Page 8 of A Mistake of Worth
Nothing. No ridges, no raised skin.
Marc had taken the cream from the drawer himself that morning. Had pressed it gently into Henri’s skin with clinical care, smoothing over the welts that might show, and treating them with the same thorough attention he’d given Henri’s wrists where he’d twisted against his restraints. He’d been methodical, caring. Marc had been in such a good mood, humming softly as he worked the expensive cream into Henri’s skin.
Henri still felt warm thinking about it.
The memory made Henri’s stomach tighten with something dangerously close to gratitude. Marc had taken such care with the placement, ensuring each line would serve its purpose without permanent damage. Such control. Such attention to detail.
He hadn’t deserved that level of precision. Not really.
But Marc had provided it anyway.
Henri had thanked him.
Henri took a breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. His screen displayed EcoSphere Capital’s Q2 financials, but the numbers blurred as another line of fire traced across his shoulder blades. The London acquisition was complex, but numbers were Henri’s sanctuary. Here, in his corner office one floor below Gabriel’s, he could be productive.
The spreadsheets made sense. Clean columns, predictable formulas, problems that could be solved with logic and analysis. Unlike the conversation he’d been avoiding.
Every morning, Henri told himself he’d bring up London that evening. Every evening, he found another excuse to delay. He should have asked a week ago. Should have brought it up the moment Gabriel mentioned it. But the words wouldn’t come. Every time Henri opened his mouth to speak, he heard Marc’s voice:Everything you have exists because I allow it.
Marc had been in a good mood lately. Pleased with how Henri had handled the recent business arrangements. But asking for permission to leave the country for a month? That was different. That was asking for freedom Marc had never granted before. Henri’s stomach clenched at the thought of those pale blue eyes going cold, calculating what punishment would fit such presumption.
A knock at his office door pulled him out of the spreadsheet’s calming rhythm. Henri glanced up to see Lucas leaning against the doorframe, looking entirely too casual for La Sauvegarde’s executive floor. Hands in his pockets, posture loose, gaze sharp.
“Working hard?” Lucas asked, stepping inside and closing the door.
Henri minimized the spreadsheet, muscle memory kicking in to present the proper facade. Confident. Competent. In control.
“Just reviewing the EcoSphere numbers. Did you need something?”
“Gabriel wants to know if you’ve booked your flight to London yet.”
Henri’s hands stilled on the keyboard. The familiar weight of panic settled in his chest, sharp and suffocating.
“No,” Henri admitted, keeping his voice flat. “I haven’t booked them.”
“You’ve had a week.” Lucas’s voice held an edge of irritation. “Gabriel told you this was happening last Thursday.” He pulled out his phone, checking something. “Not that it matters now.Brenda already handled it. You’re on British Airways non-stop, first class. The flight leaves at 5 PM today.”
“Today?” Henri straightened, pulling on his CFO authority, even as his mind raced. Marc didn’t know. And now Henri would be leaving in hours without permission, without explanation. “That’s not—“
“It’s literally her job,” Lucas cut him off with a look. “And you’re meeting the EcoSphere CEO Monday morning. The timing works perfectly. You’ll land at Heathrow early Saturday. Give yourself time to adjust to the time difference.”
He turned to leave, then paused just inside the doorway. “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want to go?”
Henri’s body went still..
His mind scrambled for the right answer. Not for Lucas, but for Marc. What would Marc want him to say? What would Marc let him say?
His mask slipped just for a second. Just long enough.
Then it was back in place, his tone smooth again. “No. No reason.”
“Good,” Lucas nodded. “Brenda will send you the full itinerary.”
“Thanks. And... thank Brenda for me.”
Once the door closed, Henri slumped in his chair, spine pressing too hard into bruised tissue. He winced but didn’t shift. The pain helped anchor him. Helped keep the panic from rising too fast.
He pulled out his phone with shaking hands. There was no way to make this better, no way to spin it that wouldn’t sound like betrayal. He was texting Marc about leaving the country instead of asking in person. Instead of asking at all.
