Page 125 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri tried to obey, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Each breath came shallow and fast, not enough air, never enough air.
Michael wrapped his arms around him, his body heat seeping into Henri inch by inch. “You are not property. You were never property, no matter what Marc told you. Gabriel paid that money because he loves you. Because he’s spent years watching Marc destroy you and being unable to stop it. Because he sees this as repaying a debt he owed you for failing to protect you.”
Henri’s throat closed. “He didn’t fail me. I was the one who—”
“You were seven years old,” Michael said, and his voice carried an edge of barely controlled fury that made Henri’s breath catch. “You were a child who was sold to a monster by his own father. None of that was your fault. None of it.”
If he wasn’t responsible for any of it, if he was just a victim, then what did that make him? Who was he without the framework of his own culpability?
“I still have to pay him back,” Henri said, the words coming out mechanical, desperate for some kind of control. “I need to pay him back.”
“Gabriel won’t let you.” Michael’s voice was gentle but unyielding. “He was very clear about that. He said if you tried to pay him back, he’d donate it to charity in your name just to spite you.”
Despite everything, despite the horror and shame and confusion, Henri felt his mouth twitch. That sounded exactly like Gabriel. Stubborn, immovable Gabriel.
“I’ll find other ways,” Henri said, determination settling in his chest even as the rest of him shook apart. “I’ll make it up to him somehow.”
Michael sighed but didn’t argue. “If that’s what you need to do.”
They sat in silence again, Henri trying to process the weight of ten million dollars, the weight of Gabriel’s love, the weight of freedom that felt more like drowning than flying.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He stared at them, at the fine tremor that made his fingers useless, and felt a surge of frustration. This should be over. He was safe now. Why couldn’t his body understand that?
“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” Henri admitted quietly. “That this is just a dream, or a trick, or... something. That Marc is going to walk through that door and take me back.”
“He’s not.” Michael’s hand found his, stilling the tremor with gentle pressure. “You’re safe here.”
“Am I?” Henri’s voice cracked, and he hated how small he sounded. How afraid. “Marc doesn’t just let things go. He doesn’t lose. He’ll find a way to—”
“He won’t.” Michael’s certainty was almost painful in its intensity. “You chose me, Henri. You said my name in front of him. You chose to leave. That was the deal.”
Henri tried to remember the moment, but it was hazy, fragmented. He’d been so far away, so deep inside himself that the world had become distant and unreal. And then Michael’s touch, Michael’s scent, Michael’s presence had pulled him back.
He remembered Michael’s hands on his face, that pattern of touch that his body knew even when his mind had fled. He remembered the desperate certainty that if he didn’t come back, didn’t surface, he would lose something precious forever.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Henri whispered, the admission tearing out of him. “I don’t know how to be free. My whole life has been Marc. His rules, his expectations, his... everything. I don’t know who I am without that.”
Michael was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Henri’s hand. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now.”
“But I should know, shouldn’t I?” Henri’s voice rose with frustration. “I should know what I want, who I want to be. I don’t know what I like to eat unless someone tells me what to order. I don’t know what music I enjoy, or what books interest me, or what I want to do with my life. Everything has always been decided for me, and now I’m supposed to just... what? Make my own decisions? How do I do that when I don’t even know where to start?”
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Michael said, his voice steady and sure. “One choice at a time. Starting with the small ones. What do you want for breakfast?”
Henri blinked at him, thrown by the mundane simplicity of the question. “What?”
“Breakfast. What sounds good to you?”
It was such a simple question. Such an everyday question that people asked themselves a hundred times without thinking. And Henri had absolutely no idea how to answer it.
His throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.” Michael’s voice held infinite patience. “We can try different things. See what you like. There’s no wrong answer, Henri. You can’t fail at choosing breakfast.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Henri had spent his entire life being trained not to have preferences, to accept whatever was given to him with gratitude, to perform enjoyment whether he felt it or not. The idea of having an opinion about something as simple as food felt overwhelming.
“You’re going to get tired of this,” Henri said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Of me being like this. Not knowing simple things, not being able to make decisions. You’ll realize how broken I am and—”
“I won’t.” Michael shifted closer, his hand coming up to cup Henri’s face with a tenderness that made Henri’s eyes burn. “I know this is hard. I know you’re scared. But I’m not going anywhere.”
