Page 6 of A Mistake of Worth
He placed his suit in the hamper before noticing the bedroom door had closed. The security panel’s LED cast a faint blue glow in the dimness. Henri approached it, already knowing what would happen but needing to check anyway.
The scanner rejected his palm with a sharp double-beep, the light flashing red.
Locked in. Of course.
Resigned, Henri turned toward the bathroom. Everything in Marc’s world existed in sleek modernity. No tub. Marc considered them inefficient. Instead, a massive showerdominated the space, enclosed in floor-to-ceiling glass. The control panel beside the door offered various settings including opacity, but Henri never touched those options. Marc liked to watch.
Inside, rough-hewn granite stretched across the floor, its surface providing perfect traction when wet. Multiple shower heads dotted the ceiling and walls. Rainfall, waterfall, and targeted jets that could soak you from every conceivable angle, including a detachable one for more intimate cleaning.
Henri adjusted the water temperature with practiced ease. He stepped fully under the water, letting it soak his hair, run down his shoulders, mask the trembling in his hands.
His movements were methodical as he worked the soap into a lather. Experience had taught him to be thorough, meticulous. Marc would check. Marc always checked.
When finished, he reached for his towel from the heated rack. The warmth against his skin was a brief comfort he allowed himself to savor, knowing it wouldn’t last.
Henri returned to the bedroom, retrieving the tube of lubricant from the nightstand drawer. He prepared himself exactly as Marc preferred. Enough to prevent real damage, but not enough to dull the edge of pain. Even this small act of self-care wasn’t truly his to control.
After setting the lube back in its spot on the nightstand, Henri positioned himself on the bed, muscle memory guiding him into the pose Marc preferred. On his knees, chest pressed to the duvet, ass up, arms beside his head. Waiting.
Time meant nothing in the pristine bedroom of Marc’s penthouse. Henri remained motionless despite his protesting muscles. The duvet beneath him offered no comfort. Minutes passed. Henri had learned long ago not to count them.
The soft whir of the security cameras served as a constant reminder that Marc was watching, evaluating his obedience.Henri fought the urge to shift his weight as his legs began to tremble from maintaining the position.
He let his mind drift, the way he’d learned to do as a child. His consciousness somewhere near the ceiling, watching a 26-year-old CFO position himself for what came next. The body on the bed wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.
The door opened with a soft click that filled the silence. Marc’s measured footsteps crossed the room, each step deliberate, unhurried. The nightstand drawer opened with a whisper of wood against wood.
“I saw the paperwork today,” Marc said finally, his voice carrying that dangerous note of calm that Henri had learned to fear more than anger. “The documentation from the Swedish boarding school. Three months of ‘intensive independent study abroad.’ Very prestigious. Then his triumphant return to Chaminade to graduate with full honors. Such a shame about his illness, unable to attend the ceremony, but these things happen.”
Henri kept his eyes forward, focused on the subtle geometric pattern of the wallpaper.
The story was perfect. Jean’s time spent as a prostitute at Heart Court transformed into an elite academic program, complete with glowing letters of recommendation from the Swedish faculty. His return to Chaminade and subsequent graduation provided the final polish to the fiction.
Marc’s voice dropped lower as something smooth and firm pressed against Henri’s hole.
“You crafted quite the story about Jean’s kidnapping. Sentinelle’s heroic rescue operation. Such good publicity. The board was practically forced to keep the subsidiary, despite their reservations. Making the public aware of all the good the company does... that was particularly clever.”
The silicone toy traced lazy circles against Henri’s entrance.
“And of course, it would look terribly suspicious if Jean wasn’t returned to Gabriel and Lucas after they’d so publicly declared him part of their household. You made sure Olivier understood that, didn’t you?”
Marc eased the large plug forward, stopping when the widest part strained against Henri’s rim. Henri’s fingers twisted into the sheets as Marc kept the toy motionless, the relentless pressure a small cruelty all its own.
“You went to my father,” Marc continued, his voice deadly. “Convinced him Jean was more liability than asset before I could even make my case. By the time I arrived at the office, Olivier had already made his decision.” He twisted the toy slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from Henri. “You made me look weak in front of my own father. Made me appear as though I couldn’t see the obvious risks to our family’s reputation.”
Henri shook his head slightly. He hadn’t meant for it to be perceived that way. But he remained quiet. Words would only infuriate Marc further.
“Everything you have,” Marc punctuated each word with a measured thrust of the toy, “your position at La Sauvegarde, your apartment, your freedom to walk the streets, exists because I allow it.” He leaned close to Henri’s ear, his breath hot against Henri’s neck. “And when you make decisions without my permission...”
The threat hung unfinished. Henri’s victory in freeing Jean had come at a price, and Marc would ensure he felt every moment of it.
“All these years,” Marc said, pulling the toy almost completely out before pushing it back in, “and still you need these little reminders of your place.” He traced his free hand down Henri’s spine, a mockery of tenderness. “If I didn’t correct you, Henri, what kind of partner would I be?” Marc’s voice was silk. “Youwant me to help you be better, don’t you? You’ve always been so grateful for my guidance.”
The toy stretched him, lodged deep as Marc’s footsteps moved toward the side closet. Henri heard the familiar creak of hinges, the soft sounds of items being moved. When Marc returned, he set two implements on the bed where Henri could see them: a wooden paddle and a thin rattan cane.
“Choose,” Marc said simply.
Henri’s breath caught. The paddle would bruise deep, ache for days, make sitting agony. But the cane would cut, leave welts that would burn with every movement, every touch of fabric. He stared at both, knowing Marc was savoring this moment. Forcing Henri to participate in his own punishment, to take ownership of the pain.
