2. Henri #2
His own muffled screams, his face pressed into the pillow. Marc above him. Too strong, too sure. It felt as though his body was being ripped apart. Marc holding him down, whispering “mine” over and over into his ears as Henri sobbed, begging for it to stop.
Henri’s fingers curled unconsciously against the edge of his desk. His nails bit into the polished wood.
And Jean... Christ, Jean heard? Had Marc’s little brother crept down the hallway, wondering why there were strange sounds coming from his big brother’s room?
Henri’s stomach lurched at the thought of an eight-year-old Jean pressed against the door, listening to Marc claim what he wanted, listening to Henri break.
Had he known what those noises meant?
Or worse. Had he not known, and only understood years later?
Henri’s stomach turned.
“He saw enough, heard enough,” Lucas continued softly, and each word felt painful. “More than enough. He’s worried about you.”
Worried. As if Henri were some victim to be pitied instead of a willing participant. As if Henri hadn’t learned to crave Marc’s attention, hadn’t learned to find comfort in being owned. The shame burned through him, hot and acidic.
Henri pushed away from his desk abruptly, the sudden movement sending lines of fire across his back and thighs.
He welcomed the sharp reminder as he strode to the window on unsteady legs.
His hands shook as he gripped the sill, knuckles white with strain.
The physical pain was easier to bear than the alternative.
Thinking about Jean’s eight-year-old face pressed against a door, listening.
The idea that Jean had witnessed everything, had understood even as a child what Marc was doing to him. And now Lucas knew.
Everyone would look at him with that same terrible pity. The successful CFO of La Sauvegarde, reduced to Marc Saint-Clair’s broken toy.
“Get out.” His voice was raw, barely recognizable. “Tell my brother I’ll go to London. Just... get out.”
The pity in Lucas’s eyes was unbearable. Henri could feel it burning into his back. “Jean just wants—“
“OUT!”
The word tore from him, biting and final. The door clicked shut behind Lucas. Silence rushed in to fill the space.
Henri turned and pressed his back firmly against the window frame.
The pressure sent fresh fire racing along the cane welts, each line of pain sharp and immediate.
He pressed harder, drawing a hiss from between his teeth.
The familiar burn cut through the spiral in his mind, gave him something concrete to anchor to instead of the endless loop of Jean’s eight-year-old face.
The pain was real. Present. Something he could control.
A sharp knock interrupted the moment. Henri stepped away from the window quickly, straightening as muscle memory kicked in. Shoulders back. Expression neutral. The Henri Rohan who fell apart in private was not the Henri Rohan who existed for other people.
“What?” he called out, proud that his voice sounded normal. Controlled.
Eric Thompson stepped in, one eyebrow raised at Henri’s obviously disheveled state. His PA was a delicate thing, fine-boned and pretty, but the look he gave Henri could’ve frozen hell. The particular brand of fury reserved for bosses who made their assistants’ lives unnecessarily difficult.
“I’ve received the schedule for your London trip,” Eric said, tapping his tablet with sharp, precise movements that screamed barely contained irritation. “The London trip that apparently starts today. The one I’m finding out about now, at eleven thirty in the morning.”
Henri winced. Eric ran his life with military precision, scheduling meetings weeks in advance, coordinating with other executives’ calendars, and managing Henri’s reputation with the care of a museum curator.
Finding out about a month-long international trip with six hours’ notice was probably Eric’s personal version of hell.
“Which means I now get to spend the next several hours, possibly the rest of the day, rearranging your entire calendar. Canceling a month’s worth of meetings. Explaining to very important people why Henri Rohan suddenly can’t make it to events he confirmed weeks ago.”
Henri watched Eric’s gaze sweep over him.
Lingering on his disheveled hair, the slight tremor in his hands, the way Henri’s suit jacket hung askew from his hasty movement away from the window.
Eric’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, his professional mask slipping just enough to show the calculation happening behind his eyes.
Then his expression smoothed again, but his grip on the tablet had gone white-knuckled.
“You have lunch with the VPs in an hour, followed by the townhall. After that, assuming I can work miracles and don’t have a complete breakdown, I’ll need a list of any additional items requiring attention during your absence.
” His tablet made a sharp tap against his palm.
“Which, by the way, I’m about to spend my entire weekend rebuilding from scratch. ”
The silence stretched between them. Eric’s controlled fury meeting Henri’s barely contained panic.
Time to perform.
Henri walked back to his desk with measured steps, straightening his suit jacket and smoothing his hair with one hand.
He leaned back against the mahogany edge, letting the fabric fall open in a studied casual gesture, a practiced smirk sliding across his lips.
The charm was muscle memory now, as automatic as breathing, as necessary as air.
“What would I do without you, Eric?” His voice carried that familiar honeyed confidence, the one that had gotten him through countless boardroom crises.
“Fall apart, probably. Drown in paperwork. Miss all your meetings.” Eric’s tone was dry as he tapped at his tablet, but Henri caught the slight concern lingering in his eyes. Eric had seen him before. Disheveled, struggling to pull the mask back into place.
“You know me so well,” Henri purred, playing up the charm that had gotten him through countless boardrooms, countless dinners where Marc had needed him to be perfect. “My own personal savior. Guardian of my schedule, keeper of my sanity.”
The words felt hollow, but they came easily. This Henri, the flirtatious, confident CFO, was safe. This Henri didn’t fall apart in his office. This Henri didn’t panic about asking permission to leave the country.
“Save it for the interns,” Eric rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched in what might have been fondness.
“Some of us have seen you hungover in last night’s clothes, trying to charm your way through a board meeting.
We’re immune to your whole...” he waved his hand vaguely at Henri’s carefully constructed image, “thing.”
Henri clutched his chest in mock offense. “My ‘thing’? I’ll have you know this thing gets us excellent press, record-breaking gala donations,” He winked, playing up the rakish playboy act, “and at least three favorable write-ups in PDC Weekly.”
Eric’s snort was distinctly unimpressed. “I’m sure it does. Meeting in an hour, Mr. Rohan. Try not to look destroyed by then.”
Henri’s laugh felt almost genuine. “You wound me,” he said smoothly, raising a hand in theatrical surrender.
Eric shot him a knowing look before departing, and Henri’s smile dropped the moment the door closed. The mask fell away, leaving him hollow and aching.
He sank into his chair heavily, ignoring the pain. His head fell into his hands as the weight of everything crashed down.
The numbers on his screen blurred as his mind circled the same terrifying questions. What would Marc do without him there to redirect his attention? Who would bear the cost of Henri’s absence? The cane welts throbbed with each heartbeat, a metronome counting down to his departure.
He should call Marc. Should try to explain. Should—
His phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. The lunch meeting. Henri blinked, disoriented. When had it gotten so late? The clock showed 12:47 PM.
Shit.
He was late.
Henri shot to his feet, ignoring the sharp protest from his abused muscles. The VPs would already be seated, probably wondering where their charming CFO had disappeared to. Time to perform again.
Located on the eighth floor of La Sauvegarde’s building, the restaurant was a favorite among Porte du Coeur’s business elite.
Their private dining room offered a stunning view of the Gateway Arch rising above the Mississippi, its gleaming surface catching the midday sun.
The room’s dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows and subtle lighting provided the ideal setting for discussing million-dollar deals over expertly prepared cuisine.
Henri paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. The familiar ritual of performing confidence for colleagues who expected nothing less from their charming CFO. He could do this. He’d done it a thousand times before.
The four VPs were already seated: Richard Benson from Finance, stern-faced as always; Kenta Yamamoto from Operations, absorbed in his tablet; Patricia Whitmore from HR, who’d been with the company longer than Henri had been alive; and James Sullivan from Sales, who was regaling everyone with his latest client dinner story.
A fifth figure sat beside Patricia. A young man Henri didn’t recognize.
Delicate features, soft brown hair that caught the light, practically vibrating with nervous energy.
He wore a pristine but ill-fitting suit, his pretty face showing an eager expression that betrayed someone who still thought ambition could be charming.
Intern. Had to be.
“Sorry I’m late,” Henri announced, sliding into his chair with practiced grace, letting just enough sheepishness creep into his voice to seem human while maintaining authority. “The EcoSphere numbers needed my personal attention.”
Patricia made a sound that might have been a snort. “Henri, this is David Mitchell, one of our summer interns in HR.”