Page 13 of A Mistake of Worth
He tried again, more carefully this time. Slower. A perfect press of skin to scanner.
Double-beep. Red light.
His heart stuttered.
Henri stared at the panel, disbelief melting into dread.
In twenty years, Marc had never locked him out.
Even at his worst. Screaming, crying, disobedient. Henri had always had access. Marc didn’t deny entry. He waited inside. Waited to punish.
Marc preferred to exact his punishments in person.
But this... Henri backed away from the door slowly, understanding dawning. Marc never did anything without purpose, without planning. This wasn’t a malfunction or a moment of anger.
This was deliberate.
He turned and walked back to the elevator, his mind already cataloging what he’d need. His apartment was only a few blocks away. The place he technically lived but rarely spent time in, its rooms more museum than home. Most of his clothes were at Marc’s penthouse, but he’d kept enough for appearances.
Henri let himself into the quiet space, flipping on lights that revealed furniture he barely remembered buying. His suitcase sat in the hall closet, still bearing tags from the last business trip Marc had permitted. He pulled it out and began to pack methodically, each folded shirt and pair of slacks a small act of defiance he didn’t quite dare acknowledge.
Within an hour, he was in a cab heading toward the airport, toward London, toward thirty-two days of freedom he had no idea how to navigate.
Chapter three
Michael
TheBaratTheAthenaeum was dimly lit, all dark wood and strategic lighting. Michael slumped in his chair, watching the Danish investors disappear into the elevator. Jakob had been enthusiastic about MapricX’s building footprint technology. Maybe too enthusiastic, given how many drinks he’d bought.
Fourteen hours of presentations. Michael’s head buzzed with scotch and exhaustion.
Rhys Blackwood had bailed after lunch with some vague excuse about “other commitments,” leaving Michael to handle the evening entertainment alone. Typical. His business partner was better at the schmoozing anyway. Had that old-money charm that made investors feel special instead of just useful. Growing up a Blackwood meant treating high-stakes dinners with the ease of family Sunday lunch.
Michael checked his watch.9:47 PM.
Movement at the bar caught his attention. A man settling onto a leather barstool, movements fluid and deliberate. Michael found himself staring.
Tall and lean, blonde hair still perfectly styled despite the hour. Sharp blue eyes and the kind of bone structure that belonged in magazines.
Even dressed down, the man radiated money. Designer jeans that fit perfectly, and a white V-neck. But it wasn’t just the clothes. It was the ease. The way he placed his phone on the bar as though it belonged there, lifted two fingers to the bartender without looking impatient. Elegant movements that seemed automatic.
Michael watched longer than he should’ve, drink forgotten in his hand. The scotch helped. It always did. He stood, crossed the floor, and slid onto the barstool beside him.
“Mind if I join you?”
The man turned, eyes assessing. A practiced smile curved his mouth. Polished, polite, and just distant enough to suggest it had been used more than felt.
“Be my guest.”
The man’s face was familiar. A fundraiser, maybe. A champagne toast. Michael’s brain clicked through old memories as the bartender approached.
“Henri Rohan,” Michael said, the name tumbling out before he could stop it.
Henri blinked, studying him. His brows furrowed slightly, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. A pause, as if he were filing through his mental Rolodex.
“Michael Taylor,” he offered quickly. “We met at the LaMontagne Foundation fundraiser. You were with...” He stopped himself before he said the vampire. That dark-haired man who’d never left Henri’s side that night.
Recognition dawned. Henri’s smile returned, warmer this time. Real. He looked the same, but the edges were different. Henri had a reputation for charm, confidence, and control. But the way he hesitated now, needing permission to be present, didn’t match the man Michael remembered from Porte du Coeur’s galas.
