The morning after Julian Thornfield's televised broadcast felt less like a new day and more like a declaration of war stamped across every UK broadsheet. Ava didn't need to leave her office at Sinclair & Reeve to know the temperature of the City. The headlines arrived digitally, cold and cutting, painting her professional integrity as economic sabotage.
The Financial Times: Thornfield Calls for Speed, Bar Clings to Brakes.
The Daily Mail: The Iron Obstacle: QC Sinclair's Framework Threatens £50Bn Tech Boom.
City A.M.: A Blunt Cudgel vs. The Future.
The "blunt cudgel" was a direct, calculated reference to Julian's analogy a phrase that was now trending across social media, instantly weaponizing his public narrative against her. Ava sat at her desk, the leather of her barrister's chair cool beneath her hands, reviewing the stack of increasingly frantic emails from the Bar Council. They wanted a formal, measured response; they wanted her to retreat to the safety of legal jargon.
"He didn't attack the framework, Ava," Geoffrey Reeve, her mentor, sighed, pacing her spacious office. "He attacked the philosophy. He painted you as the villain of progress. He's shifting this from a policy debate into a popularity contest, and he's winning the first round."
"He is performing the oldest trick in the corporate playbook, Geoffrey," Ava stated, her voice dangerously quiet. "He's creating a simplistic dichotomy: he is courage and I am fear. He is trying to force me into a defensive posture."
"Which is why you need to issue a statement reminding people that the law protects them."
"A statement is bureaucratic. It's exactly what he wants for me to appear slow and reactive, confirming his narrative of 'the blunt cudgel.' I am a lawyer of evidence, Geoffrey. Not soundbites."
"But he has put you on the back foot! He is a billionaire. He controls the narrative. Your job is litigation, not public relations. He knows that." Geoffrey stopped pacing, his expression grave. "He's doing this because you refused his contract. This is a targeted campaign of professional destruction designed to make your position untenable."
Ava finally looked up, her dark eyes blazing with the cold fire of realization. Julian had assessed her, calculated her price, and upon her rejection, pivoted to maximum damage. This wasn't about the committee; it was about forcing her surrender.
"He thinks he can force me to yield by threatening my reputation," Ava said, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "He understands money and power. He does not understand pride, or the power of a superior argument."
She closed her laptop, the click a firm, final sound. "We will not issue a statement. We will not use press releases. We will go directly onto his battlefield."
Ava's counter-move was swift and surgical. Instead of granting an interview to a stuffy legal or financial review, she accepted a last-minute slot on Good Morning London the UK's most-watched breakfast news program, known for its populist reach and broad audience.
She chose her wardrobe carefully: a crisp, white, impeccably tailored suit that radiated confidence and authority, contrasting starkly with Julian's darker, more powerful presence.
She walked onto the set precisely at 8:15 AM, positioned against a backdrop of the London skyline the very city Julian claimed to own.
The host, Sarah, opened the segment by referencing Julian's explosive comments from the night before, specifically the "blunt cudgel" analogy.
"Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Thornfield's remarks have been widely interpreted as a direct criticism of your proposed framework. He argues that this approach stifles innovation by favoring stagnation. How do you respond to the charge that the Bar is afraid of progress?"
Ava met the camera lens directly, her composure absolute. She didn't sound angry or defensive; she sounded genuinely, patiently disappointed.
"I have immense respect for Mr. Thornfield's capacity for financial accumulation," Ava began, her voice measured. "He is a brilliant accumulator of assets. However, his capacity for strategic thinking seems to end where his own company's contract writing begins."
The host blinked, surprised by the directness of the attack. Ava continued, smoothly and effectively.
"Mr. Thornfield is correct that we need a sharp, surgical scalpel for modern regulation. But what he fails to understand is that the scalpel of the law is precision. His recent legal defeat where my chambers exposed an eighty-million-pound loophole in his own company's contract was not the result of 'stagnation' by the Bar. It was the result of profound carelessness by Thornfield Innovations."
She leaned forward slightly, emphasizing her core thesis.
"Mr. Thornfield is asking the UK to allow him to build the future with the same level of carelessness that he wrote his past contracts. He asks the public to trust him with their data, their security, and their entire financial stability, yet he cannot trust his own legal team to write an enforceable non-disclosure agreement. That is not courage, Sarah. That is the definition of dangerous arrogance."
She paused, and then delivered the killer blow, turning Julian's own analogy back on him with flawless precision.
"Mr. Thornfield claims my framework is a 'blunt cudgel' to progress. I submit that his policy model, devoid of essential legal protection, is not a scalpel. It is a shoddy hammer, guaranteed to destroy more than it builds. We at the Bar simply insist that the tools of progress be built with the same level of integrity that we expect from the systems they create."
Ava finished, offering a polite, minimal smile. The entire segment had lasted less than four minutes, but she had dismantled Julian's argument, refuted his analogy, and reminded the entire country of his recent public defeat.
Julian Thornfield was watching the broadcast from his private jet, mid-flight over the Atlantic on his way to an emergency board meeting in New York. The screen was flawless, the audio crisp.
He had been leaning back, expecting a standard, defensive legal rebuttal. What he received was a public evisceration.
The moment she used his own loss as the definitive counter-argument, Julian felt a sharp, furious twist in his gut. He was momentarily speechless, a rare, terrifying occurrence. She hadn't just fought back; she had chosen his most vulnerable moment and used it as empirical evidence against his entire business philosophy. It was brilliant. It was vicious. It was magnificent.
"Rewind that, Rhys," Julian commanded his executive assistant, who was seated across the aisle.
Rhys quickly rewound the stream to Ava's final pronouncement.
"I submit that his policy model, devoid of essential legal protection, is not a scalpel. It is a shoddy hammer, guaranteed to destroy more than it builds."
Julian watched the clip three times. His immediate, volcanic anger cooled rapidly, replaced by the detached, analyzing interest he usually reserved for calculating multi-million-pound risks.
She used the hammer. She took the hammer and smashed my shield.
He had seen the Iron Woman in court. He had felt the heat of the impulsive woman at the gala. Now, he was seeing the strategist: a woman who could weaponize charisma and wit with the same efficiency she used case law.
He had planned for a war of attrition a slow, public erosion of her credibility. She had countered with a nuclear strike on his reputation for precision.
Julian picked up his phone. He didn't call his PR team; he called her personal office line.
Ava was already back at her chambers when the call came in. Her secretary, bewildered, announced: "It's Julian Thornfield, direct line. He says it's urgent."
Ava picked up the phone, her heart rate accelerating, but her voice was perfectly calm. "Ms. Sinclair speaking."
"You are exceptional, Ava," Julian's voice cut through the line, sharp and utterly free of warmth, yet laced with an undeniable edge of respect. He didn't waste time on pleasantries or insults.
"I am simply precise, Julian. Something you seem to confuse with stagnation," she returned.
"You hit me where it hurts. The carelessness accusation is genius. It takes the focus off the policy and back onto my competence."
"That was the point of the evidence, Julian. I look forward to your next move. I assume you have one, or are you too busy reviewing your corporate contracts for further loopholes?"
There was a silence on the line, a long, charged pause where she could almost hear his mind calculating the next sixty moves.
"You've made me eighty million pounds angrier, Ava. And fifty million pounds more intrigued," he finally said. "You've just made yourself the most talked-about lawyer in the UK. And I hate that I had to be the one to give you the platform."
"You didn't give me anything, Julian. You merely provided the target," Ava corrected, rising to stand by her office window. "I won the case. You lost the PR war. I suggest you focus on finding a viable middle-ground for the committee paper, instead of using the media to settle private scores."
"There will be no middle ground, Ava. Not in policy, and certainly not between us. You have my attention now. You have my absolute, undivided attention."
He hung up, the line going dead with an abrupt click.
Ava stood by the window, breathing deeply. Her adrenaline was soaring. She had won this round, reclaiming the narrative and securing a wave of positive press that would solidify her position as the sharp-witted heroine fighting the corporate monolith.
But she also knew the truth: she had just elevated their war to a level of public scrutiny that was both terrifying and electrifying. She had challenged the Gentleman Shark, and his reply was not retreat, but undivided attention.
As Ava looked out at the London skyline, she realized the war was no longer just professional. The hatred, the rivalry, and the furious chemistry were now fused into an obsession, dragging them closer together despite their mutual resistance.
Julian had been right about one thing: the terms of engagement remained hostile. And with her unexpected public triumph, the professional rivalry was about to blur into something much more intimate and dangerous.
The fallout from Ava's interview was immediate. Within 24 hours, her segment had been clipped and shared thousands of times, generating an enormous spike in media interest. She wasn't just a brilliant barrister anymore; she was the face of principled accountability, a refreshing change from the cautious, political maneuvering of her peers.
The attention, however, came at a cost. That evening, her private flat was stalked by paparazzi, forcing her to temporarily relocate to a discreet luxury hotel arranged by Geoffrey's security team.
"You're an overnight celebrity, Ava," Geoffrey told her later that evening, his tone a mix of pride and fear. "The phone hasn't stopped ringing. You've earned the respect of the public. But you've earned the absolute, private wrath of Julian Thornfield."
Ava watched the news on mute. They were replaying her "shoddy hammer" quote. "His wrath is irrelevant, Geoffrey, as long as I maintain my professional distance. I beat him in court, I beat him in the media. Now, I will beat him in policy."
But even as she spoke the words, she felt the lie in them. Julian's wrath was not irrelevant; it was the core of the danger and the core of the thrill. He was the only person who had ever challenged her on every single level intellectual, professional, and visceral.
Meanwhile, Julian, still airborne, began the counter-counter-move. He didn't issue an angry denial. Instead, within an hour of Ava's broadcast, Thornfield Innovations announced a massive, seven-figure donation to a legal aid trust, specifically earmarked for improving the technological efficiency of the Bar's internal systems. A gracious, professional, and subtle gesture designed to cut the ground out from under her feet an attempt to show that he was supportive of the legal system, just not her restrictive version of it.
That evening, after settling into the hotel, Ava found a secure encrypted email waiting for her.
The subject line was simply: RE: The Shoddy Hammer
The body contained only three words from Julian Thornfield:
I like diamonds.
It was a casual, veiled threat a promise that the stakes were about to rise dramatically, and that he valued weapons forged from the hardest, most expensive material.
Ava stared at the email, a slow, predatory smile finally spreading across her face. Diamonds, swords, hammers they were all just tools. And she was the one who knew how to use them with lethal precision.
She didn't reply. Instead, she began drafting her policy framework, Clause 1: Absolute Transparency in Corporate Data Handling. She would write the law, and he would have to follow it.
The war had officially escalated from a local skirmish to a full-blown siege, fueled by pride, policy, and a chemistry that was becoming too intense for either of them to ignore.