Page 27 of Silence and Surrender

“Can you blame him? I’m sure someone would try to trap him now…” the first woman sighed. “That intensity, those shoulders, that jawline...Even if he is completely emotionally unavailable.”

“Something happened a few years ago,” the other woman said quietly. “That’s when he changed. Started this whole careful routine.”

“That bitch Catherine,” the first woman muttered, and my breath caught. “Completely destroyed him.”

“Though have you noticed?” Another woman joined in now. “The way he is with the art expert? Nothing like how he was with either of them.”

My heart stuttered. I forced myself to breathe normally, pressing back against the wall beside the door.

“I’ve seen them working late. They look pretty cozy together. And I watched him bring her coffee yesterday.”

He’d brought me coffee every day this week, always perfectly timed to when I was about to hit an afternoon slump. Always exactly how I liked it, black, no sugar, just like his.

“Maybe she’s finally cracking that perfect control of his.”

“Never will happen,” someone scoffed. “Mr. Moreau doesn’t do emotional connections anymore. But damn, I wouldn’t say no. Especially with how ripped he’s gotten.”

“Definitely an upgrade. Though he was always gorgeous. Just...softer before.”

“Nothing soft about him now,” the first voice smirked. “In any sense. Poor Catherine has no idea what she gave up.”

“I heard he had her blacklisted from every major law firm in London.”

“Good. Serves her right, the scheming bitch.”

The women’s voices faded behind me as I walked back to my office, my need for coffee forgotten. Catherine. The name echoed in my head. Who was she? What had she done to turn him into this careful, restrained version of himself?

My path took me past his office, and I couldn’t help but pause. Through the darkness, I could make out the tidy arrangement of his desk. The carefully organized files. The rigid order that defined every aspect of his life.

Until me.

The same hands that methodically bent executives over hotel furniture now shook with rage when we discovered the first trafficking connection. The man who never let women stay until the morning now worked beside me until dawn, bringing coffee and sharing theories.

Those women at The Dorchester got his body, his skill, his carefully measured passion. But I got his trust. His vulnerability. The fierce protective instinct that had him checking every shadow when we worked late.

And heaven help me, I wanted more. Wanted to know if he’d maintain that famous control with me. If he’d try to orchestrate and direct, or if he’d finally let go.

The worst part was knowing how dangerous these thoughts were. We were investigating human trafficking, for christ’s sake. People were suffering while I sat here fantasizing about breaking down Colton Moreau’s walls.

But maybe that’s what made it inevitable. In this world of forged documentation and careful lies, we were the only real thing. The only truth in a bank built on deception.

The smart thing would be to maintain distance. To focus on the case. To ignore the heat in his eyes when we worked late and the way his hands lingered when passing files. To forget how his jacket still smelled like him, and how his eyes had softened when he saw me with it draped over my shoulders.

But I’d never been good at ignoring the truth once I found it.

And the truth was, I was interested in a man who’d turned emotional distance into an art form. Who’d carefully constructed a life where nothing and no one could touch him. Who’d been hurt badly enough to change everything about himself.

Who might never be capable of what I wanted. What I needed.

My phone pinged—Colton checking in, like clockwork. His message was related to our investigation, asking about the Rotterdam records. But I remembered their words from the breakroom, about how he never showed a moment’s concern after using those executives’ bodies for release.

He’d texted me every night this week.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass of his office door, remembering how his hands had trembled slightly when we’d discovered the first evidence of trafficking. Not the calculated touch the other women described—too rough, too desperate, too real. For one moment, his perfect control had slipped.

And I wanted to make it slip again. Wanted to be more than a carefully documented interlude. Wanted to know what he’d do if I broke all his rules, ignored all his careful distance.

But that kind of wanting could get us killed.

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