Page 117 of A Mistake of Worth
“Then we’d better make it a good one.”
Chapter twenty-two
Michael
Thecarslidsilentlyinto the private garage beneath the Le Ciel tower, its electric motor barely a whisper in the concrete space. Michael sat rigid in the backseat, watching the city blur past tinted glass, his hands locked together until his knuckles went white. Eight days of reliving Marc’s voice hissing down the line with his obscene offer, eight days of that photo burning behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.
The night before, in Gabriel’s sitting room, Ellis and Jean had quietly packed supplies for the car. Michael had watched from the doorway, throat tight, as Ellis folded his weighted blanket with careful precision, smoothing every crease like it mattered more than anything in the world.
“This one,” Ellis had whispered, his voice barely audible. “It saved me more nights than I can count. When everything feels too much, when you can’t tell what’s real anymore.” His handshad stilled on the fabric, and for a moment he’d just stood there, holding it like it might dissolve if he let go.
Jean had fussed with the rest of the supplies, his hands moving with determined efficiency even as tears tracked silently down his face. Bottles of water, protein bars, a black T-shirt, and sweatpants folded neatly in a bag. He’d paused over the clothes, fingers trembling as they traced the seams.
“Marc won’t let him take anything,” Jean had said, voice cracking on the words. “He’ll send Henri out with nothing, just to make sure he knows he’s leaving with only what you give him. So you have to give him everything.”
He’d looked up at Michael then, eyes shining with stubborn wisdom that came from surviving something no one should have to survive. “Clothes that are soft. Water, because his throat will hurt. Food, because Marc won’t have fed him properly. Everything he needs to remember he’s human.”
Michael’s chest had constricted, realization hitting cold and sharp. Jean knew these things because Jean had needed them. The careful specificity of Jean’s list wasn’t theoretical—it was a map of his own survival, drawn in careful detail so Henri wouldn’t have to navigate it alone.
Lucas had pulled Jean against his chest, pressing a kiss to his hair while Jean had broken down sobbing, and Michael understood that Lucas knew it too. Had probably been the one to provide all those things Jean was now listing, to help him remember his humanity after Olivier had tried to strip it away.
Michael had only nodded, unable to speak past the grief lodged in his throat. Unable to articulate the rage burning through him that Jean had learned these lessons, that Henri would need them too, that this kind of knowledge existed at all.
The car came to a halt in the reserved bay, the AI’s voice breaking through his thoughts with soft efficiency.
“Vehicle entering waiting mode. Estimated charge to full: Seventeen minutes.”
The engine hushed to nothing, and the undercarriage shifted with mechanical precision, locking into the charging port as lights winked green along the floor.
Michael stared at the taillights longer than necessary, watching the ready indicators pulse in the dimness. The sight of the car settling into standby made something in him twist, because he had ordered it that way. Programmed it so that it would be ready, so the doors would unlock automatically the moment he came back down. If he came back down.
The elevator bay gleamed ahead, private access reserved exclusively for the penthouse. His shoes echoed on the polished concrete as he crossed the empty garage, each footfall loud enough to make his pulse jump. The biometric scanner lit green when he placed his palm on it.
The doors slid open with a whisper of hydraulics.
Michael stepped inside, pulse hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. His shirt clung to his back with sweat despite the garage’s climate control, stomach churning with the kind of nausea that came before huge decisions. Before irreversible choices.
The elevator climbed silently toward the penthouse, each floor ticking past on the digital display. Michael’s phone buzzed once in his pocket, a final message from Marc cutting through the silence.
Remember the rules. You don’t speak unless I give you permission. Not a word, not a sound, or the deal is off, and he stays. You’re here to watch and take what I give you. Nothing more.
Michael deleted the message, his jaw clenching. Another layer of control, another way for Marc to strip him of agency while forcing him to witness Henri’s degradation in silence. He couldn’t protest, couldn’t intervene, couldn’t even comfort Henri with his voice until Marc allowed it.
He was as trapped as Henri, just in a different cage.
The elevator chimed softly as the doors opened onto the penthouse foyer, and Michael’s breath caught.
Marc stood waiting. There was no smile, no greeting, only the practiced tilt of his head that always seemed to hold contempt.
And Henri.
The sight stopped Michael where he stood. The reaction came without warning. He had expected fear, rage, the cold calculation of a plan already forming. He had not expected the shock of desire that hit him so hard it almost felt like pain.
Henri was naked. The blindfold covering his eyes was damp from tears that had long since dried on his cheeks. His skin carried the marks of what had been done to him. A dark ring of bruises circled his throat, spreading down across his collarbones where someone’s grip had pressed too hard for too long. The shapes of fingers were visible on his hips.
He knelt at Marc’s side with his head bowed and his palms turned upward, knees spread, offering an uninhibited view of his soft cock and balls. His posture was perfect, and it would have been beautiful if the situation had been different.
Michael felt his stomach twist. He wanted to look away, but he could not.
