Page 26 of Silence and Surrender

“I’m not hiding—”

“Really? When’s the last time you let a woman know the real you? Touch you just because she wanted to? Look you in the eyes during sex?”

I flinched. He’d hit too close to the truth—the careful choreography of my encounters, the deliberate distance I maintained, the way I always left immediately after.

“The thing about real intimacy,” Cooper continued, “is that it changes you. Makes you better. These meaningless encounters we’ve both hidden behind? They keep us exactly the same. Safe. Controlled. Alone.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Allegra appeared in the doorway, flour dusting her black shirt. “Dinner’s ready. Clara made the breadsticks herself, so everyone must be appropriately impressed.”

“We’ll finish this later,” Cooper said, rising.

I nodded, knowing we would. Knowing that sooner or later, I’d have to tell them about Isabella Delacroix and her carefully documented concerns. About shipping manifests that didn’t add up and cargo that moved in ways art never should.

But not tonight. Tonight was for Clara’s proud display of misshapen breadsticks, for Allegra’s perfectly cooked osso buco, for the warmth of family untouched by London’s shadows.

I followed them inside, the lingering sun warming my back. My phone buzzed in my pocket; it was probably Isabella with more questions, more carefully constructed revelations. I tried to ignore it.

But I knew I wouldn’t for long.

Chapter Twelve

Isabella

The bank’s endless halls felt emptier without Colton. I’d gotten used to our late nights spent poring over documents, his steady presence across the desk from me. The way his voice would soften when fatigue crept in around midnight, how his stiff posture would relax just slightly as he leaned forward to point out discrepancies in the ledgers. Now all I had was silence, darkened halls and empty cubicles.

Two nights ago, Colton and I had worked until dawn. I’d fallen asleep at his desk, drooling slightly on a stack of shipping manifests, and had woken to find his suit jacket draped over my shoulders. The fabric had been impossibly soft, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood. He’d been across the room, pretending to read files, but I’d caught him watching me in the reflection of his computer screen. When I’d tried to return the jacket, he’d waved it away. “Keep it for now. The air conditioning in the building is aggressive.”

My eyes caught on his jacket hanging in the corner, and I fought the urge to slip it on. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, and I needed a fresh cup to get through these manifests.

The executive floor was mostly deserted this late on a Friday, but as I approached the small break room tucked away in the east wing, voices drifted through the partially open door. I paused, not wanting to interrupt what sounded like a private conversation.

“Did you hear about Moreau and the Toronto Chief Executive Officer?”

The words caught my attention, and I found myself rooted to the spot.

“After the merger celebration, she had quite a bit to drink and couldn’t stop talking about her night with him at The Dorchester.”

My hand froze on the door handle. I shouldn’t listen, shouldn’t care about his private life. But my feet refused to move as another voice chimed in.

“The Peninsula Suite,” someone said, the clink of a spoon against ceramic punctuating her words. “Karen at the front desk says they keep a special key card ready. The minute Mr. Moreau calls, they prepare everything exactly how he likes it.”

I thought of how meticulously he organized our case files, each document precisely labeled and filed in color-coded folders. The way he arranged his pens by type and color, straightened his tie exactly three times before important meetings. Of course his private life would be just as carefully controlled.

“The CEO said it was incredible—apparently he barely speaks, just takes complete control. She said he bent her over the chaise lounge, took her against the windows overlooking the city. An hour of mind-blowing sex, but when she tried to kiss him afterwards? He was already dressed and calling her car.”

Just yesterday, we’d spent hours reviewing shipping manifests, and he’d unconsciously leaned closer whenever I spoke, his attention wholly focused on my words. His sleeve had brushed mine as he reached for a document, and neither of us had pulled away for a long moment. Nothing like the distant lover they described.

“The Deutsche Bank director had the same experience two months ago. Said he’s incredibly thorough, completely in control, but never kisses. Never stays. The minute it’s over, he’s straightening his tie and heading for the door.”

“Like some kind of sexy robot,” the first woman added. “The CFO said his eyes stayed distant the whole time. Gorgeous but completely untouchable.”

I peeked around the corner, now not above eavesdropping.

“The way he moves now...” the other woman shivered, running a finger around the rim of her mug. “Like a hungry predator in a power suit. Not that lean, timid lawyer anymore.”

Heat flooded my cheeks.

“Karen says he’s incredibly paranoid about protection too. Never relies on the woman. Has everything prepared, like some kind of intimate military operation.”

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