1. Henri
Chapter one
Henri
A few weeks later…
Henri’s hand trembled as he pressed his palm to the biometric scanner outside Marc’s penthouse.
The elaborate security system was less about keeping others out and more about monitoring every aspect of Henri’s existence within these walls.
Each door would record his passage, every camera would track his movements, and Marc would review it all later.
The lock disengaged with a soft click.
He didn’t move right away. It wouldn’t matter if he did. Marc already knew he was here. The system logged everything, from arrival time to pulse rate.
Henri watched the status light shift from red to green, knowing it could just as easily go the other way.
Biometric palm scanners secured every bedroom door in the penthouse, another layer of Marc’s control.
The master suite was the worst. There had been nights when Marc had decided Henri needed “time to think,” locking him in that room for hours or days, and no amount of palm-scanning would open any doors until Marc was satisfied.
Henri left his shoes in the proper cubby by the front door.
Even though Marc had the penthouse cleaned weekly, the man disliked dirt and disorder.
Every surface gleamed, every item precisely placed, from the crystal vases filled with fresh flowers to the carefully arranged art books on the coffee table.
The foyer opened onto the sprawling lower level of the two-story penthouse, marble floors stretching toward floor-to-ceiling windows.
To the left, the open-plan living spaces flowed seamlessly from the formal sitting room to the dining room and a kitchen that would make even the most skilled chef weep.
To the right, Marc’s study connected to the library through mahogany double doors.
The gaming room, with its pool table and bar, lay beyond.
A glass staircase curved up to the second floor, where the bedrooms waited.
“You’re back.”
Marc’s voice drifted from his study, deceptively gentle. The kind of gentleness that made Henri’s stomach clench.
Henri found Marc at his desk, backlit by the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the Second Cat’s glittering skyline.
From the fifty-second floor of Le Ciel Tower, the city spread out in jewels and light.
The penthouse’s private elevator and security entrance far below, nestled between the Michelin-starred Le Petit Jardin and an exclusive Chanel boutique, seemed a world away from this height.
Marc didn’t look up from his laptop. “Come here.”
Henri moved without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding him to place his suit jacket, shirt, and slacks in a careful pile near Marc’s desk. His fingers worked automatically, loosening buttons, sliding fabric from his shoulders. He didn’t remember starting. Only that he was already bare.
The part of him that thought, that chose, had stayed behind somewhere near the elevator doors. His body knew what was expected. Had known since high school at Chaminade.
He sank to his knees beside Marc’s chair. CFO of La Sauvegarde, kneeling naked before the President of Three Rivers Insurance. The absurdity of it might have made him laugh if he weren’t so terrified of Marc mistaking his amusement for mockery.
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.”
The girl glanced at her father, received a slight nod, and murmured her acceptance.
Olivier laughed, rich and unbothered. “I think we can arrange suitable incentives, Alonso. Consider the contract guaranteed.”
“No,” Henri whispered, the word barely audible. “Please, I—”
But Olivier was already standing, shaking Alonso’s hand, discussing which of his houses they should adjourn to. Marc rose as well, offering his arm to the subdued girl, not sparing Henri another glance.
Henri’s protests died in his throat, swallowed by the realization that no one was listening. No one cared. Marc’s possessiveness had limits, and business came first.
Marc left with Alonso’s daughter for the theater. Olivier and Alonso took Henri back to the Second Cat house, the one with the soundproofed study and locked doors.
Henri didn’t remember much of that night. Just fragments. The pain. His tears. His pleas that went unanswered as two men used him, passed him between them like he was nothing. Less than nothing.
By morning, the contract was signed.
That had been the first time. Not the last.
Years later, Henri would see Alonso again at La Sauvegarde.
Finding him in the office after a long meeting, shaking hands with Gabriel over some warehouse lease renewal.
The man’s wolfish grin when he’d spotted Henri, eyes raking over his body with the casual entitlement of someone who’d already sampled the merchandise.
Henri had flinched before he could stop himself, then forced his professional mask back into place.
“Mr. Martelli,” he’d said, extending his hand for the expected handshake, trying not to remember how those same fingers had traced patterns on his skin with the edge of a blade.
“Henri,” Alonso had purred, holding the handshake just a moment too long. “Always a pleasure. I hope we’ll have more opportunities to... collaborate in the future.”
Gabriel hadn’t noticed the undercurrent, had probably assumed it was just the usual posturing between a CFO and a vendor. He’d had no reason to suspect that Marc had already arranged for Henri to spend an evening entertaining the man in ways that had nothing to do with warehouse leases.