20. Michael
Chapter twenty
Michael
S aturday afternoons were supposed to be quiet, but the air in Gabriel’s sitting room felt fevered.
Curtains drawn against the heat, televisions muted until someone unmuted them just to curse at the coverage.
The cycle ran in tight loops: graphics of offshore accounts, charts of shell companies, and photographs of Olivier Saint-Clair shaking hands with a known trafficker.
The images were flawless. Razor-sharp, every detail crystalline, exactly what modern optics delivered as easily as breathing. Which, of course, was why the anchors called them fake.
“Listen to this bullshit,” Alain snarled, reading from his phone.
“‘Sources close to Saint-Clair suggest the photographs may have been digitally manipulated, citing their unusually high resolution and convenient timing.’” He looked up, incredulous.
“We spent weeks building this case, and they call it convenient?”
Nika paced behind the couch, laptop clutched to his chest. “They want excuses. Give them one, and they’ll use it.”
“‘The story reads more like a thriller novel than legitimate journalism,’” Alain continued, voice dripping with disgust. “We have bank records!”
“Friday evening, dead zone of the news cycle,” Nika added, his voice sharp with frustration. “By Monday, fresher headlines will bury this.”
Lucas’s arm tightened around Jean, who sat sideways in his lap.
Jean would always choose Lucas’s lap over any piece of furniture when given the option.
The sweater, swallowing his frame, slipped off one shoulder, baring the strap of something glittery beneath.
Glitter dusted his nose, his cheekbones.
His bare thighs peeked out from beneath the hem of shorts so small that Michael had to look away.
“I’ll talk to them.” Jean’s voice was thin but steady, cutting through their frustration. “I’ll tell them what he did to me.”
The room stilled.
“You won’t,” Lucas said immediately, softly but with iron under it. He kissed the crown of Jean’s hair.
Jean tilted his chin stubbornly. “If they won’t listen to papers or shell accounts, they’ll listen to me. His son.”
“They’ll crucify you,” Alain said flatly. “They’ll tear you apart before you get three sentences out.”
“I don’t care.” Jean’s glittered face was fierce. “It would be the truth.”
“Gabriel already said no,” Nika cut in sharply. “And he’s right. The court of public opinion isn’t justice. It’s a lynching. The blowback would crush you before it touched Olivier.”
Gabriel had given the boy no room to argue before leaving with Ellis, who’d slipped toward the pool with a novel tucked under his arm. Gabriel had followed without breaking stride, leaving the rest of them cycling through coverage, rage mounting with every dismissive news anchor.
Michael leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “We don’t get to throw Jean to the wolves because the story isn’t moving fast enough. There has to be another way.”
“We find another way,” Nika echoed, finally closing his laptop with a sharp snap.
The conversation circled, going nowhere. Jean leaned deeper into Lucas’s lap, silent now, glitter catching the muted television light.
The silence grew heavy until Nika said, softer this time, “What we need is someone to make them care. A reporter with enough clout to break this wide, someone who won’t let it get buried over a weekend news cycle.”
“What about that anchor out of London?” Alain asked, already grimacing.
“She got eaten alive by the corporations she named,” Nika said flatly. “Never worked again outside the indies.”
“Fine. Then the one from New York,” Alain pressed.
“He’s bought,” Lucas murmured, stroking a hand down Jean’s arm when the boy shifted. “You saw how fast he turned once campaign money lined his pocket.”
“The Paris Bureau?” Michael offered, though even as he said it he knew the answer.
“State-owned,” Nika dismissed with a shake of his head. “They’ll never touch Saint-Clair.”
The silence afterward felt heavier than before. Jean’s glitter-dusted face pressed into Lucas’s sweater, voice muffled. “Then who’s left?”
No one answered. The only sound was the dampened loop of Olivier’s denial running again on the screen, the anchor’s smile faintly indulgent.
That was when Jacob, the butler, opened the door.
“Sir,” he said carefully, as if announcing a storm.
Henri stepped in.
Michael’s first thought was that the man was thinner than he remembered, all edges under too-pale skin.
His second was the deep purple and red bloom beneath his eye, the ugly shadow of fingerprints ringing his throat.
A cut at the corner of his mouth had scabbed over, and he moved with the stiff control of someone nursing hidden injuries.
The room went electric with shock.
“Henri.” Michael was on his feet before he knew it.
Henri froze in the doorway, Jacob at his shoulder. His gaze snapped to Michael, widened, and for a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved.
Henri’s hand lifted slightly, reaching. Michael’s chest constricted.
Then they broke at once.
Michael didn’t think. One second, Henri was framed in the doorway, bruised and hollow-eyed, and the next, he was in Michael’s arms.
Henri collided with him, arms wrapping tight, face burying into Michael’s shirt. The sob hit, raw and desperate.
“I didn’t—” His words dissolved, broken by sobs. “Didn’t want to—God, I’m sorry—I had to—”
Michael crushed him closer, hand threading through his hair, the other stroking his back in frantic circles. “No, shh. You don’t have to explain. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Henri clung as if he was drowning, fingers twisted hard enough in Michael’s shirt to hurt, as if letting go would mean being dragged under again. His whole body shook, every breath ragged, his knees catching against Michael’s lap when Michael pulled him toward the couch.
They sank together, Henri curling into him with desperate force, burying himself against Michael’s chest. Michael felt his own throat burn, tears breaking free, hot against Henri’s hair. Relief, grief, fury. It was all the same storm crashing through him.
“I’m here,” Michael whispered into the crown of his head, voice wrecked. “I’m here, love. I swear I’ve got you.”
Henri’s sobs didn’t stop, but they changed. Fewer words now, more raw sound, his whole frame trembling against Michael.
“I—I,” Henri choked out between sobs, the words falling into French. “Je pensais... I thought I’d never see you again.”
Michael held on, heart breaking with the unbearable truth: Henri was finally, finally back in his arms.
He didn’t notice Alain slip out until he came back with Gabriel, dripping water onto the rug. Ellis trailed beside him, towel slung over his shoulders. Peter stayed at the door, silent, eyes sharp on the hall.
Gabriel’s face went ashen when he saw Henri’s bruises, his usual composure cracking. Across the room, Jean cried openly into Lucas’s chest, glitter streaking down his cheeks.
Gabriel dropped to his knees in front of them, hands hovering as though unsure where to land.
For once, he looked stripped of power. CEO, billionaire, older brother—none of it mattered.
His eyes moved over Henri’s bruises with naked horror, then to Michael, dark with a helplessness Michael had never seen in him.
“Henri,” Gabriel said softly, his voice breaking on the name.
It snapped Henri. He jerked back, frantic, trying to tear free of Michael’s arms. “No—Marc—he’ll be furious you’re here. You don’t know how angry—”
Michael tightened his hold, brushing a thumb over the bruise on Henri’s cheek. The mark burned proof under his touch. “Looks like he already is.”
Henri’s tears streaked his face, his voice hoarse.
“He sent me. He knows it was you. All of you. The leak, the photos. He wants it to stop.” He waved shakily at his black eye, the handprints fading red at his throat.
“This is the warning. If you don’t—” His voice cracked. “If you don’t, it gets worse.”
Gabriel’s composure shattered completely. Fury sharpened his voice. “Then you won’t go back.”
Henri cut him off, desperate. “I have to. If I don’t, David will take it all. He’ll—” His throat closed on the words. He clung harder to Michael. “He’ll bear it all.”
“We’ll get him out, too,” Gabriel snapped back.
Henri shook his head violently. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t want out. He thinks Marc is good to him. He likes the rules, the certainty. He thinks it’s care.”
Michael’s chest ached at the pain in Henri’s voice.
Nika, quiet until now, finally spoke. “If he’s an adult and that’s his choice—”
“No.” Henri’s voice cracked sharply. “No one chooses Marc. Not after what he does.”
“What has Marc done to David?” Michael asked gently, his hand stroking Henri’s back.
Henri’s breathing turned ragged. “Marc hurts him. Hits him, chokes him, whips him. Hard.” His voice dropped, confused. “But afterward, David gets this look. Relaxed. Content.” Henri lifted his head, bewildered. “Like he wants it. But Marc doesn’t know how to care about anyone.”
Henri’s grip tightened on Michael’s shirt. “So David has to be broken somehow. Because Marc can’t actually care about him.”
Michael felt the pieces shifting into place. He’d seen this before. Not abuse disguised as consent, but actual consensual submission that looked terrifying from the outside. The way Henri described David’s response, those were signs of someone in subspace, not someone being destroyed.
But how could Henri see that? To Henri, any dynamic with Marc could only be abuse, because his own experience had been nothing but.
“Mon dieu, Henri,” Gabriel whispered, reaching out to touch his brother’s shoulder.