Page 8 of Silence and Surrender

I moved to my study, the one room my father had helped me design before his death. His old authentication manuals lined the shelves, their leather bindings warm in the gentle lamplight. They were the same kinds of books that had filled my childhood home, teaching me to see truth beneath beautiful fabrications.

“Every masterpiece tells two stories,ma petite,” his voice echoed in my memory as I began laying out documents across my desk. “The one on the surface, meant to deceive. And the real story, hidden in tiny details...”

I worked late into the night, tracking patterns and making connections. My regular duties at the bank could wait.

This hunt for truth beneath lies—this was what I was meant for.

Chapter Five

Colton

The numbers still weren’t adding up. I rubbed my temples, tension coiling tight between my shoulder blades. After fourteen hours of poring over financial records, my mind buzzed with figures and dates; corruption hidden in plain sight.

I needed release. Needed oblivion. Needed to regain my focus. Needed to excise the discordant thoughts ricocheting through my skull before they could sink their claws in and fester. Before they could metastasize into something malignant I couldn’t control.

Victoria answered my text promptly. Recently separated from her third husband, she understood discretion. Understood arrangements like this. Her response was expertly calibrated, just interested enough without being too eager. No complications, no messy emotions. Perfect.

I chose The Dorchester Hotel for its exclusivity and privacy. The private elevator ensured no awkward encounters, no prying eyes. Everything controlled. Everything planned. Just like always.

I checked my watch. Eight minutes. Victoria would be punctual; these arrangements worked because everyone understood the rules. I loosened my tie, poured two glasses of wine that would most likely sit untouched.

The knock came precisely on time.

She was stunning, with her elegant lines and aristocratic grace. Long blonde hair swept up to expose a slender neck, a designer dress hugging curves that had graced more than one society magazine. Everything about her was carefully curated, from her makeup to her maintained manicure.

“Colton Moreau.” Her smile held just the right amount of heat. No pretense, no games.

I nodded, already reaching for my tie. She moved towards me slowly, hands sliding up my chest with skilled confidence. I turned her away from me, my first rule, always. Her curves pressed against my hips, soft and inviting.

Her perfume was expensive, covert but designed to seduce. Chanel, if I wasn’t mistaken. It was a scent popular among the executives I bedded. I let my hands trace her sides, settling on her hips as she moved against me.

This was what I needed. Pure physical release without complications.

Her dress fell away, revealing La Perla lingerie. Black lace against pale skin, all enticing. She was gorgeous, everything that usually occupied my carefully controlled desires.

I followed her to the bedroom, muscle memory taking over as clothing fell away. My shirt first, then trousers and boxers, everything methodically done. When she arched beneath me, I let physical need drive out all conscious thought. Let the familiar rhythm sweep away the problems that plagued my soul.

Her skin was like alabaster beneath my hands, her sighs melodiously pitched. Everything about her was safe. I knew exactly where to touch, how to move. This was a choreographed dance we both knew well.

Victoria knew the rules—no kissing, no pretense of intimacy beyond the physical. Her nails traced patterns on my back as I moved above her, both of us chasing release with practiced efficiency. The sheets were cool against my heated skin, her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper.

She moved with easy expertise, knowing exactly how to grind against me, how to match my rhythm. Each touch was calculated for maximum pleasure, every moan aptly timed. Her hands traced familiar paths across my shoulders, down my back, urging me closer.

I buried my face in her neck, inhaling her expensive perfume as my control began to slip. Just slightly. Just enough. Her breath came faster as I hit exactly the right spot, her body responding exactly as it should.

This was what I needed—pure physical connection without messy emotions.

But something felt…different tonight. The usual satisfaction was there, the physical pleasure coiling exactly as it should. Her body welcomed mine, soft curves creating the right amount of friction. Yet somehow it felt mechanical in a way it never had before. Like I was just going through the motions, my body erasing my mind completely from the experience.

I pushed the thought away, focusing on sensation. On the feel of her beneath me, around me. On the physical connection that had always been enough before. I quickly drove deeper, both of us close. Her scent filled my lungs with each breath, her sighs echoed around the room.

This was wrong.

She was wrong.

An ill-fitting key jammed into the lock, warping the tumblers into disarray. A stripped screw, unable to twist.

But still, I persisted. I sunk into her with a mindless desperation, chasing release. When it came, it was satisfying in all the expected ways. Our breathing gradually steadied in the darkness, neither of us reaching for more than this moment. No cuddling, no intimate whispers. Just the cooling of heated skin and the return of carefully orchestrated distance.

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