9. Henri
Chapter nine
Henri
H enri stood in Michael’s master bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, droplets trailing down his chest from the still-steaming shower.
The heated floor tiles radiated warmth up through his bare feet, a small luxury he hadn’t known he needed until he’d stepped onto them.
Thick bath sheets that actually absorbed water. Silence that didn’t carry consequences.
The mirror didn’t fog—its climate-controlled center remained crystal clear—but Henri had the urge to wipe a hand across it anyway, a habit from another life.
He stared at his reflection.
There were no bruises.
Not even faint shadows now. The last traces had vanished days ago, erased by that absurdly expensive “Smooth” cream Michael insisted on applying each night with careful, reverent hands. Henri hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t needed it. But Michael had done it anyway.
And now his skin was perfect again.
He should’ve been relieved.
Instead, his stomach twisted with something he couldn’t name. Loss? Grief for a thing he wasn’t supposed to grieve…
He looked whole, but he didn’t feel it.
The unmarked skin was a lie. Henri was pretending to be someone who hadn’t spent twenty years learning to flinch at raised voices and sudden movements. Someone who could make simple choices about breakfast without his heart racing.
He let out a breath, pressing both palms to the cool marble counter. Anchoring himself. Trying to want the clean slate he’d been given.
But clean slates meant starting over. Figuring out who Henri Rohan was when he wasn’t Marc Saint-Clair’s carefully curated possession.
And he had no idea how to do that.
Marc was in Porte du C?ur. Henri was here, an ocean away in London, in Michael’s townhouse with its heated floors and climate-controlled mirrors.
Safe, Michael kept saying. Protected.
But for how long?
The acquisition would close eventually. The board would expect him back. His VPs needed face-to-face leadership, or at least, that’s what he’d always been told. That’s what the culture demanded in PDC. He couldn’t run La Sauvegarde’s finances remotely forever. Could he?
And if he went back… would he have to go back to Marc too?
Gabriel had made it clear he’d protect Henri, that he’d burn the Saint-Clair empire to ash if that’s what it took. The investigation was moving forward. Leo was building something airtight. Michael had promised—promised—that Henri was safe here.
But promises weren’t certainty.
With Marc, he’d known the rules. Known the consequences. Known exactly what would happen if he stepped out of line. Brutal, yes. Crushing. Soul-destroying.
But predictable.
This kindness… Michael choosing his clothes, making him breakfast, and demanding nothing in return, this was uncharted territory. Henri had no map. No guide. No rules to follow that would keep him safe.
What if he was doing it wrong? What if there was a right way to accept care, to exist without constant supervision, and he didn’t know it? What if he made the wrong choice and everything shattered?
What if part of him needed the structure? The clarity of knowing exactly what was expected, even when those expectations were impossible?
His reflection stared back at him, unmarked and unfamiliar. A stranger wearing his face.
He needed to get dressed. Michael was waiting.
There were emails to answer, meetings to prepare for, and an acquisition to manage.
Work. That, at least, he understood. That, he was good at.
Numbers didn’t judge. Spreadsheets didn’t have expectations beyond accuracy.
He could be competent there, even when the rest of his life was standing on ice that might crack at any moment.
But first, he had to walk into that bedroom and let Michael dress him. Accept another choice being made for him and pretend his chest didn’t tighten with confusion about whether he wanted it or feared it or both.
Beyond the open door, he could hear Michael moving around the bedroom—the gentle slide of drawers, the hush of fabric being set aside. Choosing his clothes again.
Michael’s clothes didn’t pinch or chafe or shout ownership.
Cashmere, brushed cotton, denim that gave instead of constrained.
Nothing designed to highlight or provoke.
Comfort. Practicality, softened by taste.
When Michael handed him a sweater, it was being wrapped in safety, not displayed as property.
Marc’s clothes had been a costume. Tailored within an inch of decency, engineered to humiliate under the guise of elegance. Henri could still feel the ghost of too-tight collars, of sheer silks that clung in all the wrong ways. Every outfit had been a message: You belong to me. Everyone can see it.
The clothes weren’t the only thing Michael had taken over.
Meals. Schedules. Even the quiet reminder to leave on time for work.
Henri should’ve hated it. He’d told himself, back when leaving Marc was a desperate fantasy whispered in the dark, that he’d never let anyone control him again. That if he ever escaped, he’d forge his own path. Make his own choices. Be his own person.
But he’d never believed it would happen.
Never thought he’d be standing here, wearing another man’s clothes and eating meals he hadn’t prepared himself.
The fantasy had been just that—a fairy tale he told himself to survive another day, another punishment, another carefully orchestrated humiliation.
And now that he was here... he didn’t know what to do with it.
Because when Michael handed him a glass of water or reminded him to eat lunch, it didn’t feel like control. It didn’t feel like Marc’s cold directives or calculated cruelty.
It felt like care.
And that terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
A flutter. A catch in his breath that he tried to dismiss as nothing. He pressed his palms harder against the marble counter, grounding himself in the cool stone, but the sensation only grew.
He’d escaped. He’d actually escaped. And he had no idea what to do with himself.
Michael offered suggestions, yes. Gentle guidance that felt nothing like Marc’s commands. But they were optional. Henri could say no. Could choose differently. Could make his own decisions about his own life.
His breath came shorter. Shallower. The pressure wrapped around his ribs, squeezing until each inhale felt inadequate. His fingers tingled. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, the air too thick, the silence too loud.
He was here, safe and cared for, and he didn’t know if he was allowed to want that. Didn’t know if he deserved it. Didn’t know if Marc would let him keep it.
The not knowing was killing him.
“You almost ready in there?” Michael’s voice floated in, warm and affectionate.
Henri’s breath caught. He forced it out slowly, but it stuttered in his chest, uneven and wrong. “Just finishing up,” he called, and hated how hollow it sounded. How the words came out tight and strained despite his efforts to sound normal.
He stepped into the bedroom, chilled instantly by the contrast to the bathroom’s warmth. The cold air hit his damp skin, and he shivered—or maybe that was the anxiety coiling tighter in his gut.
Michael stood by the bed, holding out a pair of dark jeans and a forest green tee, the kind that clung in just the right places and felt like a favorite even the first time worn.
Henri managed a smile. It felt plastic on his face.
Until he saw Michael’s eyes. Not alarmed, but perceptive. Concerned. Seeing right through him the way he always did.
“You okay?” Michael asked gently.
The practiced response— I’m fine —died on Henri’s lips. His throat was too tight. His chest too small. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.
“No,” he finally managed. His voice too small for the room, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. “Something feels wrong.”
Michael set the clothes on the bed and stepped closer, stopping short of touching him. Not crowding, close enough that Henri could feel his warmth. Could smell his cologne. Could use him as an anchor point in a world that suddenly tilted.
“Talk to me,” Michael said. “What kind of wrong?”
Henri stared at the carpet, focusing on the weave of the fibers because if he looked up, if he met Michael’s eyes, he might fall apart completely. “I don’t know. But I can’t stop feeling like I’ve forgotten something. Or... like I’m waiting for someone to punish me.”
“It’s alright,” Michael said, voice a soft constant. “We’ll figure it out.”
Henri’s laugh was sharp-edged, bordering on hysterical.
“I think it’s the freedom. Not having every second dictated for me.
” His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The pain helped.
Gave him something to focus on. “I feel... untethered. Like I’m failing at being a person.
I mean, who needs instructions for how to live? But I… I think I do.”
Michael didn’t speak, merely watched him with that maddening, patient quiet. And somehow that made it worse.
Henri inhaled, or tried to. The air wouldn’t go deep enough.
His chest compressed, ribs refusing to expand.
“I know how it sounds. But I’m used to being told what to wear, when to eat, when to speak, what to think.
And you choose my clothes and that helps, but everything else—” His breath hitched.
“Breakfast. What book to read? My phone notifications. Such small things. They’re nothing.
But I don’t—I can’t—even those feel impossible. ”
His vision started to narrow at the edges.
Tunnel vision creeping in. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it might break through.
This was it. This was the panic attack he’d been fighting off all morning.
The one that had been building since he woke up in Michael’s bed, safe and warm and terrified that it wouldn’t last.
“It’s pathetic…”
“It’s not pathetic,” Michael said. “It’s survival. You adapted to what you had to. That’s not shameful.”