Page 11 of Silence and Surrender

“The art world forgives many sins,” he used to say, polishing his glasses with that methodical care he applied to everything. “But some debts must be paid.”

The bank’s debts would be paid. I just had to convince Colton Moreau to help me collect.

I gathered my thick wool coat, locked my office door, then rode the elevator to the lobby, nodding to the security guard on duty. Just another late night at the bank, another private viewing at Christie’s. Nothing to suggest I was about to shatter someone’s carefully constructed worldview.

The rain had eased to a mist, softening London’s edges. My driver waited silently, holding the door for me.

I checked my lipstick in the car’s mirror—Chanel’s Rouge Noir, darker than blood. “Christie’s,” I told the driver. “Private entrance.”

Time to see if the honorable Colton Moreau was ready to learn how deep his bank’s darkness really went.

Chapter Seven

Colton

Christie’s after hours felt like a cathedral to the wealthy, full of solemn lighting and hushed reverence. The familiar scent of money lingered in the air, but here it mixed with oil paints and history instead of the leather and cologne of my usual banking realm. I arrived exactly at eight, adjusting my cuffs as I nodded to the security guard who clearly expected me. Isabella Delacroix’s influence, no doubt.

She emerged from between two massive gilt frames, and I had to remind myself that finding someone aesthetically striking didn’t mean you had to like them. She was still in her work suit, but somehow she was even more confident here in her element. The angular cut of her dark hair emphasized the elegant line of her jaw, and her dark brown eyes held that same cunning intelligence I’d noticed in my office, the kind that came from years of distinguishing genuine masterpieces from very expensive lies. Everything about her was slightly different in this space, even her posture was more relaxed, her movements more assured. This was her world, not mine, and she knew it.

The gallery’s track lighting caught the professional mask she wore like armor. Not the seductive kind, but just the expertise of someone who’d spent years navigating the delicate politics of billion-euro art transactions. I struggled to push aside my instinctive dislike of anyone who made me feel this out of my depth.

“Mr. Moreau.” She gestured to a nearby Beckmann. “Your thoughts on the brushwork?”

I studied the painting, knowing this was part of our cover but feeling hopelessly lost. The canvas was a riot of dark colors and twisted forms; it was exactly the kind of modernist work Steele and Cooper would have loved to acquire in their previous lives. “Seems genuine enough.”

“Hmm.” A slight curve of her lips suggested I’d failed some test. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, which remained distant. Not calculating, just cautious. “Walk with me.”

She led me through the gallery, her heels silent on the thick carpet. She always wore heels, no matter what the occasion.

We passed millions in art—or what was supposed to be millions in art—before she stopped abruptly. Each piece we passed seemed to speak its own language, one she was fluent in and I could barely comprehend. It was unsettling, being this far out of my element. In my world of high finance and legal precedent, I knew every nuance, every statute, every law. But here, I was blind.

“We can’t talk here.” Her voice was low, controlled, with that hint of French accent that probably helped navigate both auction houses and board rooms. “There are too many ears, even after hours.” She checked her phone, her expression tightening slightly. “I have a membership at Brooks’s. Private club, old school. Very discreet.”

I knew Brooks’s by reputation; it was one of London’s oldest gentleman’s clubs, where the real power brokers met. The kind of place where fortunes were made and destroyed over handshakes and whispered conversations. “How did you get a membership? They don’t accept women.”

That slight smile again, but this time it held a touch of genuine amusement. “They make exceptions for certain people with certain…backgrounds. Shall we?”

Her car was waiting outside, a sleek black Mercedes with a professional driver. The rain had picked up again, casting halos around London’s streetlights and softening the edges of the city. It made everything feel slightly surreal, like we were moving through one of the impressionist paintings we’d just left behind.

“After you,” she said, holding the door.

I had a hundred questions, but I waited as we pulled into London’s murky streets. Whatever she had uncovered was serious enough to warrant this level of privacy. Serious enough to make an art expert seek help from a financial lawyer.

Brooks’s was everything I hated about my new role, the kind of place where underhanded deals that shaped empires were made over brandy and cigars. The kind of place I didn’t fit in—at least not before I assumed the position of chief counsel.

Isabella moved through it with the same self-assurance she’d shown at Christie’s. I watched her navigate the space, realizing she belonged here not because of any particular mystique, but because she understood the unwritten rules of spaces like this—when to speak, when to remain silent, how to make her expertise valued in rooms where it typically wasn’t. Rules that I had yet to get the hang of—social protocols you couldn’t study, couldn’t fake.

The private room she led me to was small but elegant with dark paneling, leather chairs, and a drink cabinet that probably cost more than my first truck. The lighting was dim but practical, meant for discreet business conversations rather than social calls.

“Cognac?” She was already pouring, her movements effortless. Everything about her was effortless, I realized. Polished. From her perfectly tailored suit to the way she positioned herself in the room, close enough to converse comfortably, far enough to maintain appropriate business distance.

“Is this where you tell me what’s really going on?”

She handed me a glass, then settled into one of the chairs. She was so slight, the chair didn’t even seem to absorb her form. The room was silent, heavy with the weight of whatever she was about to tell me. “That depends on you, Mr. Moreau.”

“How so?”

“On whether you’re actually interested in the truth, or just in protecting the bank.” She took a small sip, her expression carefully guarded. Her eyes were tired, I noticed suddenly. It was the type of tiredness that came from carrying knowledge you couldn’t unsee. Something shifted within me—was it sympathy? How often had I worn that look while I was in law school, trying to pay bills, pass classes, and help Cooper manage his business? “Your reputation suggests the latter.”

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