Chapter Two
Isabella
“This was an unauthorized acquisition, Miss Delacroix.”
I kept my face neutral as I met Colton Moreau’s stern gaze across his ridiculously ostentatious desk. The bank’s chief counsel had summoned me to his corner office like a misbehaving schoolgirl, and now sat there in his perfectly tailored suit with his haughty posture, questioning my judgment.
“The Caravaggio was available for a limited time,” I said, letting just a hint of my French accent slip through. Americans found it charming. The British found it intimidating. But Moreau was annoyed by anything that came out of my mouth, no matter how it was delivered. “The opportunity—”
“Required board approval.” He leaned forward slightly, the movement drawing attention to how his shoulders strained his suit jacket. “Which you didn’t get.”
“Because the board wouldn’t have moved quickly enough.”
“The board exists for a reason, Miss Delacroix.”
God, Colton Moreau was insufferable. Every word he uttered was precisely measured, every gesture perfectly calculated. “Your father may have had carte blanche with acquisitions, but—”
“Do not,” I cut in, my voice pointed enough to make him blink, “presume to tell me how my father conducted business.”
A muscle twitched in his chiseled jaw. He’d changed since taking over as chief counsel, and not just the physical transformation that was becoming difficult to ignore, but something in his bearing. More powerful. Harder.
“The acquisition was sound,” I continued before he could start lecturing me again. “The provenance is impeccable, the price was well below market value—”
“And the paperwork is incomplete.” He tapped the file before pushing it across the desk towards me with one finger. “Which makes it my problem.”
“You make everything your problem, Mr. Moreau. It’s why you’re paid so well to say ‘no’ to everyone.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. His carefully constructed control slipped for just a moment, revealing something even harder underneath. “I say no when people take unnecessary risks with the bank’s reputation.”
“I took a calculated risk based on my expertise—”
“Your expertise?” His laugh was cold. “Your so-called expertise got the bank a painting we can’t properly document, from a seller who won’t provide complete paperwork, at a price that raises red flags with regulatory compliance.”
I leaned forward, matching his posture. “That painting will be worth triple what we paid within five years.”
“If we can prove we acquired it legally.”
“Are you questioning my authentication?”
“I’m questioning your reckless methods.” He stood, and I had to force myself not to step back. When had Colton Moreau become so physically imposing? “This isn’t a private gallery, Miss Delacroix. This is a bank. We answer to the board and its investors. To our clients. We have procedures.”
“Bureaucratic procedures that would have lost us the acquisition.” I lifted my chin, refusing to be intimidated by his height or that cold authority he wore like his neatly pressed designer suits. “Sometimes expertise means knowing when to bend the rules.”
“Rules exist for a reason.”
“Yes, to make attorneys feel self-important when they enforce them.”
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 at La Maison if 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.
“Problems with the paperwork?”
I looked up to find Moreau in my office doorway. His presence was impossible to ignore, as much as I wanted to.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I closed the manifest files quickly. Something about those discrepancies bothered me, but I wasn’t about to give him more ammunition to use against me.
He moved into my office uninvited, glancing at the stack of papers spread across my desk. “The seller’s documentation?”
“Being finalized.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He picked up a shipping form, and I resisted the urge to snatch it back. “Interesting routing.”
“Standard for pieces of this value.”
“Through Rotterdam?” His eyes met mine. “When Frankfurt would be more direct?”
“The seller’s preference.”
“The seller who won’t provide complete paperwork.”
I stood up from behind my desk, annoyed by how he made me feel small even in my highest heels. “Do you actually need something, Mr. Moreau? Or are you just here to question my judgment again?”
He set the paper down with precise movements. Everything about him was precise, from his haircut, his words and his carefully controlled strength. It was maddening.
“I’m here because the compliance team is asking questions about our recent acquisitions. Questions I can’t answer because the documentation is...creative.”
“Our acquisitions are legitimate.”
“Prove it.” He leaned against my desk, too close. “Explain to me why I shouldn’t recommend terminating your pet project.”
“Pet project?” I stepped out from behind my desk now, my anger making me reckless as I raised my voice. “The acquisitions the board is funding will make the bank millions in the next ten years. But you’d rather follow procedures than seize opportunities.”
“I’d rather not have the regulatory authorities questioning our methods.”
“No, you’d rather question mine.” I snatched the shipping manifest from his hand. “I don’t need you micromanaging my division just because you’ve decided to become some kind of corporate enforcer.”
His eyes narrowed, eyebrows pulling together. “Corporate enforcer?”
“Please.” I gestured at him, nodding to the expensive suit, the harder set of his jaw. “You’re trying so hard to be intimidating, but you’re still just a cowardly lawyer hiding behind paperwork.”
Something volatile flashed in his eyes. He straightened to his full height, using his size in a way the old Colton Moreau never would have.
“End of day,” he reminded me softly. “Perfectly completed paperwork. Or we’ll see who’s hiding behind what.”
He left before I could respond, his presence lingering in my office like his cologne.
I spent the next four hours perfecting the documentation, trying to ignore the nagging questions about those shipping manifests.
At 5:55 p.m., I walked into his office with the finished file. Every form completed, every requirement met, every detail documented.
He didn’t look up from his computer as he spoke. “You cut it close, Miss Delacroix.”
“But not too close.” I dropped the file on his desk. “Everything you asked for. Complete. And totally unnecessary.”
He finally looked up, and something in his expression made me wish I’d just left the file and gone. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” I said coolly, turning to leave. “We will.”
“Miss Delacroix?”
I paused at the door.
“Next time you decide to bend the rules?” His voice was quiet, yet commanding all the same. “Remember that some of us are paid to pay attention.”
I left without responding, but his words followed me out into the hall. Paid to pay attention. I hated that he was right. Hated even more that beneath his rigid adherence to protocol, Moreau’s eye for detail was something I actually respected. He’d caught something in those manifests, the same weight discrepancies I’d noticed. For all his corporate stiffness and lecture-ready posture, the man saw patterns where others saw only paperwork. It was the one quality that made our arguments almost...stimulating. Not that I’d ever admit that to him .
Maybe the great Colton Moreau wasn’t just questioning my methods.
Maybe he was questioning something else entirely.