Page 9 of Silence and Surrender

I stood, muscles pleasantly loose, and began gathering my clothes. Everything in its proper order—trousers, shirt, tie perfectly knotted. I watched my reflection in the window as I adjusted my cuffs, London’s lights glittering beyond the glass while Victoria gathered her things.

No awkward morning after, no complications. Just like always.

“That was lovely,” she said, elegantly poised once more in her designer dress.

I nodded, the expected response. But something had shifted, slight but undeniable. The release I’d sought felt hollow, lacking a quality I couldn’t quite name. The usual sense of finality, of control restored, remained oddly elusive.

The private elevator deposited us separately in the parking garage. No goodbyes necessary. No promises of next time. These arrangements worked because everyone understood their nature.

My mind was so preoccupied that I had no memory of the drive to my penthouse.

Back in my own bed, sleep proved difficult. The physical release should have eased my mind, restored my focus. Instead, I found myself strangely restless, my thoughts circling around something I couldn’t quite grasp. Something just out of my reach.

The next morning, I arrived early at the office, seeking refuge in my work. The familiar rhythm of reviewing documents should have centered me, restored my equilibrium. Instead, that same restlessness lingered, an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.

I stared at the London skyline through my office window, an unfamiliar sensation settling in my chest. For the first time in years, measured encounters with beautiful, uncomplicated women seemed somehow insufficient. The carefully ordered world I’d built was shifting beneath my feet, slowly but undeniably.

The thought was uncomfortable. Dangerous, even. I forced the thoughts back down, turning to the safety of legal documents and financial records. This was no time for complications.

But as I reviewed the morning’s findings, a small voice whispered that maybe complications were exactly what I needed. That maybe there was more to desire than perfectly choreographed encounters and practiced moves.

I silenced it immediately. Control was everything. And I’d worked too hard to maintain mine to let it slip now.

I reached for my coffee, now cold, and forced my attention back to work. Back to what I could control. Back to what made sense.

But that nagging feeling remained, whispering that maybe, just maybe, I was ready for something more than my usual arrangements and careful distance.

I pushed the thought away. Again.

I had work to do.

Chapter Six

Isabella

The painting was perfect. Too perfect.

I traced my fingers over the canvas, feeling the precise aging of the oils, the delicate crackling that spoke of centuries of existence. To most collectors, even seasoned ones, this would pass as an authentic Vermeer. The documentation was flawless, the provenance impeccable.

And that was exactly the problem.

In my office at Devereux Private Bank, I carefully photographed every detail of the piece. Real Vermeers had flaws, like pentimenti showing through, evidence of the artist’s changes. This was technically perfect, which meant it was absolutely fake.

But the fakes weren’t what worried me. I dealt with forgeries all of the time. It was the shipping manifests, the weights that didn’t match what art should weigh, the routes that made no sense for valuable paintings. After fifteen years in the art world, I knew every trick for moving contraband. This was different. More…sinister.

I exhaled deeply. I knew I needed help, and unfortunately, the best person for the job was my least favorite person in the whole company.

I reached for my phone, scrolling to find Moreau’s number. We rarely communicated directly, most of our interactions were tense and succinct exchanges in board meetings or formal emails copied to half the legal department. But this couldn’t wait.

He answered on the second ring. “Moreau.”

“Christie’s. Tonight at eight.” I kept my voice neutral, professional.

A pause. I could almost hear him weighing the request, calculating the risks of meeting with me.

“This isn’t a compliance matter,” he said finally. “It’s…about the irregularities.”

“Yes, it is.” I let that sink in. “Eight o’clock. Private viewing room.”

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