A Mistake of Worth (Porte du Coeur: Mistakes #2)

Prologue

H enri’s hands shook as he punched in the security code. The familiar sequence blurred under the weight of his panic, every number a small victory against the tremor in his fingers.

Click.

No alarms. No messages. Just the soft release of Gabriel’s front door.

The air inside was warm—wood polish, detergent, something faintly human. It smelled like people.

Like life.

Marc’s penthouse never smelled like anything. Only filtered air and expensive silence.

He pressed his back to the door, forcing measured breaths.

Breathe. Control. You have a job to do.

Forty minutes.

Marc had given him one hour to deliver Maximilien’s message and return. Twenty minutes had already vanished in traffic on Highway 40.

If you were strong, you were on time. If you were late, you absorbed the punishment and learned.

Thirty-nine minutes.

Henri forced his feet down the hallway, following the murmur of voices toward Gabriel’s entertainment room. His reflection caught in a mirror, every line of his suit perfect, expression pleasant, the mask he’d learned to wear so well it felt carved into bone.

No one could see the terror clawing at his chest. He was Henri Rohan, CFO of La Sauvegarde, Gabriel’s polished younger brother.

He was fine. He had to be fine.

He squared his shoulders, smoothed his mask, and opened the door.

The world tilted.

A strangled sound tore from his throat, raw and involuntary. Because there, bouncing naked on Lucas Moreau’s lap, was Jean Saint-Clair.

Jean. Supposedly safe in Sweden. Jean, who Marc swore was at boarding school.

Memory slammed into him: their last meeting at Three Rivers.

Jean, sitting uncomfortably in an expensive suit tailored to within an inch of decency, bruises hidden under fabric, his hand trembling around a coffee cup while Olivier Saint-Clair discussed his youngest son’s “entertainment value.” Henri had reached under the table, squeezing those fingers while Marc and Olivier bartered him away.

He’d believed Marc when he said the boy was being sent away to school.

He’d even felt grateful.

But Marc had lied. Of course he had.

The story had been perfect—plausible, comforting. Marc always knew which lies would keep him obedient.

Twenty years, and Henri still fell for them.

Gabriel and Ellis appeared in the doorway as Lucas scrambled for a blanket. Henri barely saw them. His world had narrowed to Jean’s eyes—terror, recognition, plea.

“What the fuck is this?” The words ripped from Henri’s chest. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Control. He was losing it. Marc would be furious if he knew Henri was shouting, cursing, and losing his composure in front of witnesses. But Henri couldn’t stop.

“You’re supposed to be in Sweden!” His voice cracked. “Marc said—I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe you didn’t tell me, Gabriel!”

“What are you even doing here, Henri?” Gabriel’s voice carried suspicion, and something else. That protective edge that had never once been directed at Henri.

Henri’s laugh tore out dry and brittle. “Father sent me. He wanted to ensure your little pet had come to his senses and finally left.” His gaze snapped back to Jean, dread building in his chest. “He also wanted me to check if Jean was here. Said it was ridiculous, but wanted to humor Olivier.”

He gestured toward Lucas and Jean. “Guess the old man’s instincts were right about Saint-Clair’s youngest son.”

“I ran away,” Jean said, chin lifted but voice shaking. “Please don’t tell them, Henri. Please.”

The word please hit Henri hard. Henri had said it himself too many times, begged too many times, always to no avail.

“Why would you—” Henri’s gaze snapped to Gabriel, desperation making his voice sharp. “Did you take him? And now you’re letting your staff fuck him?”

“Lucas isn’t staff,” Gabriel’s voice carried a dangerous quiet. “And no one took anyone. As he just said, he left of his own accord.”

“Then why—”

“Because they’re cruel!” Jean’s shout made Henri flinch, the pain in it too familiar, too raw. “All of them. You, of all people, should know that, Henri!”

Ice flooded Henri’s veins. No. Jean couldn’t say things like that, not here, not in front of Gabriel, who would ask questions Henri couldn’t answer.

“Shut up!” Panic sharpened his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Jean’s bitter laugh said he did. The boy had seen too much. Understood too much.

“Don’t I?” Jean’s voice shook. “I’ve seen the way Marc—”

“I said shut up!” Henri surged forward, but Lucas blocked his path. The truth slipped free, unguarded. “It’s not like I had a choice about Marc.”

Silence.

Gabriel’s eyes fixed on him, cutting straight through the mask. Henri felt stripped bare.

“What does that mean?” Gabriel asked.

He couldn’t breathe. “None of your fucking business.” His hands tore through his hair, wrecking the neat precision Marc demanded. Ten wasted minutes that morning, undone in seconds.

“No!” Jean pressed closer to Lucas, voice breaking. “Please, I can’t go back. You know how Marc is, Henri. You know what Father lets him do.”

Henri froze. He knew exactly what Jean meant.

“He needs to go back,” Henri said numbly. The words tasted like ash. He saw the hope fade from Jean’s face. “He has to go back.”

Jean’s fingers dug into Lucas’ shirt. “Henri, please...”

His shoulders sagged. Saving Jean meant punishment Marc would make unforgettable. But Jean’s fear mirrored his own at that age—same wide eyes, same desperate plea. Someone should have helped him. No one had.

Sweat gathered at his temples. His pulse hammered in his throat, counting down the seconds left on Marc’s clock.

“Fuck.” The word broke from him, cracked and defeated. “Fine. I won’t tell them where you are.”

The decision hollowed him out. Marc would know.

Marc always knew.

But Jean was a young man. And Henri had been him once.

Don’t think about it. Don’t make it worse than it already is.

He forced himself back to the task still waiting. Thirty-five minutes. Maybe less.

“Though speaking of family secrets, Gabriel—” He gestured toward where Ellis lurked behind his brother, grasping for some way to shift attention away from his own revelations. “Father knows he’s still here.”

Gabriel shifted to block Ellis completely. Henri laughed, sharp and frayed.

“Don’t bother hiding him now. You know how Father gets when he’s crossed. And he’s made it clear your... investment has overstayed his welcome.”

Ellis made a soft sound that cut straight through him. Gabriel’s fists clenched, fury alive on his face—real, protective, something Henri had never seen aimed at him.

Never at him.

“Ellis isn’t going anywhere,” Gabriel said with certainty.

The words hit with quiet finality. Simple. Absolute.

“Your funeral,” Henri said, hollow.

Henri turned and fled, composure shattering with each step. He stumbled through the warm, lived-in house, past scents that spoke of family, out into the humid evening.

Thirty-two minutes.

His hand shook as he pulled his phone from his pocket. Marc’s number glared from the favorites list—the number that had dictated his life for two decades. The number that demanded explanations, obedience, submission.

He was already late. Marc would be waiting.

And Henri had just made the first real choice of his adult life.

Now he would learn what freedom cost.