Page 10 of Silence and Surrender

Another pause. Then, “I’ll be there.”

He hung up without any further discussion. Typical Moreau, efficient to the point of rudeness. But he’d agreed, and that was what mattered.

My phone buzzed. It was Sari, Colton Moreau’s assistant. I stared at the notification, considering. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out that Sari was working for Interpol; she always seemed to call at precisely the most relevant moments. I had noticed it happening more frequently, her appearing with documents just when I needed them, her eyes catching mine across meeting rooms with something unspoken.

The night I discovered Sari’s true identity still felt surreal. I’d been tracing anomalous access patterns in the bank’s security protocols when I found an elegant subroutine hidden in the system, too sophisticated for a corporate security team. Following the digital breadcrumbs led straight to Sari’s terminal. When I confronted her after hours, her calm admission had stunned me.

“Three years undercover,” she’d said, showing me her Interpol credentials. “Tracking the bank’s involvement in global money laundering. I’ve been watching you since you started asking questions.”

We’d formed an uneasy alliance that night—her providing internal intelligence, me providing her with financials whatever I could get ahold of them. A relationship built on mutual need that had, over time, developed into something like trust.

I let Sari’s call go to voicemail. She was getting impatient, but I needed more evidence before I could move. Especially with the bank’s security watching my every move.

How Moreau hadn’t caught on that Sari was actually working for Interpol, I’d never know. I had figured it out easily.

I pulled up the Durand file again. Moreau was looking into it too; I’d traced his digital footprint throughout the system. The straight-laced twin of Cooper Moreau, who had built his reputation smuggling in Paris before turning legitimate, was on the same trail I was. I’d done my research on both brothers. Colton was brilliant with finance law, ruthless in court, yet completely unprepared for what we were about to uncover. His brother was edgier, having lived on the other side of the law while his brother fought to uphold it.

But I needed Colton Moreau. His legal expertise, his analytic mind. And most importantly, his brother’s knowledge of Europe’s darker corners.

I just had to convince him to trust me first.

Which was easier said than done. Ever since we’d started working together, we clashed. Like plaid and stripes, we didn’t go together and were better off far away from each other. His dislike of me stemmed from the fear that I was smarter than him, and I was annoyed with him because I knew he was probably the only person in the company who could keep up with me. We both were in a perpetual tap dance of dislike and one upmanship.

Another thing I hated about Moreau was how hard he was to ignore lately. The physical change had been gradual but unmistakable. Six months ago, he’d been the stereotypical corporate attorney—lean, scholarly, with that slightly stooped posture from hunching over documents. Then something had changed. First came the broadening of his shoulders, straining against his suits. Then the more confident stance, the way he now commanded space when he entered rooms. I’d overheard whispers about some incident outside a bar, something about him being cornered. Whatever had happened, the man had apparently dedicated himself to transformation with the same methodical focus he applied to legal briefs. The results were...distracting, to say the least. His lean frame was now muscled and defined, and it was difficult to reconcile the difference between the straggly nerd with glasses and cheap suits to the powerful man who argued like he was standing in front of the pearly gates, demanding to be let in.

I pushed the thoughts of Colton Moreau’s transformation out of my mind. The sun had long since set over London, but I was still at my desk, surrounded by paperwork that didn’t add up. Fifteen years of authenticating art had taught me to spot inconsistencies, to see the stories behind the brushstrokes. But this wasn’t about art anymore.

Sari’s latest voicemail played in my head: “Isabella, we need more. The bank’s too powerful, we can’t move without solid proof.”

She was right, of course. Devereux Private Bank had weathered scandals before. Their legal team, now led by the brilliant Colton Moreau, had an impressive record of making problems disappear. The irony of needing his help wasn’t lost on me.

I opened my bottom drawer, pulling out the small black notebook I kept locked there. Inside were notes from my investigation, the patterns I’d spotted, the irregularities in the documentation, names of clients whose ‘art collections’ never seemed to actually exist.

My father would have known how to handle this. Antoine Delacroix had been legendary in the art world before his death. He was the man collectors turned to when they needed to authenticate pieces with questionable histories. He’d taught me everything: how to spot a forgery, how to trace provenance, how to navigate the gray areas of international art law.

“The art world runs on discretion,ma petite,” he used to say. “But there are lines we don’t cross.”

The bank had crossed those lines. Now I just had to prove it.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost time for my meeting with Moreau at Christie’s. He wouldn’t like what I had to tell him. Men like him, who lived in their world of pristine legality, never did. But I’d seen the way he studied those manifests. He wasn’t stupid. Completely the opposite. Just...unprepared.

I carefully sealed the files in my briefcase, each document a piece of the puzzle I’d have to help Moreau assemble. The bank’s golden boy would need irrefutable proof, the kind that would make even the most obedient counsel question his own loyalty.

My office felt smaller than usual, the weight of what I’d discovered pressing in on me. I’d chosen the Christie’s meeting location carefully. Private enough to talk freely, public enough to be relatively safe.

I checked my phone one last time. Three missed calls from Sari, and one text:

Be careful with Moreau. His cases never make it to court. I’ve watched him carefully. He might not be the best person to bring into this.

I deleted the message. Sari meant well, but she didn’t understand. I’d studied every case Colton Moreau had handled as well—and not just the official records, but the whispers that followed. He buried his clients’ secrets not out of loyalty, but from a rigid sense of duty. The kind of man who followed rules until they broke under their own weight.

Sari might have been watching him professionally, but I’d been tracking everything I could find about him.

His family was different. Cooper Moreau’s reputation in Paris’s darker circles was legendary—the smuggler who’d walked away clean, married, gone legitimate. Their good friend, Steele, had his own stories. But Colton...Colton was the pure one. The righteous one. Once he knew what this was, he’d bend over backwards to see it dismantled.

He was the one I had to corrupt in order to save.

I stood at my office window, watching London’s lights blur in the rain. Father would have appreciated the irony—his daughter, using her art expertise to expose criminals instead of protecting collectors’ secrets. But he’d also taught me about consequences. About responsibility.

---