21. Michael #3
His phone buzzed.
A text message. No words. Just an image.
Michael’s stomach dropped before his brain could process what he was seeing.
The photo was taken with a wide-angle lens, clinical in its framing. Almost artistic in its cruelty.
David in the foreground, naked, blindfolded, hands bound behind his back.
Noise-canceling headphones covered his ears as he was pressed down onto Marc’s lap, his throat working around what could only be Marc’s cock.
His lips were swollen and wet, tears tracking down his cheeks, but his body language screamed eagerness. Performing. Desperate to please.
But it was Henri that broke Michael’s heart.
In the background, naked and bound to a chair. The same headphones blocking all sound. But not blindfolded.
Henri’s eyes were open, staring at nothing.
His face was slack and empty. No fear, no disgust, no emotion at all. He looked like he wasn’t there at all. Like he’d retreated somewhere deep inside himself where Marc couldn’t reach him.
The expression was one Michael had never seen before. Complete dissociation. Henri had simply left his body behind.
And that was somehow worse than any bruise or any tear.
Michael’s hands shook as he stared at the image, bile rising in his throat.
This was Marc’s final message. Not just cruelty, but a demonstration of ownership so complete that Henri had learned to escape into nothingness rather than endure.
Henri’s eyes in the photo were the same eyes Michael had seen in his dreams for weeks. The same eyes that had looked up at him in Gabriel’s living room, bruised and desperate and still trying to be brave.
But this was different. This wasn’t Henri in pain. This was Henri gone.
Michael sat there for a long moment, staring at Henri’s empty eyes. At the proof of everything Marc had taken and everything he still threatened to destroy.
His chest felt hollow. Scooped out.
This was a trap. Michael knew it with absolute certainty. Marc would take the money, humiliate him, probably hurt him. Maybe kill him. The man was unraveling, breaking down, and that made him more dangerous than any calculated cruelty ever could.
The smart play would be to work with Gabriel, find another way, use the law and Jaheel’s exposure to force Marc’s hand. Wait for the system to work. Be patient.
But Henri didn’t have time for smart plays. Henri was dissociating in Marc’s bed while Michael sat in safety an ocean away.
And maybe that was the real trap. Not Marc’s offer, but Michael’s own conscience. The knowledge that every hour he waited was another hour Henri spent gone. Another hour Marc spent proving his ownership.
Ten million dollars.
Michael didn’t have it. His assets were tied up in MapricX, in investments, in property. Liquidating everything quickly would leave him vulnerable, exposed.
But Gabriel had it. Gabriel would get it.
Michael’s throat tightened.
He was probably going to die. Or wish he had. Marc wouldn’t let this end cleanly. The man was breaking down, losing control, and Michael would be there to witness it, to become part of it.
And maybe, when Marc was done, Henri would choose to stay anyway. Would look at Michael with those empty eyes and choose the devil he knew over the stranger offering hope.
Maybe Michael would have to watch Henri make that choice and live with it for the rest of his life.
It didn’t matter.
Henri’s empty eyes stared up from the screen. That was all that mattered.
Not the money. Not the danger. Not even the outcome.
Just the chance. Just the possibility that Henri might choose differently if someone gave him the option.
Michael’s hand was steady when he deleted the image. Steady when he pulled up Gabriel’s number.
This was the only choice that mattered. The only one he could live with.
Everything else was just details.
Gabriel answered on the second ring. “Michael?”
“I need ten million dollars liquid in one week.” Michael’s voice came out flat, drained of inflection.
“Why?”
“Marc called.” Michael stared at the blank screen where Henri’s image had been moments before. “He’s selling Henri. Ten million, and I come alone to collect him.”
“It’s a trap.” Gabriel’s voice was hard, immediate.
“I know.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“Probably.”
“Michael—”
“I don’t care.” Michael’s voice broke on the words, and suddenly he was shaking, the phone pressed so hard against his ear it hurt. “I don’t care, Gabriel. He sent me a photo. Henri’s eyes were empty. Completely gone. I can’t leave him there. I won’t.”
The silence stretched longer this time.
Michael could hear Gabriel breathing, could almost see him processing, calculating odds and outcomes and acceptable losses.
“You’ll have the money,” Gabriel said finally, quiet and grim. “But you’re not going alone.”
“Marc said—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Marc said.” Gabriel’s voice carried steel now. “We’ll figure it out. But Michael?”
He paused, letting the weight settle. “This doesn’t end with you dying for him. We get you both out. Understood?”
Michael closed his eyes. Henri’s face burned into his vision, empty and unreachable. “Understood.”
“I’ll arrange the transfer. And Michael?” Gabriel’s voice softened slightly. “We’re going to need a plan.”
Michael opened his eyes and stared at the blank phone screen where Henri’s image had been moments before. Where those empty eyes had stared at nothing while the world continued around him.
“Then we’d better make it a good one.”