Page 42 of Silence and Surrender

“You’re right, we need proof.” I gathered my things, keenly aware of his eyes following my movements. At the door, I paused. “Colton?”

“Hmm?”

“What if this works? What if we actually find what we need?”

His expression softened just slightly. “Then we end this. All of it.”

I nodded and left, wondering which ‘this’ he meant. The case? The pretense? Or whatever was building between us, heated and dangerous and impossible to ignore.

We’d be playing roles, but I wasn’t sure how much would be acting anymore. And that terrified me more than any of the dangers waiting in the bank’s vault or Mayfair’s hidden wine cellars.

As I waited for the elevator, my mind drifted to this weekend’s task—another event filled with lies. The bank’s client roster was made up of titled individuals with legacy properties, their manicured gardens fertilized by decades of buried truths. The Ashworth Estate would be no different, and half of London’s elite would gather to pretend they understood art while making deals in shadows.

I pushed those thoughts away. First, we had to get through tomorrow night. The vault. The evidence we needed.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside, my reflection fractured in the mirrored walls. Less than twenty-four hours until we broke into the bank’s secure vault. After that would come the Ashworth gathering, then finally the auction at Mayfair. One impossible thing at a time.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I had to figure out what to do about the way Colton Moreau made me feel whenever he looked at me like that.

Chapter Nineteen

Isabella

The bank’s art storage facility was a fortress masquerading as a warehouse on the outskirts of London. Inside, past three security checkpoints and a retinal scanner, the climate-controlled vaults held billions in art and antiquities.

According to the records, anyway.

After discovering three separate insurance claims for artworks that clients were told were ‘unavailable for viewing,’ I knew we needed to check the vault ourselves. The documentation was flawless, suspiciously so. If our assumptions about the falsified claims proved correct, we’d have compelling evidence of the bank’s questionable dealings.

I tried to steady my nerves as we approached Vault Seven. I’d spent years avoiding these sealed rooms since the incident at our family estate in Provence—three hours trapped in the wine cellar at eight years old, screaming until my voice gave out. The memory alone made my chest tight.

Luckily, pieces were always brought to the presentation rooms, and up until now, I’d never had an excuse to go in.

“The Monet should be here.” I checked my tablet as Colton and I walked the sterile corridor, focusing on work rather than my growing unease. “Along with the Degas from last month’s acquisition.”

Colton’s footsteps echoed beside mine, his dress shoes impeccably clean and polished. “The one that weighs twice what it should?”

“Precisely.” I glanced at him, noting how the harsh fluorescent lighting emphasized the rugged angles of his face. My fingers itched to trace that jawline, a desire I’d been fighting for weeks now. “Shall we see what’s really in there?”

His jaw tightened. “You’re sure about this?”

“About inspecting art that officially belongs to our bank?” I kept my voice light, professional, though my hand trembled slightly as I reached for my access card. “It’s quite literally my job, Mr. Moreau.”

“At 7:00 p.m. on a Friday?”

“Best time for a surprise audit, wouldn’t you say?”

He didn’t answer, but I felt his tension as we approached the vault. Everything about this was irregular—the late hour, the chief counsel accompanying the art expert, the way we’d deliberately chosen a time when the regular staff would be gone.

I tried not to focus on how his presence affected me. On how our careful investigation had turned into something more complicated with each late night and shared discovery. Something that made me notice things I shouldn’t, like how his voice took on a different tone when we were alone, or the way his eyes would linger on me during meetings, dark with intent, before his guarded expression took hold again.

I swiped my access card, fighting down memories of another heavy door closing. The vault’s lock released with a pneumatic hiss.

“After you,” he murmured, his voice carrying that hint of roughness that never failed to create butterflies in my stomach.

The temperature dropped immediately as we entered; the vault was kept at a precise temperature to preserve the artwork. My silk blouse offered little protection against the chill, my nipples instantly hardening. I caught Colton’s gaze dropping to my chest before he quickly looked away, his own jaw clenching. I wished I would have put on a better bra this morning, one with more padding. But it was the sealed space that made my skin crawl.

“The Monet should be here.” I moved to the first storage rack, scanning the climate-controlled cases, staying close to the door. “According to the manifest, it arrived three weeks ago.”

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