Page 86 of A Mistake of Worth
And David. Christ, what was Marc doing to David right now? What would Henri wake up to in the morning?
Henri understood that math. Survival always costs more than you thought you could pay.
But understanding didn’t make it easier to live with. Didn’t make it easier to know that right now, in the next room, David was learning what Henri had learned a decade ago. That your body could betray you, that pain and pleasure could twist together until you couldn’t tell them apart, that sometimes the only way to protect the people you loved was to let yourself be destroyed.
The tightness in his throat swelled until it broke, silent tears slipping into the pillow that would never smell like Michael’sshampoo. He didn’t move to wipe them away. In Marc’s house, even grief had to be perfect. Quiet, controlled, invisible.
He thought about Michael waking up in London tomorrow, reaching across an empty bed. Making coffee for one. Sitting in that oversized chair, surrounded by the ghost of what they’d almost had.
Henri pressed his face deeper into the pillow, muffling a sound that wanted to be a sob. Three weeks. Three weeks of learning what it felt like to be chosen instead of owned. What it felt like to be wanted for who he was, not what he could provide. Three weeks of mornings that belonged to him, of laughter that wasn’t performed, of touch that healed instead of claimed.
The memory felt fragile, precious. He held it close, this piece of Michael he’d brought home with him, and tried not to count how many tomorrows it would take before Marc erased it completely.
Outside, the city hummed with life and possibility. Inside, Henri closed his eyes and tried to remember what freedom tasted like, before he forgot entirely.
Chapter fifteen
Henri
Henriwokebeforetheskyline had shifted from gray to gold, eyes opening to the familiar hush of the penthouse. The low hum of air circulation and the faint tick of the kitchen clock. No alarm was needed. His body rose from sleep at the same time it always had here, conditioned by years of repetition.
Coffee first. Always.
Henri padded barefoot into the kitchen, checking the machine out of habit. The timer light was off, the reservoir was draining, and the familiar drip-and-hiss of brewing coffee filled the air. He reached for three mugs from the cabinet—then froze.
The machine could only brew two cups at once, each with different settings. He’d set it last night for Marc’s coffee—light sugar, no cream—and his own, black, strong. But there were three of them now.
Henri’s hands trembled as he calculated the timing. Two minutes left on this cycle. Another three to brew David’s cup. Five minutes total if he moved fast enough.
Would Marc come down before then?
Details matter. Everything matters.
Marc’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and disappointed. Henri hadn’t adjusted. Hadn’t planned for three people in the sorry, exhausted state he’d been in the previous night. The machine was already brewing, already committed to its programmed cycle.
When it finished its cycle with a final gurgle, Henri’s hands flew, dumping the used grounds, refilling the reservoir, and jamming a new pod into place. He set it to regular—medium strength, no additions. He had no idea how David took his coffee, and there was no time to guess. David could adjust it himself if needed.
The machine hummed to life again. Henri watched the dark liquid stream into the third mug, willing it to move faster. The minutes crawled by. He began plating breakfast with one eye on the coffeemaker, his movements quick and efficient, though not quite as precise as usual.
Marc’s toast was cut into perfect triangles, the eggs were soft but not runny, and the orange juice was poured exactly to the etched line on the glass.
The coffeemaker was still dripping.
Henri pulled up the order app on his phone, his fingers shaking as he scrolled quickly until he found a model that could handle four cups at once, each with its own brew settings. Same-day delivery. He hit purchase, the quiet confirmation chime barely registering as he turned back to watch the painfully slow drip of David’s coffee.
Come on. Come on.
He heard David’s footsteps before he saw him, slower than they had been yesterday. The faint hitch in his step wasn’t dramatic, but Henri’s trained eye caught it immediately, along with the guarded way he lowered himself onto a stool at the counter. When his T-shirt hem rode up, Henri saw the constellation of bruises along his hipbone.
Henri had worn those marks for years. Five-finger shadows that bloomed overnight, reminders of Marc’s ownership pressed into his skin.
But he’d worn Michael’s marks too. Different ones, made with a different intent. Michael’s mouth had left traces of worship, not possession. Gentle bite marks that made Henri smile when he caught sight of them in mirrors. The memory slid in sharp and uninvited: Michael’s teeth on his throat, the whispered “mine” that had felt like a gift instead of a claim.
Henri crushed the memory before it could take root. That life was over.
“I can help,” David said, reaching for one of the plates. He added a generous spoonful of hash browns beside Marc’s eggs, movements eager to please.
Henri’s body moved before his mind caught up, crossing the space, plucking the spoon from David’s hand, and scraping the food back into the serving dish. “Not for him,” he murmured, low enough not to carry. “Just eggs and toast.”
