7. Henri #2
Henri didn’t have much say in his wardrobe.
Marc bought all his clothing. Tailored suits in shades of black, white, navy, and the occasional charcoal or slate.
Neutral. Sophisticated. Undistracting. Henri didn’t remember when that had become the norm, only that it was easier not to protest. It made Marc happy to dress him, to curate every part of his appearance. So Henri let him.
And now...
Now, Michael had handed him this shirt. Not just because it fit, but because it made him seen.
It made him feel good.
It seemed to make Michael happy, too. And if letting someone else dress him again meant wearing this, this softness, this unexpected kindness, Henri would allow it. At least for today.
He finished buttoning the cuffs. The suit jacket settled over the silk as though it belonged there, and for the first time in a long time, Henri liked what he saw.
Henri hesitated, but when he turned slightly, Michael was behind him, watching his reflection, eyes dark with quiet approval.
“Perfect,” Michael murmured, stepping forward until their shoulders nearly brushed. “That’s you.”
Not just a shadow at Marc’s side.
And for once, Henri let himself stand there a moment longer, breathing in the difference.
“Your car’s here,” Michael said, checking his phone. He stepped closer, adjusting Henri’s collar slightly. “Remember, text me after each meeting.”
Henri nodded, trying to quell the nervousness in his stomach. “I will.”
Michael pulled him in for one more kiss, deep and reassuring. “You’ve got this.”
The car service Michael had ordered waited at the curb outside his townhouse. A sleek, driverless black sedan gleaming in the morning sun. Its doors opened with a soft hiss as Henri stepped outside, dressed in his charcoal suit and Michael’s deep blue silk shirt.
Michael followed him out, coffee mug in one hand.
Henri quirked an eyebrow as he slid into the backseat. “You coming with me?”
Michael chuckled, leaning into the open door frame. “Tempting. But no. Someone’s got to keep the company running. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Before Henri could respond, Michael leaned in and kissed him. Soft, brief, and warm. A gentle tether. Not possessive, not demanding. Just there.
Michael straightened and tapped the glowing console between the seats. “Your destination’s already loaded.” As he pulled his hand away, the console chimed.
Would you like to make a stop before reaching your destination?
Two options pulsed gently: YES and NO .
Henri didn’t hesitate. He tapped NO .
Michael arched a brow. “You are allowed to stop for coffee, you know. Or, God forbid, something for yourself.”
Henri blinked at him, caught off guard. He said nothing for a beat too long.
Because he wasn’t allowed to stop. Not without permission. He’d been taught not to ask. Not to want.
“I just want to get to the office,” Henri said, tone light but eyes unreadable.
Michael watched him for a long moment, then nodded.
“Alright,” he said softly, stepping back. He leaned one hand on the roof of the car. “Knock them dead, CFO.”
Henri gave a faint, crooked smile. Michael reached forward and gently closed the door, then stood at the curb with his coffee, watching as the vehicle pulled away.
Henri kept his gaze forward, but his chest ached in a way he didn’t understand.
The car pulled up smoothly in front of EcoSphere’s gleaming headquarters in Canary Wharf, its mirrored windows rising into the cloud-streaked London sky.
Henri hesitated for a beat before stepping out.
He straightened his jacket, Michael’s deep blue shirt shifting beneath it, and drew in a slow breath that tasted of river mist and morning traffic.
He could do this.
He adjusted the cuffs, lifted his chin.
He would do this.
Inside, the lobby hummed with quiet efficiency.
The security desk issued him a temporary badge and directed him to the top-floor boardroom, where EcoSphere’s leadership was already seated around a long polished table.
Their polite greetings didn’t faze him. Henri had done this before, more times than he could count.
But today felt different. Not because of the stakes.
Because of the silence in his pocket where Marc’s voice usually lived.
He took his seat. And then he began.
Henri moved through the presentations with practiced confidence.
Outlining La Sauvegarde’s vision for the merger, breaking down integration strategies, fielding questions with calm precision.
Growth projections. Departmental consolidation.
Logistics chains. Risk assessments. It all flowed, seamless and clean.
This was his arena, where intellect mattered more than obedience.
Where his voice carried weight because of what he knew, not who he belonged to.
After each meeting, he texted Michael.
Board meeting went well. No one fell asleep.
Michael’s reply had landed instantly.
Proud of you. But I expected at least one power napper.
The messages weren’t grand declarations, but each one made Henri smile. They grounded him. Reminded him there was someone out there who wasn’t keeping score, who just cared.
The technical review with EcoSphere’s VPs proved even better.
Henri found himself immersed in discussions about production optimization and sustainable material sourcing.
He leaned in, asked questions, took notes.
This was what he loved. Watching the pieces of a company come together in better alignment. Seeing potential take shape.
His phone buzzed again.
You’re killing it, CFO.
It made his chest warm. Not just the words, but the belief behind them.
By the time they wrapped for a late lunch, Henri felt the first true sense of exhilaration he’d experienced in months.
The CEO, who would become President after the merger, suggested a seafood place just down the block, and Henri agreed without hesitation.
The air was warm outside, but not unpleasant.
He let himself enjoy the walk, the easy chatter about upcoming integration milestones, the weight of the morning’s success settling around his shoulders.
At the restaurant, they were ushered to a quiet corner table. The conversation flowed effortlessly. Talk of hiring timelines, regional regulations, future growth projections. Henri even laughed once, surprising himself.
Henri was just raising a forkful of rare steak to his mouth when his phone buzzed on the table beside him. He smiled, already picturing another of Michael’s encouraging notes, some quip about charm stats or wooing investors.
But the smile vanished as soon as he saw the name.
It wasn’t Michael.
You aren’t wearing it.
Henri’s fork clattered against his plate.
The sound drew a few glances from the EcoSphere executives around the table, but Henri barely registered them. He forced a tight smile, tucked the phone face-down beside his water glass, and reached for the glass again, but his fingers were trembling. Trembling in a way they hadn’t in years.
His throat tightened. Phantom pain flickered through the socket, deep and cold.
He took a bite of steak he could no longer taste, chewing mechanically. Someone was saying something about production scalability. Henri nodded, smiled. Pretended.
Buzz.
Did you think I wouldn’t know?
His phone vibrated on the table. Henri kept his gaze trained on the napkin in his lap. He didn’t need to look. He knew the rhythm. This was the second stage. Accusation and disbelief. It would escalate quickly now.
Buzz.
Answer me.
The itch to obey nearly overpowered him. His fingers hovered at the edge of the table, torn between impulse and memory. Just a quick reply. Just enough to soothe the worst of it. But then Michael’s voice surfaced in his head:
That’s not love.
Henri dragged in a breath that shook in his chest.
Buzz .
He picked up his water glass and tried to hide the tremor in his hand.
“I apologize,” Henri said, standing so smoothly it surprised even him. “I’m not feeling well. Must have been something I ate earlier.”
Concern flickered across the EcoSphere CEO’s face. “I hope it wasn’t the oysters. You barely touched them.”
“I’ll be fine,” Henri lied. He nodded toward the remaining VPs, offering a professional smile he could feel cracking at the corners. “Thank you for lunch. I’ll have my office send over the updated integration timeline this afternoon.”
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
The messages followed him out of the restaurant. Outside, Henri stumbled slightly as he leaned against the building’s cool stone exterior, fumbling with the app on his phone.
You’re making this worse for yourself.
Did you think distance would give you courage?
Answer me, Henri.
He flinched as he pressed the car service icon. The sedan was only four minutes away.
Four more minutes of not knowing what message would come next. Of waiting to see if Marc would escalate again.
Another notification.
I thought I taught you better than this.
Henri’s heart jack-hammered behind his ribs. He declined the call with numb fingers and finally managed to text Michael:
Coming back. Please be there.
The town car pulled up just as Marc’s ringtone blared again. Henri launched into the backseat. He didn’t breathe until the door clicked shut behind him.
You’ll regret ignoring me.
Did you forget who you belong to?
The words etched themselves into his chest. Deeper than any whip Marc had ever used, because these were the ones that stuck. The ones that told him he was wrong. Not just in this moment, but inherently. Always.
What had he been thinking? That he could wear Michael’s shirt and walk through the day as though he belonged to himself?
That he could just stop obeying?
The confidence from that morning, his successful presentation, the warmth in Michael’s texts, and the sensation of silk against his skin felt hollow now. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t free. He was stupid.
Reckless.
He’d failed. And failure had a cost.
Another message.
Another.
Henri buried his face in his hands. They wouldn’t stop shaking.
The ride back to Chester Terrace blurred past in fragments. London traffic, the relentless buzz of his phone. Time stretched and contracted until Henri couldn’t tell if minutes or hours had passed.
By the time the car rolled to a stop at Chester Terrace, he was unraveling. The door hadn’t even fully opened before he stumbled out, nearly falling onto the sidewalk.
Michael was already waiting.
Henri didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The sob that tore from his throat as he collapsed into Michael’s arms didn’t even feel like his own.
Buzz.
Buzz.
His phone was still in his hand. Still tethered to everything he thought he’d escaped.
“Inside. Now.” Michael’s voice was calm, but it cut like steel.
Henri let himself be pulled forward, legs barely cooperating, body curled into Michael’s. The door shut behind them, and the world went quiet except for the awful, buzzing heartbeat in his hand.
Michael took the phone gently, prying it from his fingers. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“No,” Henri gasped, burying his face in Michael’s shirt. “You don’t understand. He knows. I didn’t wear it, and he knows, and he’s so angry, and I—”
“Breathe.” One hand anchored him on his chest, firm and warm. The other pulled him close.
Henri tried. But each breath scraped raw against his throat.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Henri shook his head wildly. “You don’t know what he’s like when I disappoint him.”
Michael guided him gently to the couch, settling behind him, arms forming a wall around his chest. “He can’t touch you here,” he said. “He’s an ocean away.”
Henri shook against him. “He always finds a way.”
On the coffee table, the phone buzzed again.
Your silence is telling me everything I need to know.
Michael picked it up, met Henri’s eyes, and pressed the power button. The screen went dark.
Michael wrapped both arms around Henri again, tucking him close.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered. “I won’t let him hurt you. Not ever again.”
Henri clung to him, tears soaking into his shirt. The words should’ve brought comfort.
But all Henri could think about was that one day, Marc would get to him.
Because he always did.