23. Henri
Chapter twenty-three
Henri
H enri woke to sunlight filtering through familiar curtains. For a moment, he lay still, afraid to move, afraid to confirm this was real.
His bedroom at Lafayette Square. The same pale blue walls, the same heavy oak furniture, the same view of the garden where he’d played as a boy before everything changed.
But this couldn’t be real. Marc would never let him go. Marc would never—
His body told him otherwise. The deep ache in his muscles had faded to a mild soreness. His throat no longer burned when he swallowed. The places on his skin that had screamed before now registered as tender but healing.
Movement beside him made Henri’s heart stutter. His muscles locked automatically, trained response overriding conscious thought.
Michael sat propped against the headboard, tablet in one hand, wearing nothing but a worn t-shirt. His hair was mussed from sleep, stubble shadowing his jaw. When he noticed Henri’s eyes open, his face transformed with a smile that made Henri’s chest tighten.
“Morning, sweetheart.” Michael set the tablet aside, his full attention shifting to Henri with that intensity Henri remembered, the way Michael looked at him as though nothing else existed. “How are you feeling?”
Henri blinked, disoriented. The question felt strange. When was the last time someone had asked him that and actually wanted to know the answer?
“What day is it?” His voice came out rough, unused.
“Thursday.” Michael’s hand moved to stroke Henri’s hair. “You’ve been sleeping mostly. Three days now.”
Three days. Henri tried to piece together fragments of memory, but they came in flashes, disconnected and hazy. Michael’s hands gentle in the car, dressing him in soft clothes. Arriving somewhere in darkness. Faces he recognized but couldn’t quite place. Voices, soft and worried.
And then... mostly sleep. Deep, heavy sleep that pulled him under in waves. But when he surfaced, disoriented and afraid, Michael had always been there. Always.
A cup of water pressed to his lips. Michael’s hand supporting the back of his head.
Soup he could barely taste but ate anyway because Michael asked him to.
Gentle hands helping him to the bathroom when his legs threatened to give out, supporting his weight without comment or judgment.
Michael’s voice, low and steady in the darkness, reading something Henri couldn’t follow but found soothing anyway.
“You’ve been here,” Henri said. “The whole time.”
“Where else would I be?” Michael’s thumb traced his cheekbone, careful to avoid a bruise Henri had forgotten was there. “You needed rest. You needed someone to make sure you were safe while you got it.”
Henri’s eyes burned. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had sat vigil over him without expectation, without agenda. “I don’t... I can’t remember most of it.”
“That’s normal.” Michael’s voice was careful. “Your body needed to shut down, to recover. Dr. Nguyen said it’s common after... after what you went through.”
Henri frowned, trying to remember. A woman’s face swam into focus, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, gentle hands examining him while Michael held his hand and told him he was safe. “I don’t... what did she say?”
“No major external or internal injuries.” Michael’s expression was carefully neutral, but Henri caught the flash of something darker underneath. Rage, maybe. Or grief. “The Smooth cream did its job. You’re healing well… physically.”
“She wanted to talk to you about seeing someone,” Michael continued, his voice gentler now. “A therapist who specializes in trauma.”
The word made Henri’s stomach clench. Trauma. As if he was broken in a way that needed professional intervention.
He shook his head, panic rising sharp and fast. “I don’t need that.”
“Henri—”
“I don’t.” His voice came out sharper than intended, and he saw Michael flinch slightly. Guilt crashed through him immediately. He shouldn’t snap at Michael. Michael had been nothing but kind. “I’m fine. I don’t need to talk to someone about... about any of it.”
Michael was quiet for a long moment, studying Henri’s face with that careful attention that felt invasive and comforting all at once. Then he nodded slowly. “Okay. We can revisit it later if you change your mind.”
The fact that Michael didn’t push, didn’t insist, didn’t tell Henri what he needed—something in Henri’s chest cracked open, pressure releasing he hadn’t known was building.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Are you hungry?” Michael asked, smoothly changing the subject. “I can bring something up, or we can go downstairs if you’re feeling up to it.”
The thought of facing the others made Henri’s stomach clench with dread.
“Can we just... stay here? For a bit?”
“Of course.” Michael settled back against the headboard, pulling Henri closer with careful gentleness. “As long as you need.”
Henri let himself be gathered in, his head coming to rest on Michael’s chest. The steady thump of Michael’s heart beneath his ear was grounding, real. He focused on it, counting the beats, using it to anchor himself in the present.
They lay in silence for a while. Michael’s hand moved in slow, soothing circles on Henri’s back, never venturing near the places that were still tender, as if he’d memorized the map of Henri’s injuries and knew exactly where to touch and where to avoid.
Henri tried to convince himself this was real. That he was here. That Marc had actually let him go.
But his mind kept circling back to the impossibility of it. Marc never lost. Marc never let go of what belonged to him. There had to be a catch, a trap, something Henri wasn’t seeing.
“I don’t understand,” Henri said finally, his voice small in the quiet room. “Why did Marc let me leave?”
Michael’s hand stilled in its rhythm. The silence stretched just long enough to make Henri’s pulse spike.
“We made a deal,” Michael said carefully.
Henri lifted his head, trying to read Michael’s expression. “What kind of deal?”
Michael’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “Gabriel paid him.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. Gabriel paid him. Paid who? For what?
And then understanding crashed through Henri, ice water in his veins.
“Ten million dollars,” Michael said, his voice carefully even. “That’s what Marc demanded. Gabriel paid it.”
Henri jerked upright so fast the world tilted sideways. Michael’s hands shot out to steady him, but Henri barely noticed, his vision tunneling, pulse roaring in his ears.
“What?” The word came out strangled.
“Henri, breathe—”
“No.” Henri shook his head violently, the room spinning. “That’s... that’s too much. That’s insane. Ten million dollars?”
“It’s what Marc demanded.”
Henri’s hands were shaking, his whole body trembling. Ten million dollars. For him. A price tag, a transaction, a—
His stomach heaved violently. He lurched toward the side of the bed, but Michael was already there with a basin, supporting him while Henri retched until there was nothing left but bile and horror.
When he could breathe again, Michael was pressing a cool cloth to his face, murmuring soft reassurances that Henri couldn’t process.
“I have to pay him back.” Henri’s voice was raw, desperate. “I can liquidate my trust, sell my stock holdings in Three Rivers—I’ll pay Gabriel back, I just need time—”
“Henri, stop.” Michael’s hands framed his face, forcing him to focus. “Gabriel doesn’t want you to pay him back. This wasn’t a loan.”
“But ten million—” Henri’s voice cracked. “That’s... I’m not worth that. I’m not worth anything close to that.”
“Gabriel thinks you are,” Michael whispered. “I think you are.”
“Gabriel is wrong.” Henri pulled away from Michael’s hands, wrapping his arms around himself.
“You are wrong.” His whole body was shaking now, shock and shame warring for dominance.
“I’m... I’m used. I’m broken. Marc made sure everyone knew what I was.
What I am. Ten million dollars for damaged goods is—”
“Don’t.” Michael’s voice cut through his spiral. “Don’t call yourself that.”
“It’s true.” Henri’s laugh came out bitter, broken. “My father sold me to Olivier for an exclusive contract worth eight million dollars when I was seven. Apparently, I’ve appreciated in value. That should make me feel good, shouldn’t it? I’m worth more now than I was then.”
The hysteria in his own voice frightened him, but he couldn’t stop it.
“Henri.” Michael’s voice was firm, steady. “Stop. Breathe.”
Henri tried to obey, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Each breath came shallow and fast, not enough air, never enough air.
Michael wrapped his arms around him, his body heat seeping into Henri inch by inch.
“You are not property. You were never property, no matter what Marc told you. Gabriel paid that money because he loves you. Because he’s spent years watching Marc destroy you and being unable to stop it.
Because he sees this as repaying a debt he owed you for failing to protect you. ”
Henri’s throat closed. “He didn’t fail me. I was the one who—”
“You were seven years old,” Michael said, and his voice carried an edge of barely controlled fury that made Henri’s breath catch. “You were a child who was sold to a monster by his own father. None of that was your fault. None of it.”
If he wasn’t responsible for any of it, if he was just a victim, then what did that make him? Who was he without the framework of his own culpability?
“I still have to pay him back,” Henri said, the words coming out mechanical, desperate for some kind of control. “I need to pay him back.”
“Gabriel won’t let you.” Michael’s voice was gentle but unyielding. “He was very clear about that. He said if you tried to pay him back, he’d donate it to charity in your name just to spite you.”
Despite everything, despite the horror and shame and confusion, Henri felt his mouth twitch. That sounded exactly like Gabriel. Stubborn, immovable Gabriel.