Page 3 of Silence and Surrender

Something cold and dangerous flashed in his dark eyes. “The paperwork will be on my desk by end of day. Complete. Perfect. Or I’ll recommend the board terminate the acquisition.” He moved around the desk, into my space. “And possibly your position with it.”

I held my ground, though it took effort. This close, I could smell his expensive cologne, see the way his suit barely contained his shoulders. The gym hadn’t just added muscle, it had given him a physical confidence that made his professional authority much more intimidating.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Moreau?” I narrowed my eyes, not letting him bully me.

“Merely stating facts, Miss Delacroix.” His voice softened slightly, but that was actually worse. More exacting. “Like the fact that your father’s reputation won’t protect you if you keep ignoring bank protocol.”

I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his flashing brown eyes. “My father built this bank’s art division. Made it prestigious. Profitable.”

“And now he’s gone.” There was no gentleness in his words. No mercy. “And you’re not him.”

I smiled, letting the ice fill my veins until it froze my expression. “You’re right. I’m not him. I’m better.”

Something shifted in Moreau’s eyes—surprise, maybe. Or perhaps even a shred of respect. But it vanished quickly behind the impenetrable wall he wore like armor.

“End of day,” he said quietly. “Completed paperwork. Or we’ll see exactly how much better you really are.”

I turned on my heels, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. My Louboutins clicked against the floor as I stalked out, head held high.

Sari, his assistant, gave me a sympathetic look as I passed. She’d probably heard every word; his office walls were thick, but our voices had risen.

Lovely.

By lunch, the entire legal department would know that Colton Moreau was trying to rein in Antoine Delacroix’s rebellious daughter.

I paused in the hallway, taking a deep breath to calm my frustration. What infuriated me most wasn’t just Moreau’s rigid adherence to rules, it was how a part of me couldn’t help but admire his thoroughness. The man left nothing to chance, examined every angle before making decisions. In another context, I might have appreciated such attention to detail. The way his eyes had narrowed when studying those shipping manifests showed an analytical precision that matched my own. If only he weren’t so determined to block my every move, we might actually make an effective team. But he was nothing more than a stuffed shirt who cared only for the bank’s reputation.

Back in my office, I pulled up the Caravaggio acquisition files. The painting was exquisite, a recently discovered work that had been hidden in a private collection for centuries. The provenance was solid, even if it was incomplete. The price was well below market value because the seller needed quick cash and absolute discretion.

My father would have understood my actions. Would have seen the opportunity and seized it.

My computer dinged and an email from Moreau hit my inbox. The official acquisition checklist, all forty-seven points that required documentation. I could practically envision his smug expression as he had hit send.

“Everything all right?”

I looked up to find Julia from the marketing department hovering in my doorway. With her bright red hair pulled into a messy bun and statement earrings that somehow never violated the company dress code, she was a splash of color against the bank’s monochrome backdrop.

“Just our chief counsel being...thorough,” I said, trying to sound professional despite my frustration.

She winced, wrinkling her nose slightly, her freckles scrunching together. “The Caravaggio? People are talking about how he ambushed you in the board meeting yesterday.”

“Attacked is more accurate.” Moreau had waited until I’d finished my presentation about the acquisition’s potential value, then systematically dismantled every point with legal concerns.

He’d been different in that meeting than he’d been in the past. More aggressive. The tailored suit hadn’t quite hidden the new breadth of his shoulders or the way he carried himself with more physical confidence. But it was his voice that had changed most—deeper, more commanding. Like he was done being the quiet lawyer in the corner.

“Earth to Isabella?” Julia’s voice pulled me back. “The girls are getting lunch atLa Maisonif you want to join.”

“Can’t.” I gestured at my screen, rolling my eyes exaggeratedly. “Paperwork to perfect.”

She nodded knowingly. “Good luck. Try not to kill Moreau before the viewing at the Ashworth Estate.”

Ugh, I’d forgotten that was coming up. Wonderful. Another chance to watch Colton Moreau work a room with his impeccable manners while probably finding new ways to question my methods and undermine my team.

I turned back to the Caravaggio files after Julia left. The seller’s documentation was good. Not pristine, but better than most quick sales. But something about the shipping manifests caught my eye. The weights seemed off for a painting of that size.

I pulled up our database of similar works, comparing specifications. The Caravaggio should have weighed roughly thirty-five kilos with crating. The manifest listed it at nearly twice that.

Frowning, I checked other recent acquisitions. The same pattern emerged—weights that didn’t match standard art shipping parameters. Temperature controls set unusually low.

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