8. Michael #2
“Tell Henri...” Gabriel’s voice faltered, the rare crack of emotion sharp even across continents. “Tell him I’m sorry. For not having seen it sooner. For not protecting him.”
Michael swallowed hard. “I will.”
“Take care of him, Michael.”
The line went dead.
Michael stared at the phone for a long moment, thumb resting on the screen.
The weight of what Gabriel had revealed settled over him.
Trafficking operations, shell companies, atrocities wrapped in paperwork.
Marc wasn’t just controlling Henri; he was part of something far more monstrous.
The scope made his chest tight with fury.
Michael stood, pacing to the window. Outside, London hummed with its usual evening rhythm, oblivious to the conversation that had just ended. Somewhere across the Atlantic, Henri’s tormentor was conducting business as usual, probably checking his phone for messages that would never come.
The package on the nightstand seemed to pulse with malevolent energy. Michael crossed to it, picked it up, and without ceremony shoved it deep into the drawer. The slam of wood against wood echoed in the quiet bedroom.
Henri was still downstairs. Still working. Still trying to carry every expectation on his narrow, tired shoulders, unaware that rescue was being planned in boardrooms and law offices across two continents.
Michael exhaled through his nose, the pressure in his chest coiling tighter. If Marc ever touched Henri again, or even tried to, Michael wouldn’t call Gabriel. He wouldn’t need to.
He placed an order with the Thai place around the corner, then headed for the office. Henri looked up from his laptop when he entered, eyes shadowed but focused.
“Food’s on the way,” Michael said. “About twenty minutes.”
Henri nodded. “Thank you.” He clicked save, fingers still resting on the keyboard. “I should probably answer some of his messages first.”
“No.” Michael’s tone stayed soft, but there was steel beneath it. “You shouldn’t. We’re getting you a new phone tomorrow. New number. No more of him in your pocket.”
Henri went very still. “He won’t like that.”
“He doesn’t get a say in it.”
Henri’s hand twitched toward his pocket out of habit, but there was nothing there. No leash. No weight. His palm hovered uselessly in his lap.
“Michael...” he said quietly, eyes fixed on a spot just past the monitor. “You don’t understand. If I don’t respond, if I’m not available when he needs me...”
“Then what?” Michael stepped closer. “What’s he going to do, Henri? He’s in Porte du C?ur. You’re here. With me.”
Henri’s breath hitched. “I don’t know.”
Michael bent, pressing a slow, grounding kiss to his mouth. “Don’t message him. Promise me?”
Henri’s voice barely cleared his throat. “I won’t.”
“Good boy.” Michael kissed him again, softer this time. “I’ll be in the living room when the food arrives. Join me when you hear the doorbell.”
Henri nodded, the smallest motion. Michael squeezed his shoulder, then stepped out.
When the bell finally chimed, Michael returned with the bags to find Henri in the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, pulling plates from the cabinet.
His movements had an ease to them that made Michael’s chest warm.
Henri looked comfortable here, belonged here.
The careful way he handled each dish suggested he was still mindful of making noise, but there was something almost domestic about it, natural in a way that felt right.
Michael set the food on the island and arched a brow. “What are you doing? We have boxes.”
Henri froze mid-motion, a porcelain plate still in his hands. Slowly, almost guiltily, he slid it back onto the shelf.
Michael crossed the room, wrapping his arms around Henri’s waist from behind. “Was that a Marc thing?”
“Yes.” Henri’s voice was barely audible. “‘Eating out of boxes is barbaric.’” He didn’t mimic Marc’s tone, but the disdain was easy to imagine.
“Well,” Michael murmured into his hair, “I happen to enjoy a little barbarism.”
Henri let out a huff that might’ve been a laugh. Michael felt the tension in his spine ease.
“I’ll get the silverware,” Michael said, brushing a kiss against Henri’s temple before pulling back. “But we’re not doing dishes tonight.”
They settled at the island, the takeout containers opened between them. The smell of basil and lemongrass filled the kitchen.
After a few bites, Michael bumped Henri’s shoulder gently. “See? Isn’t this fun?”
Henri poked at his pad thai with exaggerated suspicion. “It’s weird. And not much different than eating off a plate.”
“Ah, but it is.” Michael pointed at him with his fork. “No cleanup. Efficiency and rebellion, all in one.”
Henri shook his head, but a reluctant smile ghosted across his lips.
They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Then Michael set down his fork, wiping his hands on a napkin.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “we’re getting you a new phone. New number. Clean start.”
Henri’s fork stilled halfway to his mouth. “I don’t need a new phone.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
“The one I have is fine.”
“The one you have is powered off and hidden behind a bookshelf because it was making you panic. That’s not fine, Henri.”
Henri looked down, picking at his food. “You don’t understand. If I’m not available...”
“Then what?” Michael asked softly. “What happens? He’s an ocean away. He can’t reach you.”
Henri didn’t look up. “He always finds a way.”
Michael reached across the island, gently brushing his fingers against Henri’s wrist. “Not this time. The new phone will have a UK number. He won’t know it. He won’t have access.”
Henri’s voice was barely a whisper. “Until I go back.”
“You’re not going back.”
That made Henri look up sharply. “I have to go back. Eventually. I’m CFO, Michael. I have responsibilities.”
“And you’re brilliant at your job,” Michael said calmly. “Which you can continue to do from here. Remotely. Safely.”
“It’s not that simple.” Henri’s voice turned rigid. “La Sauvegarde isn’t like your company. The board expects in-person leadership. The culture in PDC...”
“Is outdated,” Michael finished for him. “And broken. You know it is. You’ve said as much yourself.”
Henri stared at him. The stubborn set of his mouth didn’t match the fear in his eyes.
Michael leaned forward, keeping his voice steady. “I’m not saying quit. I’m saying change the rules. Start asking what you need, not what Marc, or the board, or anyone else demands.”
Henri’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “What I want doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Henri blinked. For a moment, the silence stretched thin.
“You’re not going back to him,” Michael said again, firmer now. “Not for work. Not for obligation. Not for anything.”
Henri’s hand trembled slightly as he set his fork down, lining it carefully beside the container.
“You don’t get it,” he said, low. “He won’t let me go.”
Michael’s voice dropped, quiet but unshakable. “He doesn’t get a choice.”
He let that sit between them, anchoring it in the space.
Then he added, more gently, “Tomorrow, we get the phone. One thing at a time.”
“Just like that?” A flicker of bitterness crept into Henri’s voice. “After twenty years, I just... start over?”
“Yes.” Michael’s voice gentled. “One step at a time. Starting with finishing this pad thai and getting some sleep. You’ve got that tour tomorrow.”
Henri stared down at his food. Then, without a word, he picked up his fork.
Michael smiled. “See? Progress.”
Henri didn’t answer, but his next bite was less hesitant.
They finished eating in companionable quiet. Michael gathered the empty containers while Henri wiped down the counters. It felt startlingly domestic, a rhythm they’d already fallen into without meaning to.
They got ready for bed together. Michael let Henri borrow more of his clothes, loose cotton sleepwear soft from too many washes. Henri fell asleep first, curled against him with a hand pressed to Michael’s chest.
Morning came soft and gray. Michael made pancakes again, strawberry this time, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
Henri wandered in barefoot, still rumpled from sleep, and helped set the table with the easy grace of someone who’d always belonged there.
The sight made something warm unfurl in Michael’s chest. Henri looked comfortable here, settled in a way that felt natural and right.
After breakfast, they stepped out into the cool London air and climbed into the waiting car. Sleek, black, driverless. The onboard system chimed to life as the doors closed behind them.
Welcome, Michael and Henri. Primary destination loaded. Would you like to make any stops first?
Henri glanced at Michael, hesitant.
Michael smiled, reaching for Henri’s hand. “We can stop for more coffee if you want. Or a snack. Or to stare at something shiny in a shop window.”
Henri blinked at him, startled by the suggestion. He shook his head, too fast. “Let’s just go.”
Michael didn’t push. He gave Henri’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Soho it is,” he told the console. “Phone shop first, then Canary Wharf.”
The car merged smoothly into traffic, gliding through London’s bustling morning streets. The automated system adjusted speed and route based on real-time traffic data, weaving them through narrow lanes and wider arterials with precision.
The car glided to a stop outside a sleek, glass-fronted tech showroom in Soho. A curved banner on the window rotated between ads for neural sync accessories, biometric earbuds, and hybrid AR/VR smartwear.
Inside, the showroom was quiet. Low lighting, ambient music, touchscreen panels glowing softly.
Henri hesitated just past the threshold. “Something simple,” he said. “Basic.”
Michael smiled. “Those words don’t mean much anymore.”
A young showroom assistant appeared. “Would you like to demo the new sensory integration glasses? They just launched this week.”
Henri started to shake his head, but Michael nudged him gently. “Go on. I’ll handle the phone.”
The assistant beamed and led Henri to a softly lit demo alcove.
Michael watched from across the room as she fitted the sleek black frames over Henri’s eyes and showed him the gesture interface.
Within moments, Henri was absorbed. Hands moving tentatively, then confidently.
He laughed aloud at something only he could see.
Michael felt his chest tighten. The sound of Henri’s genuine laughter, unguarded and delighted, did something to him.
It was probably too soon to feel this protective, this invested in someone he’d known for such a short time.
But watching Henri discover joy in something as simple as choosing his own technology made Michael realize he didn’t care about the timeline.
Henri felt right. He belonged here, in Michael’s life, in ways that defied logic or reason.
At the counter, a technician greeted him. “Looking for a new primary?”
“Yes. Full functionality. No previous account ties. UK number.”
“We can do that.” She pulled a device from the locked panel behind her. “Transfer contacts from the old unit?”
“No,” Michael said. “I’ll handle them manually.”
She nodded and began the setup. Michael added the glasses to the tab without blinking.
When Henri emerged, his cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. “That was incredible. I had no idea it could be that immersive.”
Michael handed him the box. “Now you have your own. And a new phone.”
Henri blinked. “Michael, you didn’t have to...”
“I wanted to.” His voice was quiet. “I like spoiling you.”
Henri looked away, overwhelmed. But he didn’t refuse the gift.
Back in the car, Michael placed the phone in Henri’s hand. “Marc’s number is blocked already. Don’t contact him.”
Henri nodded slowly. “Okay.”
The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was weighty. Settled.
Michael tapped the console. “Set route: Continue to EcoSphere headquarters. Canary Wharf.”
The car acknowledged and began to move. Henri watched the skyline shift through the window. When they pulled up to the EcoSphere building, Henri paused, fingers on the door.
“Will you be home later?” he asked.
The question hit Michael unexpectedly. Home. Henri had called it home, and something about the way he said it, tentative but hopeful, made Michael’s throat tight. It was too fast, this feeling, this certainty that Henri belonged with him. But it was there nonetheless, solid and unshakeable.
Michael nodded. “I’m yours the rest of the day.”
Henri leaned in and kissed him. Hesitant and shy.
Michael smiled as Henri stepped out. “Knock them dead, CFO.”
He stayed at the curb until the car pulled away, and Henri disappeared into the revolving doors.
Only then did he allow himself to acknowledge the full weight of what was happening.
He was falling for Henri, had probably already fallen, despite every rational argument against it.
The timing was wrong, the circumstances were complicated, and Henri was still healing from decades of abuse.
But none of that mattered. Henri felt like home in ways Michael hadn’t known he’d been missing.
He leaned back against the seat, pulled out his own phone, and opened the secure folder with Gabriel’s files.
Because getting Henri out was only half the battle.
Now it was time to burn Marc Saint-Clair to the fucking ground.