Michael’s stomach dropped before his brain could process what he was seeing.
The photo was taken with a wide-angle lens, clinical in its framing. Almost artistic in its cruelty.
David in the foreground, naked, blindfolded, hands bound behind his back. Noise-canceling headphones covered his ears as he was pressed down onto Marc’s lap, his throat working around what could only be Marc’s cock. His lips were swollen and wet, tears tracking down his cheeks, but his body language screamed eagerness. Performing. Desperate to please.
But it was Henri that broke Michael’s heart.
In the background, naked and bound to a chair. The same headphones blocking all sound. But not blindfolded.
Henri’s eyes were open, staring at nothing.
His face was slack and empty. No fear, no disgust, no emotion at all. He looked like he wasn’t there at all. Like he’d retreated somewhere deep inside himself where Marc couldn’t reach him.
The expression was one Michael had never seen before. Complete dissociation. Henri had simply left his body behind.
And that was somehow worse than any bruise or any tear.
Michael’s hands shook as he stared at the image, bile rising in his throat.
This was Marc’s final message. Not just cruelty, but a demonstration of ownership so complete that Henri had learned to escape into nothingness rather than endure.
Henri’s eyes in the photo were the same eyes Michael had seen in his dreams for weeks. The same eyes that had looked up at him in Gabriel’s living room, bruised and desperate and still trying to be brave.
But this was different. This wasn’t Henri in pain. This was Henri gone.
Michael sat there for a long moment, staring at Henri’s empty eyes. At the proof of everything Marc had taken and everything he still threatened to destroy.
His chest felt hollow. Scooped out.
This was a trap. Michael knew it with absolute certainty. Marc would take the money, humiliate him, probably hurt him. Maybe kill him. The man was unraveling, breaking down, and that made him more dangerous than any calculated cruelty ever could.
The smart play would be to work with Gabriel, find another way, use the law and Jaheel’s exposure to force Marc’s hand. Wait for the system to work. Be patient.
But Henri didn’t have time for smart plays. Henri was dissociating in Marc’s bed while Michael sat in safety an ocean away.
And maybe that was the real trap. Not Marc’s offer, but Michael’s own conscience. The knowledge that every hour he waited was another hour Henri spent gone. Another hour Marc spent proving his ownership.
Ten million dollars.
Michael didn’t have it. His assets were tied up in MapricX, in investments, in property. Liquidating everything quickly would leave him vulnerable, exposed.
But Gabriel had it. Gabriel would get it.
