13. Michael
Chapter thirteen
Michael
T he door clicked shut behind him with a familiar weight.
Michael dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, kicked off his shoes, and loosened his tie. It had been a long day. Contracts stalled by lawyers, another call with the Danes that went nowhere, and a vendor meeting that ran two hours over schedule.
But the one thing he’d looked forward to, the thing that made all of it bearable, was sinking into Henri’s arms at the end of it.
Henri should be home by now. His final EcoSphere meeting had been scheduled to wrap up by four, and it was well past six. Usually, he’d text if he was running late, or Michael would come home to find him curled in one of Michael’s oversized sweaters, reading or tapping away at his laptop.
“Henri?” he called, expecting an answering voice from the living room or kitchen. Maybe a distracted “in here” from the office.
Silence.
Michael moved into the kitchen, flicking on the lights. The kettle was cold. Henri had adopted the British tradition of afternoon tea with surprising enthusiasm, usually putting it on the moment he got home. But there was no mug waiting on the counter, no tea bag wrapper in the bin.
His chest tightened, just slightly. A faint pressure that didn’t mean anything yet.
“Henri?” Louder this time.
The living room was the same. The couch cushions were undisturbed, still arranged exactly as they’d been this morning. No throw blanket twisted from an afternoon read. The book Henri had been working through, the one he’d left on the coffee table, sat untouched.
Michael’s heart beat faster. Something was off.
He took the stairs two at a time, his breath coming quicker now. The bedroom door stood open, and he saw it instantly. A drawer hung half-open, gaps where clothes had been pulled in a hurry.
The closet told the rest. Henri’s suitcase was missing. But his laptop charger was still coiled on the desk. His favorite book lay open and face-down on the nightstand, and his toiletries were still lined up on the bathroom counter.
Michael’s pulse spiked, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He called Henri’s number with shaking fingers. Straight to voicemail.
His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat.
Michael went to the front door, yanking it open and stepping onto Chester Terrace.
Evening summer light poured over the row of white stucco townhouses, every window and column catching the gold of the lowering sun.
Across the road, Regent’s Park spread green and endless, dotted with runners, cyclists, and parents trailing children toward the playgrounds.
The air smelled faintly of cut grass and warm stone.
“Henri?” His voice carried farther than he meant it to. A man passing with a Labrador gave him a brief, curious glance before continuing on.
Michael scanned the street, his heart still pounding. Park gates, parked cars, the far end of the terrace where the road curved out of sight. No Henri. No sign of anyone leaving in a hurry.
The doorman in the next townhouse over paused mid-polish of the brass knocker. “Evening, Mr. Taylor.”
“Have you seen Henri today?” Michael’s voice came out too sharp, too desperate.
A shake of the head. “Not since yesterday morning.”
He thanked the doorman and went back inside, shutting the door harder than he meant to. The silence pressed in around him, suffocating now. His hands were trembling.
Then he saw it: a sheet of paper propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, folded once.
No name on the outside.
But he knew.
Michael’s legs felt weak as he crossed to it. He reached for the note with trembling fingers, unfolding it carefully. The paper shook in his hands.
Michael,
Thank you. For the mornings. For the quiet. For letting me choose my own clothes, put cream in my coffee, and yell at you when I needed to.
He had to stop. Had to breathe. The words blurred in front of him.
I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye properly. I hope you remember me fondly. I hope someday I can remember myself the same way.
Yours, H.
Michael’s knees gave out. He sank into the nearest chair, the note crumpling slightly in his white-knuckled grip. He read it again, slower this time, his brain refusing to process what it meant.
Henri hadn’t wanted to leave. The apology made that clear. Someone had made him say goodbye when he didn’t want to.
Michael’s chest constricted, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. The careful formality of the note, but also the rushed quality. Henri’s usually perfect handwriting was slightly hurried, the letters not quite as precise as usual.
Henri had been happy here. Michael had seen it in the slow relaxation of his shoulders over the weeks, in the way he’d started laughing without checking Michael’s reaction first, in how he’d begun choosing his own meals at restaurants and taking long baths and wearing Michael’s sweaters like he belonged in them.
Just this morning, Henri had mentioned possibly asking Gabriel if he could extend his stay. He’d been nervous about it, but hopeful.
Something had happened. Someone had taken that choice away from him.
Michael forced himself to breathe. In through his nose, out through his mouth. His hands were still shaking as he pulled out his phone and called the first name that came to mind.
Gabriel picked up on the second ring.
“Michael? How’s—”
“Gabriel.” Michael’s voice cracked on the name, breaking completely. “Henri’s gone.”
Silence on the other end. Then, very quietly, “What do you mean, gone?”
“I came home and—” Michael’s breath hitched. He pressed his palm against his eyes. “He’s not here. His things are missing. He left a—” His voice broke again. “He left a note.”
“Michael, slow down. Take a breath.” Gabriel’s voice shifted, became sharp and focused. “Tell me exactly what happened. When did you last speak to Henri?”
“This morning. Before I left for work.” Michael sucked in air, trying to steady himself.
“He was fine. Better than fine. He was talking about asking you if he could extend his stay, maybe work remotely from London.” Michael’s throat tightened around the words.
“He was happy, Gabriel. He was finally learning to be happy.”
“And when you got home?”
“He was gone. Like someone made him pack in a hurry.” Michael’s voice was steadier now, anger cutting through the panic. “The note reads like a fucking goodbye letter.”
A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “What time did he leave EcoSphere?”
“His meeting was supposed to end by four. It’s past six now.”
A pause. Then Gabriel’s voice, grim and certain. “Marc.”
Michael’s stomach dropped, the sick feeling intensifying. “What?”
“It has to be Marc.” Gabriel’s voice was tight, controlled fury underneath. “Henri wouldn’t have left voluntarily. Not like this. Not without a real goodbye. Not when he was finally—” Gabriel cut himself off. “Fuck. I should have seen this coming. I should have known Marc wouldn’t just let him go.”
“Gabriel—”
“He’s been too quiet. Ever since Henri left PDC, Marc’s been silent.
No calls, no threats, nothing. I thought maybe he’d finally accepted it, but he was just planning.
” Gabriel’s words came faster now, sharp with self-recrimination.
“I should have anticipated this. Should have had someone watching Henri, should have—”
“We can figure out blame later,” Michael interrupted, his own voice hardening. “Right now, we need to find him. His EcoSphere meeting, someone there might have seen what happened. Who picked him up.”
“Good thinking. Call them now. I’ll start checking flight manifests, private jets leaving London today.” Gabriel paused. “Michael, if Marc has him—”
“Then we get him back,” Michael said, the words coming out harder than he’d intended. “Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes,” Gabriel agreed. “But Michael, you don’t need to come here. I can handle this. I’ll find him, I’ll get him out of there—”
“No.” Michael’s voice was firm. “I have to come. I have to.”
“Michael—”
“I can’t just sit here in London knowing Henri is with Marc.
I can’t.” Michael ran a hand through his hair, thinking.
“I’m in the middle of finalizing a major contract, and they’ve been demanding.
I need at least two days to delegate properly.
Maybe three. These Danish investors have been needy as hell, and if I just disappear without proper handoffs—”
“That’s a long time.”
The words cut deep. Michael’s jaw clenched.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not imagining what Marc is doing to him right now?
But if I abandon my clients without warning, without transferring responsibilities, I could lose everything I’ve built.
And then what good am I to Henri? What kind of future can I offer him if I’ve destroyed my career? ”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Gabriel exhaled slowly. “I’m just—I failed him, Michael. I sent him to London thinking he’d be safe, and now—”
“We both failed him if we’re assigning blame,” Michael said. “But right now, we fix it. I’ll get there Tuesday at the latest.”
“Keep me informed of your travel plans,” Gabriel said. “I’ll start working on finding out where Marc is keeping him.”
“Be careful,” Michael warned. “If Marc knows we’re looking—”
“Let him know,” Gabriel said, cold fury in his voice. “Let him know we’re coming for Henri. That might be the only thing keeping Henri safe.”
The line went dead.
Michael sat for a long moment, staring at the note in his hand. Then he dialed EcoSphere’s main line.
It took three transfers before he reached security. A woman with a bored voice answered. “Security desk, this is Sandra.”
“This is Michael Taylor. I need to know if anyone saw Henri Rohan leave the building today. Or yesterday. He had a meeting that should have ended around four.”
“Sir, I can’t give out information about our employees or visitors—”
“He’s missing,” Michael said sharply. “He left a note that suggests he was taken against his will. I need to know whether your cameras caught anything. Who he left with, what kind of car, anything.”
A pause. “Let me check the logs.” The sound of typing. “Henri Rohan signed out yesterday at 4:27 PM. No unusual activity noted.”
“Can you check the cameras? Please. This is urgent.”
More typing. A longer pause. “I’m looking at the footage now. He walked out the main entrance alone, stood on the sidewalk for maybe a minute. Then, a black car pulled up. Looks like a private car. He got in the back seat.”
Michael’s heart hammered. “Did you see anyone else? The license plate?”
“The angle’s not great. Plate’s partially obscured.” She paused. “Wait. Someone got out of the car before Mr. Rohan got in. Opened the door for him.”
“Can you see who?”
“Male, tall, dark suit. That’s all I can make out from this angle. I’m sorry, sir. That’s all we have.”
Michael thanked her and ended the call, his mind racing.
The rest of Friday evening blurred. Michael called his business partner, Rhys, and initiated the process of transferring urgent matters. Sent emails. Made lists. His hands kept shaking.
Around midnight, he found himself standing in the bedroom doorway.
Their bedroom. The thought came unbidden. In three weeks, it had become their bedroom. The indent in the pillow where Henri’s head had rested just this morning. The faint scent of Henri’s soap still lingered in the air.
Michael crossed to the bed and sat down heavily on Henri’s side. The sheets were cool, undisturbed since this morning when they’d both gotten up. Henri had been talking about an off-season polo match he watched. He’d been animated, gesturing with his coffee mug, his eyes bright.
That was less than twelve hours ago.
Now he was gone.
Michael lay back on Henri’s pillow, curling on his side. The scent of Henri’s shampoo, faint but unmistakable, surrounded him. Citrus and something herbal.
His chest cracked open.
The sob came, violent and raw. Then another. Michael pressed his face into the pillow, his whole body shaking with the force of it. All those mornings. Henri was slowly learning to ask for what he wanted. Starting to believe he deserved to take up space. Beginning to laugh without fear.
Gone.
Michael cried until his throat was raw and his eyes burned. Until exhaustion finally dragged him under into fitful sleep, still curled around Henri’s pillow.
Saturday and Sunday passed in a haze of phone calls and emails. Michael moved through the motions mechanically, delegating responsibilities and setting up contingencies.
Gabriel texted sparse updates:
Talked to Lucas. Found a private jet left London City Airport Friday evening, 7:30 PM. Destination PDC. Passenger manifest lists three names: Henri Rohan, Marc Saint-Clair, and a David Mitchell. Our records show Mr. Mitchell is an intern in our HR Department.
What could that mean?
No idea.
Michael stared at the message, his hands clenching around the phone.
Henri had been with Marc for over forty-eight hours.
He booked the earliest flight he could manage. Tuesday morning. By the time he landed in PDC, it would be five full days since Henri disappeared.
Five days of whatever hell Marc had planned for him.
Michael spent Sunday night packing. He moved through the house, gathering clothes, his laptop, and documents. In the bathroom, he found Henri’s toothbrush still in the holder next to his own.
He packed it.
When he opened the closet, his cashmere sweater hung where Henri had left it. The one Henri loved to steal, that he’d worn curled up on the couch last night while reading. Michael pulled it out and held it to his face. It still smelled of Henri.
He packed that too.
By the time Michael’s taxi pulled up to Heathrow Tuesday morning, he felt restless, frantic. The need to move, to act, thrummed through his veins. Three full days had passed since Henri disappeared. Three days of whatever hell Marc had planned for him.
Henri was back in PDC by now, probably believing no one was coming for him. Probably already falling back into those patterns of submission and self-blame that Michael had worked so hard to help him break.
Michael settled into his seat, London disappearing beneath him through the small window, and tried not to think about what Marc might be doing to Henri right now.
He was going to find him. Whatever it took.
But first, he had to get through the longest flight of his life.