Chapter Twelve
Isabella
The bank’s endless halls felt emptier without Colton. I’d gotten used to our late nights spent poring over documents, his steady presence across the desk from me. The way his voice would soften when fatigue crept in around midnight, how his stiff posture would relax just slightly as he leaned forward to point out discrepancies in the ledgers. Now all I had was silence, darkened halls and empty cubicles.
Two nights ago, Colton and I had worked until dawn. I’d fallen asleep at his desk, drooling slightly on a stack of shipping manifests, and had woken to find his suit jacket draped over my shoulders. The fabric had been impossibly soft, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood. He’d been across the room, pretending to read files, but I’d caught him watching me in the reflection of his computer screen. When I’d tried to return the jacket, he’d waved it away. “Keep it for now. The air conditioning in the building is aggressive.”
My eyes caught on his jacket hanging in the corner, and I fought the urge to slip it on. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, and I needed a fresh cup to get through these manifests.
The executive floor was mostly deserted this late on a Friday, but as I approached the small break room tucked away in the east wing, voices drifted through the partially open door. I paused, not wanting to interrupt what sounded like a private conversation.
“Did you hear about Moreau and the Toronto Chief Executive Officer?”
The words caught my attention, and I found myself rooted to the spot.
“After the merger celebration, she had quite a bit to drink and couldn’t stop talking about her night with him at The Dorchester.”
My hand froze on the door handle. I shouldn’t listen, shouldn’t care about his private life. But my feet refused to move as another voice chimed in.
“The Peninsula Suite,” someone said, the clink of a spoon against ceramic punctuating her words. “Karen at the front desk says they keep a special key card ready. The minute Mr. Moreau calls, they prepare everything exactly how he likes it.”
I thought of how meticulously he organized our case files, each document precisely labeled and filed in color-coded folders. The way he arranged his pens by type and color, straightened his tie exactly three times before important meetings. Of course his private life would be just as carefully controlled.
“The CEO said it was incredible—apparently he barely speaks, just takes complete control. She said he bent her over the chaise lounge, took her against the windows overlooking the city. An hour of mind-blowing sex, but when she tried to kiss him afterwards? He was already dressed and calling her car.”
Just yesterday, we’d spent hours reviewing shipping manifests, and he’d unconsciously leaned closer whenever I spoke, his attention wholly focused on my words. His sleeve had brushed mine as he reached for a document, and neither of us had pulled away for a long moment. Nothing like the distant lover they described.
“The Deutsche Bank director had the same experience two months ago. Said he’s incredibly thorough, completely in control, but never kisses. Never stays. The minute it’s over, he’s straightening his tie and heading for the door.”
“Like some kind of sexy robot,” the first woman added. “The CFO said his eyes stayed distant the whole time. Gorgeous but completely untouchable.”
I peeked around the corner, now not above eavesdropping.
“The way he moves now...” the other woman shivered, running a finger around the rim of her mug. “Like a hungry predator in a power suit. Not that lean, timid lawyer anymore.”
Heat flooded my cheeks.
“Karen says he’s incredibly paranoid about protection too. Never relies on the woman. Has everything prepared, like some kind of intimate military operation.”
“Can you blame him? I’m sure someone would try to trap him now…” the first woman sighed. “That intensity, those shoulders, that jawline...Even if he is completely emotionally unavailable.”
“Something happened a few years ago,” the other woman said quietly. “That’s when he changed. Started this whole careful routine.”
“That bitch Catherine,” the first woman muttered, and my breath caught. “Completely destroyed him.”
“Though have you noticed?” Another woman joined in now. “The way he is with the art expert? Nothing like how he was with either of them.”
My heart stuttered. I forced myself to breathe normally, pressing back against the wall beside the door.
“I’ve seen them working late. They look pretty cozy together. And I watched him bring her coffee yesterday.”
He’d brought me coffee every day this week, always perfectly timed to when I was about to hit an afternoon slump. Always exactly how I liked it, black, no sugar, just like his.
“Maybe she’s finally cracking that perfect control of his.”
“Never will happen,” someone scoffed. “Mr. Moreau doesn’t do emotional connections anymore. But damn, I wouldn’t say no. Especially with how ripped he’s gotten.”
“Definitely an upgrade. Though he was always gorgeous. Just...softer before.”
“Nothing soft about him now,” the first voice smirked. “In any sense. Poor Catherine has no idea what she gave up.”
“I heard he had her blacklisted from every major law firm in London.”
“Good. Serves her right, the scheming bitch.”
The women’s voices faded behind me as I walked back to my office, my need for coffee forgotten. Catherine. The name echoed in my head. Who was she? What had she done to turn him into this careful, restrained version of himself?
My path took me past his office, and I couldn’t help but pause. Through the darkness, I could make out the tidy arrangement of his desk. The carefully organized files. The rigid order that defined every aspect of his life.
Until me.
The same hands that methodically bent executives over hotel furniture now shook with rage when we discovered the first trafficking connection. The man who never let women stay until the morning now worked beside me until dawn, bringing coffee and sharing theories.
Those women at The Dorchester got his body, his skill, his carefully measured passion. But I got his trust. His vulnerability. The fierce protective instinct that had him checking every shadow when we worked late.
And heaven help me, I wanted more. Wanted to know if he’d maintain that famous control with me. If he’d try to orchestrate and direct, or if he’d finally let go.
The worst part was knowing how dangerous these thoughts were. We were investigating human trafficking, for christ’s sake. People were suffering while I sat here fantasizing about breaking down Colton Moreau’s walls.
But maybe that’s what made it inevitable. In this world of forged documentation and careful lies, we were the only real thing. The only truth in a bank built on deception.
The smart thing would be to maintain distance. To focus on the case. To ignore the heat in his eyes when we worked late and the way his hands lingered when passing files. To forget how his jacket still smelled like him, and how his eyes had softened when he saw me with it draped over my shoulders.
But I’d never been good at ignoring the truth once I found it.
And the truth was, I was interested in a man who’d turned emotional distance into an art form. Who’d carefully constructed a life where nothing and no one could touch him. Who’d been hurt badly enough to change everything about himself.
Who might never be capable of what I wanted. What I needed.
My phone pinged—Colton checking in, like clockwork. His message was related to our investigation, asking about the Rotterdam records. But I remembered their words from the breakroom, about how he never showed a moment’s concern after using those executives’ bodies for release.
He’d texted me every night this week.
I pressed my palm against the cool glass of his office door, remembering how his hands had trembled slightly when we’d discovered the first evidence of trafficking. Not the calculated touch the other women described—too rough, too desperate, too real. For one moment, his perfect control had slipped.
And I wanted to make it slip again. Wanted to be more than a carefully documented interlude. Wanted to know what he’d do if I broke all his rules, ignored all his careful distance.
But that kind of wanting could get us killed.
Rodger was watching. The bank was watching. One wrong move, one moment of weakness, and everything we’d uncovered would be buried along with us.
Like my father.
I turned back to my office, forcing myself to focus on the names and dates of missing persons’ reports rather than the heated memory of Colton’s touch. Girls were disappearing while I sat here dreaming of impossible things. Of breaking down barriers that had taken years to erect. Of making a man like Colton Moreau feel something real again.
My phone buzzed once more. Another message, less professional this time: “You’re working too late. Get some rest.”
Years of emotionless encounters, of perfectly maintained distance, of carefully orchestrated control. Years of never letting anyone close after whatever had happened with this Catherine woman.
But he worried about my sleep.
I shut down my computer, gathering the files I’d need for later. His jacket was warm as I slipped it on, allowing myself this one small indulgence. The bank’s halls felt colder at night, every shadow holding potential threats. But for the first time since starting this investigation, the darkness didn’t feel quite so empty.
Because somewhere in Italy, the most controlled man I’d ever met was thinking about me. Not about release or arrangements or emotional distance.
Just me.