Page 34 of Silence and Surrender

Her response was immediate.Always.

That single word squeezed something in my chest I hadn’t known was there. I set the phone down and walked into my bedroom, the plush charcoal carpet soft beneath my feet. Like everything else in my life, the room was a study in calculated perfection—clean lines, dark woods, and floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the city into abstract art against the night sky. A king-sized bed dominated one wall, its gray silk sheets perfectly made. Custom blackout curtains hung unused, because I’d always preferred the city lights to complete darkness. The far wall housed built-in shelves filled with leather-bound books I rarely touched anymore, and a vintage record player I’d inherited from my father before he died, one of the few personal touches in the otherwise staged room.

I pulled on a pair of black sweatpants, leaving my chest bare, still slightly damp from the shower. Water droplets traced paths down my shoulders, and I ran a hand through my wet hair, messing it beyond repair. The sensation felt rebellious after a lifetime of perfect styling.

I sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by all this careful order, and felt more out of place than I had at The Dorchester. In the soft glow from the cityscape, every pristine surface seemed to mock my increasingly disordered thoughts. A crystal tumbler of scotch sat untouched on the nightstand; I couldn’t remember pouring it. Tomorrow, I’d have to face everything I’d been avoiding. But tonight, in this pristine room that suddenly felt more like a museum than a home, I let myself imagine what it might be like to let someone—to let Isabella—see past all these perfect surfaces to the broken mess underneath.

For the first time in years, the thought didn’t terrify me.

Chapter Sixteen

Isabella

I checked my watch in Colton’s private elevator as we ascended to his penthouse—11:47 PM. The bank’s surveillance had forced us to find somewhere else to continue our investigation, and he’d suggested his place without hesitation.

Something about the lateness of the hour and the intimacy of visiting his private space made my pulse quicken.

We’d been working late at the bank again, piecing together the connections between the shipping manifests and my father’s notes, when Colton had suddenly stiffened. His eyes had flicked to the security camera in the corner of his office, its red light blinking steadily. Without a word, he’d gathered our most sensitive documents, tucking them carefully into his briefcase.

“We can’t keep working here,” he’d said, voice low and urgent. “Rodger has increased surveillance on both our offices. I noticed new cameras installed this morning.” His hand had brushed mine as he passed me my coat. “I have copies of the files we need at my place. It’s secure, no bank surveillance, no unexpected visitors.”

The way he’d said it—matter-of-fact, practical—had made it clear this was about the investigation, not us. But still, the prospect of seeing Colton’s home, of working with him somewhere beyond the bank’s watchful eyes, had sent a flutter through my stomach that had nothing to do with curiosity.

When the doors opened directly into his foyer, I caught my breath. The space was all clean lines and understated wealth, and large windows offering a stunning view of London’s skyline. No doorman, no security desk—just biometric locks and privacy so he could come and go as he pleased with no prying eyes. Moonlight crawled across the dark wooden floors, casting everything in silvery shadows that made the space feel almost dreamlike.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Colton said, leading me into a spacious living area. He moved with easy confidence through the room, at home in a way I’d never seen him at the bank. There was a different energy to him here; he was more relaxed, more himself. “Would you like something to drink?”

I was too busy taking in the details of his private world—a huge collection of leather-bound books lining built-in shelves, the abstract art that spoke of genuine appreciation rather than mere investment, the tiny touches that revealed the man underneath. A chess set near the window caught my eye, the pieces mid-game, suggesting he played against himself. The thought of him here alone, contemplating strategic moves in the night, made something in my chest ache.

“Wine would be nice,” I managed, setting my files on his massive desk. The surface was polished oak, documents arranged with meticulous order. So like him—everything in its place, everything carefully organized.

He nodded, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over a chair. The movement drew my attention to how his shoulders filled out his crisp, white shirt. I’d noticed the physical changes in him over the past months, but here, in this intimate setting, they were impossible to ignore. The training had transformed him from lean to powerfully built, though he hid it well under expertly tailored suits.

When he reached up to loosen his tie, I couldn’t help but watch the play of muscles beneath the fine fabric. His fingers worked the knot with deliberate movements that made me think of other things those strong hands could do. The thought brought heat to my cheeks.

“Red or white?” He was unknotting the tie now, his fingers deft and sure. The silk whispered as he pulled it free, and something in me responded to the subtle intimacy of watching him undress, even this professionally. I’d seen him without his suit jacket countless times at the bank, but watching him shed those layers here, in his private space, felt different. Seductive.

“Red,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse. He’d started unbuttoning his collar, and I forced myself to look away as he rolled up his sleeves. Each new inch of exposed skin felt like a revelation—the strong line of his throat, the definition in his forearms, the way his movements spoke of contained power. The physical changes in him were startling up close—the breadth of his shoulders testing his shirt’s seams, the way the fabric pulled across his chest when he moved, the new strength evident in every gesture.

The domesticity of the moment struck me; him loosening his clothes, me in his private space, the late hour lending everything a sense of intimacy we usually avoided. Six months ago, I would have never imagined being here, watching Colton Moreau transform from corporate attorney to something far more compelling. The man who emerged as he shed his professional armor was someone I found increasingly difficult to resist.

“Father’s records from five years ago,” I said quickly, pulling out the stack of notebooks I’d brought. Focusing on work seemed safer than dwelling on how different he looked in his home, how the softer side he usually kept hidden was more apparent here. I wanted to cross the room and help him with those buttons, to discover what else he kept concealed beneath his perfect exterior.

I forced my attention to the documents, though I remained acutely aware of him moving behind me, the soft sounds of him making himself comfortable in a way I’d never witnessed before. He set the glass of wine next to me, then disappeared into a room off the hallway. Coming out a few seconds later, he was rubbing his eyes and sliding on a pair of glasses. I noticed his glasses had been absent recently, and contacts had obviously taken their place.

He sat back down at the desk, pulled out his laptop and booted it up. After a moment, he looked up, his glasses perched on his nose in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive but somehow was. “More flagged manifests?”

“Better.” I moved to join him at the massive desk that dominated his home office. “Financial trails. He was tracking money through a series of shell companies, all art-related on paper, but the numbers didn’t add up.”

The desk was large enough to spread out the notebooks, but I still found myself drawn to his side of it, close enough to feel the heat from his body. He shifted to make room for me, his chair scraping quietly against the hardwood floors.

“Let me see.”

I opened the first notebook, pointing to columns of numbers interspersed with my father’s flowing handwriting. “See these notations? He used a simple substitution cipher, something we developed when I was young. What looks like authentication notes about pigments and canvas preparation is actually tracking suspicious transactions.”

Colton leaned closer to study the page, and I tried not to focus on how his proximity affected me. “Clever. Hidden in plain sight.”

“He was always clever.” I swallowed past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Too clever, in the end.”

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