21. Michael #2
He remembered Rhys’s groan two nights ago over video call.
“I’m drowning, Michael. Numbers, budgets, forecasts.
I’m a tech guy, not a fucking finance guy.
If we want real credibility, if we want to stand toe-to-toe with the monsters, we need someone who can sell the financials. Someone with polish. Gravitas.”
Michael had known the answer before Rhys even finished.
Henri.
It wasn’t just personal, though God knew his heart ached with the want of it. Henri had presence. Brilliance. Quiet strength sharpened by years of survival under Marc’s thumb. He could walk into a room of investors and not only hold his ground but control it.
Michael had watched him do it years ago at that garden party in Porte du C?ur.
Henri moving through conversations like a chess master, always three moves ahead, reading people with surgical precision.
And he’d done it all while Marc watched, while every word and gesture carried the weight of potential punishment.
Imagine what he could do without that weight.
Michael sank back onto the sofa, pressing his hands together. He could build it. An executive position, a framework strong enough to shield Henri from Marc’s shadow. MapricX could give him safety. Dignity. A future.
And maybe, selfishly, it would keep him close.
His phone buzzed on the table, sharp against the quiet.
Michael reached for it, expecting another encrypted message from Gabriel.
But the number flashing on the screen froze him.
US country code. Porte du C?ur area code.
Michael’s gut tightened. He stared at the number for three rings, some animal part of his brain screaming at him not to answer.
He answered anyway. “Michael Taylor.”
A beat of silence, then a voice he didn’t recognize immediately. Low, mocking. “Michael.”
Michael’s hand clenched around the phone. “Who is this?”
A laugh, smooth and cruel all at once. “Don’t play stupid.”
Recognition hit cold. Marc.
Michael’s grip on the phone went white. His voice sharpened. “Marc.”
“Ah,” Marc purred, amusement dripping through the line. “I was beginning to think London had made you slow.”
Michael ground his teeth. “What do you want?”
A wet sound carried faintly over the line.
Choked gasps, the slick rhythm of a throat working around something too thick, too deep.
Marc’s voice dipped lower, intimate and cruel. “Do you hear that? That’s David. He’s very good. So eager. His lips are swollen, tears rolling down his face, and he still begs for more.”
Michael’s stomach turned, bile burning his throat.
“He’s so pretty.” Marc’s breathing had gone slightly uneven, like he was moving. “Much prettier than Henri ever was while doing this.”
Michael couldn’t speak. His throat had locked.
Marc chuckled, cruel and lazy. “Henri was always stubborn. Tight jaw, glaring at me while I forced him down. It took years before he learned not to fight it. Years before I could wring even a single tear. He never looked grateful, and he should have been.”
The wet sounds continued in the background, rhythmic and obscene.
“Sometimes I thought he might bite my cock off.” Marc laughed at his own joke, ugly and satisfied. “But no. Henri’s a good boy. Always has been. Too proud to break, too obedient not to try.”
Michael squeezed the phone so hard the case creaked. “You bastard.”
“Mm. Yes, I suppose.”
Marc’s tone shifted. Something fraying at the edges. “But let’s not waste time. You’ve made quite the mess, Michael. Jaheel on the BBC, contracts collapsing, governments circling.”
A pause. The wet sounds stopped. Michael heard Marc’s breathing, slightly ragged.
“All for Henri, isn’t it?”
Michael said nothing. His jaw ached from clenching. Silence was admission enough.
Marc’s laugh held a jagged quality now, like glass beginning to crack. “You want him. Admit it. Every leak, every whisper, every move you’ve made has been about him. Don’t—don’t bother denying it.”
The stutter was slight, almost imperceptible. But it was there.
Michael’s pulse hammered. “Get to the point.”
“Henri is mine,” Marc said, voice cutting through the veneer of control. “My property. My dog . But dogs can be sold.”
Michael’s fury spiked, white-hot and instant. “He isn’t a dog.”
“He is exactly a dog,” Marc corrected, and the words came faster now, less measured. “Collared, trained, obedient. Leashed. You want him? Fine. You can—you can have him. Ten million dollars. Liquid. Transferable.”
Michael’s breath caught. “What?”
Marc’s voice turned silky, pleased, but underneath it ran something manic. Something barely contained. “You’ll wire the money to an account I specify. Then you’ll come to Porte du C?ur personally to collect him. Alone. No Gabriel, no security, no backup. Just you.”
The hairs on Michael’s neck rose. “And?”
Marc’s laugh was soft, delighted, spiraling.
“Oh, we’re just getting started. You’ll meet me at a location of my choosing.
Henri will be there, but he won’t be—he won’t be pristine.
I plan to spend our last evening together making sure he understands exactly what he’s leaving behind. Who he’ll always belong to.”
Michael’s vision went red. “If you hurt him—”
“I’ll hurt him regardless,” Marc cut in, voice matter-of-fact but with an edge of desperation creeping through.
“The only question is how much. But here’s the beautiful part, Michael.
He’ll thank me for it. He always does. Years of training won’t disappear because some posh businessman thinks he can play hero. ”
Marc paused. The silence stretched too long, as if he was reassembling himself, piece by piece.
When he spoke again, the words tumbled out faster, less controlled. “You’ll watch me break him one final time. You’ll watch him beg for it, cry for it, submit so completely that you’ll wonder if you ever knew him at all. And then—only then—you can have what’s left.”
Michael’s hand shook with rage. His voice came out strangled. “You’re sick.”
“I’m thorough,” Marc corrected, but his voice cracked slightly on the second word. “But we’re not finished. Here’s my favorite part: Henri will choose to stay.”
“What?”
Marc’s voice carried satisfaction but also something unraveling, thread by thread.
“I’ll give him the choice. Right in front of you.
Stay with me, where he knows what’s expected, where he’s useful, where he belongs.
Or go with you, a stranger who’ll—who’ll grow tired of damaged goods within a year.
What do you think he’ll choose, Michael? ”
Michael’s chest tightened with the horrible certainty that Marc might be right.
“And when he chooses me,” Marc continued, words spilling faster now, tumbling over each other, “you’ll leave. Empty-handed. Ten million poorer. Having learned exactly how little your three weeks of playing house actually meant to him.”
Marc stopped. Breathing hard.
When he spoke again, his voice had steadied, but the control sounded forced. Brittle. “You’ll learn what I’ve always known. Henri needs what I give him. Structure. Purpose. Someone who knows how to use him properly. You think kindness will be enough? You think—”
He laughed, high and sharp. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
Michael’s voice came out raw. “You’re insane.”
“No,” Marc said, and the manic energy threaded through every word now, bright and terrible.
“I’m realistic. I know Henri better than anyone ever will.
Better than he knows himself. I made him.
I own every response, every fear, every desperate need to please.
You think those paltry weeks meant anything? You think—”
His breathing had gone ragged again. “You think you know him?”
The silence stretched.
“But let’s say he surprises us both.” Marc’s voice had dropped to something almost conversational, which somehow made it worse.
“Let’s say he chooses you. You’ll get damaged goods, Michael.
Beautiful, obedient, utterly ruined damaged goods.
And every time you look at him, you’ll remember this conversation.
You’ll remember that I offered to spare you this disappointment for the bargain price of just walking away. ”
The silence stretched, weighted with cruelty and something breaking.
“Twenty-four hours to decide,” Marc said finally, voice fraying at the edges like old rope. “Then one week to deliver the money and yourself. If you don’t? Henri stays. And I will break him so thoroughly that even his dreams will belong to me. Every thought. Every breath. Mine.”
Michael’s breath hissed sharp between his teeth.
“Oh, and Michael?” Marc’s voice carried a smile. “David says hello. He’s very grateful for your call. Gave him such inspiration for tonight’s performance. Henri’s watching us, you see. Learning what enthusiasm looks like. I do hope you’re proud of the education you’re providing.”
The line went dead.
Michael sat frozen, the phone heavy in his hand, pulse hammering in his ears.
Regent’s Park lay calm outside the window, but the world inside had narrowed to a single point of rage and horror.
He couldn’t breathe properly. Each inhale felt like it caught on something sharp in his chest.
The conditions weren’t just cruel. They were calculated to destroy whatever remained of Henri’s spirit, whether Michael succeeded or failed. Marc knew exactly which buttons to push, exactly how to make Michael doubt everything.
Michael pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. He wanted to scream. Wanted to put his fist through the window. Wanted to board the Rohan jet to Porte du C?ur and tear Marc apart with his bare hands.
But underneath the fear, underneath the sick certainty that Marc might be right, one truth burned clear: Michael would pay any price, endure any humiliation, face any trap if it meant giving Henri even the smallest chance at freedom.
Even if Henri chose Marc in the end.
Even if Michael walked away empty-handed and broken.
The chance was worth everything.