Page 4 of A Mistake of Worth
Marc’s hand found the back of his neck, fingers settling with familiar weight. Henri fought to remain still, to control his breathing as the minutes dragged on. The soft click of Marc’s keyboard filled the silence as Henri’s mind raced. Twenty years of this. Twenty years of muscle memory stronger than his education, his position, his family name.
The thought made him want to scream, but he remained motionless, waiting.
“I trust everything is settled with my little brother?”
“Yes.” Henri kept his voice steady. “Olivier agreed that Jean’s current situation makes him a liability. The risk of scandal—”
“I know what you argued.” Marc’s fingers tightened. “Very clever, using the threat of investigation against my father. But now I find myself... understimulated.” His free hand traced Henri’s jaw. “You’ll have to make up for that.”
Henri’s stomach clenched at the words. He’d known this was coming from the moment he’d started arguing for Jean’s release. The price of victory would be steep, but Jean was safe. That was what mattered.
“Of course,” Henri whispered, the words practiced, automatic. “Whatever you need.”
Marc paused, as though considering something. “You realize, of course,” he added smoothly, “that with Jean gone, we’ve lost a useful incentive. Investors, partners... some of our more ambitious friends enjoyed his company.”
Henri’s stomach turned. He said nothing.
“You’ll be expected to fill that gap, Henri. Just until we find a suitable replacement.”
His throat tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” The words tasted like bile.
“It’s hardly new,” Marc continued, standing and brushing invisible lint from his trousers. “You’re well past their usual tastes, but you’re familiar, trained.” He smirked faintly. “Many remember you fondly.”
Henri’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though his chest felt hollow. The expression was automatic, practiced. Empty.
Inside, something cracked.
He’d been seventeen the first time he was handed off.
The memory surfaced unbidden. A business dinner at Le Jardin Étoilé, one of those endless multi-course affairs where deals were brokered over wine and pleasantries. Henri had attended plenty of these dinners before, always at Marc’s side, always silent and observant. He’d thought he understood his role.
He’d been wrong.
Alonso Martelli had been seated beside him that night. The man who owned half the warehouses in Third Cat and dozens of run-down properties in Fourth Cat. Slumlord, they called him, though never to his face. Olivier sat on Henri’s other side, then Marc, then Alonso’s daughter. The girl was around their age, quiet and subdued, barely speaking throughout the meal.
It started during the second course. Alonso’s hand on Henri’s thigh under the table, fingers tracing idle patterns through the fabric of his trousers. Henri had shifted away slightly, offering a polite smile, trying to focus on his food.
The hand returned, higher this time. Bolder.
Henri glanced at Marc, hoping for... what? Intervention? A sharp word to make Alonso stop? But Marc was deep in conversation with the daughter, charming and attentive, as they discussed theater and art.
By the fourth course, Alonso’s fingers had grown insistent, pressing between Henri’s legs with casual ownership. Henri tried to shift away again, but Olivier’s solid presence on his other side left him nowhere to go.
“You’re tense,” Alonso murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted over Henri’s ear. “Relax.”
Henri looked to Marc again.Please. See this. Do something.
Marc’s eyes flicked toward him for just a moment, that same droll, bored expression, before returning to the daughter. He said something that made her smile shyly.
When dessert arrived, Alonso leaned back in his chair, finally removing his hand. He swirled his cognac, voice casual but eyes fixed on Henri.
“You know, Olivier,” he said, “I’m almost convinced to sign. Almost.” A pause, deliberate. “But a man likes certain... assurances. Incentives, if you will.”
His gaze never left Henri.
Henri’s stomach dropped. He looked to Marc one last time. Marc had to know what Alonso meant. Had to understand what was being offered.
Marc turned to the daughter. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said smoothly, “would you care to join me for the theater tonight? I have tickets to see Phantom. Seems a shame to waste them.”
