Page 129 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri pushed himself up slightly so he could see Michael’s face.
“I don’t know if I know how to love someone properly,” Henri said, forcing the words out even though they felt like admitting failure. “I don’t know if what I feel is real love or just... gratitude, or dependency, or something Marc programmed into me over twenty years. I don’t know if I can be what you need, or if I’ll ever be whole enough to be someone’s partner instead of someone’s... property.”
Michael’s eyes were bright with emotion, but he didn’t interrupt. He just waited, patient and present.
“But I want to try.” Henri’s voice grew stronger, more certain. “I want to learn how to love you the way you deserve to be loved. I want to choose you, every day, not because I have to but because I want to. I want to be with you.”
He took a shaky breath, the words forming on his tongue feeling both foreign and right.
“I love you,” Henri whispered.
It was the first time he’d ever said those words by choice.
“I love you,” he said again, stronger now. “And I’m choosing to say that. Choosing you.”
Michael’s expression crumpled, tears spilling down his cheeks. He pulled Henri into his arms, holding him so tight Henri could barely breathe, and Henri realized Michael was shaking.
“I love you too,” Michael said, his voice wrecked with emotion. “God, Henri, I love you so much.”
They held each other in the morning sunlight, in Henri’s childhood bedroom that had witnessed both his innocence and his destruction. The ghosts of who he used to be hovered in the corners, but for the first time in twenty years, Henri could imagine becoming someone new. Someone who belonged to himself.
Epilogue
Thesoundofhoofbeatsthundered across the Ham Polo Club’s pristine field, eight horses and riders locked in the final chukker of overtime. Michael gripped the railing of the clubhouse balcony, his knuckles white as he watched Henri lean low over his mount’s neck, mallet extended, racing toward the ball.
Two years had passed since that terrible night in Marc’s penthouse, since the drive through PDC with Henri shaking in his arms. Two years of therapy sessions with Dr. Chen, of nightmares that gradually faded, of Henri slowly remembering who he used to be, and discovering who he was becoming.
And now this. Henri on horseback again, fearless and magnificent.
His chestnut thoroughbred, Stella, was pure fire beneath him. A spirited mare Henri had chosen himself from the stables in Richmond. She danced sideways as the play developed, ears pricked forward, responding to the subtle pressure of Henri’s legs and the gentle guidance of his hands. Henri sat her asthough he was born to it, spine straight, shoulders relaxed, moving with her like they shared the same heartbeat.
The opposing team’s number three had the ball, racing down the boards toward the goal. Henri wheeled Stella around with fluid grace, reading the play two moves ahead the way he always had.
Even as a child, Gabriel had said, Henri could see patterns others missed.
The crack of mallet on ball echoed across the field as Henri intercepted the pass, stealing it clean from between two opponents. Stella planted her powerful hindquarters and sprang forward in pursuit, her hooves eating up ground as Henri guided the ball down the centerline.
Michael found himself holding his breath. Around him, the other spectators leaned forward in their seats, caught up in the drama of sudden-death overtime. The score was tied four-all, and whoever scored next would take the tournament.
Henri’s mallet swung again—crack!—sending the ball flying ahead of him toward the goal. He urged Stella into a gallop, the mare’s chestnut coat dark with sweat, her stride lengthening as they raced down the field. An opposing player thundered up on Henri’s right, trying to ride him off the line, but Henri shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, and Stella responded, angling away just enough to maintain control of the ball.
Twenty yards from the goal. Fifteen. Ten.
Henri rose slightly in his stirrups, mallet cocked back, every line of his body focused on the ball rolling ahead of him. Stella’s ears flicked back toward him, waiting for his cue, trusting him completely.
The final swing—crack!
The ball flew between the goalposts.
The crowd erupted. Michael surged to his feet, shouting, his voice joining the chaos of cheers and applause. Behind him, heheard someone mutter, “Americans,” with that particular British disdain reserved for excessive enthusiasm at refined sporting events, but he didn’t care. Henri had done it. Henri had won.
On the field, Henri’s teammates were already surrounding him, slapping his shoulders, reaching up to shake his hand. But Henri’s eyes found Michael in the stands immediately, and his face split into a grin so wild and joyful that Michael’s chest tightened with pride and love.
Henri raised his mallet in salute, the gesture sweeping and theatrical, and Michael laughed, clapping until his palms stung.
The transformation was breathtaking.
Henri was confident now, radiant, alive in ways Michael had only glimpsed in their three weeks together before everything shattered. He laughed easily, argued passionately about MapricX strategy over breakfast, and fell asleep reading financial journals in bed. He’d learned to say no without flinching, to ask for what he wanted without shame, to take up space in the world like he had every right to be there.
