2. Henri
Chapter two
Henri
H enri shifted carefully in his ergonomic chair, every micro-movement sending fresh lines of fire across his back and thighs.
The cane had been precise the night before.
Twenty-five strikes that had left raised welts from his shoulders to the backs of his knees.
Unlike the broad, deep ache of Marc’s paddle, these were sharp, surgical lines of pain that caught him with every breath, every shift of fabric against his skin.
It had been nine days since he’d freed Jean. Nine days of Marc’s creative punishments, each night a new lesson in obedience. The paddle. The flogger. Marc’s belt. And last night, finally, the cane.
Henri adjusted his posture, one controlled breath at a time.
The cut of his tailored suit hid the damage, but the fine fabric scraped against the raised ridges.
Beneath the fresh welts from the cane, deeper bruises lingered from earlier nights, layers of pain that shifted and overlapped with each movement.
Each welt was a reminder of his transgression. Going behind Marc’s back to free Jean, manipulating Olivier, making Marc appear weak. The cane had mapped out his punishment in thin, burning lines that would take weeks to fade completely.
And then, the smallest comfort: his fingers brushed the skin just beneath his collar.
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.
The coward’s way out.
Gabriel’s sending me to London today.
The response came before Henri had even set the phone down.
No.
Henri’s breath caught. One word. Simple. Final. But Henri couldn’t obey, not this time. Gabriel had made that impossible.
Henri’s hands trembled. He forced his fingers still and replied carefully, watching each word.
I don’t have a choice. It’s my job. If you interfere, it will look suspicious.
No answer. That was worse than rage.
Henri scanned the email from Brenda carefully, his stomach sinking further with each detail. The Dorchester in Mayfair looked lovely in the attached photos. All clean lines and modern furnishings that reminded him uncomfortably of Marc’s aesthetic. A car would be waiting at Heathrow.
Then he saw the dates: July 15th to August 17th.
Thirty-two days.
Henri stared at the screen, the number tilting sideways in his mind.
Thirty-two days away from Marc. Thirty-two days without being touched, corrected, claimed.
Marc hadn’t gone more than three days without him since—God, when was it?
That conference in Chicago? Even then, Marc had flown in for the weekend, unwilling to let Henri stay away too long.
His breath caught. He was supposed to keep Marc calm. Keep him satisfied. Keep him interested. If Henri left, if he abandoned Marc for thirty-two days, what would Marc do? Who would he turn to?
Worse: who would he hurt?
Henri had already fulfilled Marc’s promise twice.
Once with Solano, the Spanish banker who liked them pretty and pliant, and once with Matthieu Lacroix, who’d started asking if Henri came with the portfolio.
He’d bought time by offering himself instead of letting Marc search for Jean’s replacement.
But that only worked because he was here, because he could intercept Marc’s plans, redirect his attention.
From London? Henri would be powerless to protect anyone.
Henri fired off a text to Gabriel, his fingers cold.
A month? What the hell?
Gabriel didn’t respond, but half an hour later, Lucas returned, closing the door behind him with controlled force that meant someone was irritated.
“Gabriel wants to know if you actually read the acquisition packet. You’re doing a full inspection of their warehouses and production line.”
Henri clenched his jaw. “I haven’t gone through all of it yet.”
His voice was too controlled. Too calm. Reading from a script.
A month. Over a month without Marc’s voice in his ear, Marc’s hands on his body, Marc’s rules to obey. He couldn’t remember what it was not to be managed. To not be watched. Even the thought of choosing his own clothes for more than a day felt alien.
Thirty-two days of freedom should have felt relief.
Instead, his foundation was cracking beneath him.
Lucas sighed, not moving from his spot by the door. The pity in his eyes made Henri want to scream. Not anger, not disgust. Pity. As if Henri were something fragile. Something already broken.
“Jean told me. About you and Marc.”
Henri’s face burned. He looked away. “Jean has no idea what he’s talking about.”
“He saw enough.” Lucas’s voice softened, and that gentleness was somehow worse than accusation would have been. “This London trip... it could be good for you. A chance to—“
“To what?” Henri snapped. “Break away? From someone I’ve been with since I was seven?”
His laugh came out too loud, too brittle. “You think this is something I can just walk away from?” He shook his head, the motion too quick, too desperate. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand that Jean watched Marc control every aspect of your life. That he saw things no child should.” Lucas’s voice gentled further, and Henri wanted to cover his ears. “He was eight when you were sixteen.”
Sixteen.
The memory seized Henri, pulled him back to Marc’s bedroom at the Saint-Clair estate. That night remained etched in perfect detail. The shift from Marc’s more boyish “experiments” to something far more violent.