Ava spent the night in her emergency hotel suite, pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged animal. She hadn't slept. The instant she had stepped into the lobby that morning, the visual assault began.
Every digital screen was broadcasting the previous night's photo. It was the lead image across the Daily Mail, the Evening Standard, and even the sober financial pages of the Telegraph. The lighting was harsh and unforgiving, capturing the precise moment Julian Thornfield exited the private dining room, seemingly right behind her, their bodies angled toward each other, their expressions tight with what the captions universally interpreted as suppressed, furious longing.
Image Caption: LAW OF ATTRACTION? Thornfield and Rival Barrister Ava Sinclair Caught in Late-Night Clash.
The implication was clear: the courtroom rivalry was a spectacular façade for a scorching secret affair.
Ava felt a cold, professional dread. This wasn't just a threat to her social life; it was an existential danger to her career. Her entire professional identity was built on absolute integrity and the appearance of complete detachment. Barristers couldn't afford to be seen as compromised, especially not by a client's rival let alone a corporate enemy who had just lost eighty million pounds because of her.
Her phone log was a terrifying scroll of missed calls from Geoffrey Reeve, her mother, and the Bar Council. She needed to issue a clear, definitive statement refuting the claims, but she needed to confront Julian first. She needed to understand if this was another of his calculated media maneuvers, or simply a byproduct of his reckless arrogance.
She found his schedule public facing, of course and saw he was due to speak at an economic summit downtown at 11:00 AM. She cancelled her own morning appointments, hailed a cab, and redirected her fury to his location.
Julian was already finished with his keynote address a polished, utterly convincing argument for the deregulation of tech investment and was conducting a private, standing meeting with several potential investors in a green room off the main stage.
Ava swept into the room, her composure iron-clad, but her eyes burning. The small gathering went silent. Julian looked up, his expression shifting from corporate focus to one of detached, curious amusement.
"Ms. Sinclair," he greeted, his voice calm. "To what do I owe this unscheduled, and frankly, unnecessary visit? I assume your presence here is now going to be interpreted as a public attempt to settle the agenda ahead of the next committee meeting."
Ava ignored the investors, who were watching the scene unfold with fascinated dread. She walked directly toward him, stopping close enough that only an intimate conversation was possible.
"I need to speak to you privately, Julian. Now," she mandated, her voice low and sharp.
Julian gestured to Rhys, his executive assistant, who swiftly and silently ushered the confused investors out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving them alone amidst the half-empty water bottles and discarded briefing papers.
Ava didn't wait for him to speak. She pulled out her phone, displaying the most damning of the paparazzi photos the one where their shoulders were inches apart, his shadow eclipsing her face.
"This is your fault," Ava accused, holding the phone out like a piece of evidence. "Last night, you publicly disclosed the details of a private financial offer, compromised my independence at a professional gathering, and then engineered a situation that resulted in this absolute, professional liability."
Julian didn't even glance at the photo. He walked past her to the refreshment table, pouring himself a glass of water.
"Engineered?" he repeated, taking a slow sip. "You flatter me, Ava. I didn't call the paparazzi. But I am not surprised they showed up. You and I are the two most talked-about names in UK corporate affairs right now. They smelled blood and money, and we were standing next to each other."
"And you did nothing to discourage them! You stood there and allowed them to take the photo, knowing exactly what narrative it would create!"
Julian finally turned, his expression infuriatingly serene. "And what would you have preferred I do, Ava? Should I have issued a panicked denial? Should I have pushed you out of the way and shouted, 'It's not what it looks like, she's just an infuriating lawyer who cost me a fortune, we are definitely not sleeping together'?"
His words, blunt and laced with a perverse humor, momentarily stunned her.
"The denial," Julian continued, stepping closer, his composure impeccable, "would have been interpreted as guilt. The fact is, Ava, you and I are already a story. And the only thing worse than being a story, is being a bad, boring one."
"This is not a story, Julian, this is my career! This compromises my chambers! It suggests I am susceptible to influence—that I am no longer professionally objective!" Ava's voice was rising, her control beginning to fray under his calm dismissal.
Julian reached out, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, a gesture so intimate, so unsolicited, that it stole the air from her lungs.
"Stop." His voice was suddenly deep, firm, and entirely serious. "Stop treating your reputation as if it were a fragile piece of china. You are a brilliant barrister who publicly eviscerated the Thornfield Innovations legal team. Nothing I do, or say, or allow the press to print, will erase that fact. Your talent is your objective shield, Ava. You won the case. You won the PR war. Now, the media is simply seeking to humanize the Iron Woman. And by associating you with me, they've managed to inject fire into the ice."
He let his fingers trail down her arm, the touch lingering too long before he withdrew it.
"And you find this amusing?" Ava whispered, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.
Julian smiled, a genuine, wide, and entirely magnetic flash of teeth. It was the first time she had seen him truly, openly amused, and the sight was devastating.
"Amused, yes," he admitted. "But also, intrigued. I have always preferred my adversaries to be passionate. And right now, the public narrative is that our contempt is merely the most elaborate, well-dressed form of foreplay London has ever seen."
Ava stepped back, fury tightening her every muscle. He was treating the destruction of her carefully curated professional persona as a side effect of their explosive chemistry, which he was taking professional satisfaction in.
"There is no foreplay, Julian," she insisted, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. "There is only mutual, professional hostility. And I will refute this publicly. I will issue a statement to the Bar Council."
"You will look desperate," Julian said, shaking his head. "And, more importantly, you will look like a liar. Did you feel nothing last night? When I adjusted your coat? When you looked at me on the street? When we were speaking only inches apart, discussing my mother's betrayal?"
He was pushing her buttons with surgical precision, forcing her to confront the emotional truth beneath her professionalism.
"That was intellectual engagement," Ava snapped.
"It was sexual tension so thick you could carve it with a knife," Julian countered, his voice losing its amusement and becoming raw with conviction. "It's why you showed up here today, unannounced and furious, instead of sending a formal letter. You are craving the friction, Ava. Just admit it."
Ava's breath hitched. She hated him for knowing her so instantly, so accurately. She hated that her body reacted to him with such fierce, undeniable certainty.
Julian saw the flicker in her eyes the moment her composure failed.
He pressed his advantage, stepping toward her, moving with the same predatory grace she'd witnessed in the courtroom. He stopped when they were barely a foot apart.
"You won your case by exploiting the gap between law and execution. I am simply exploiting the gap between your profession and your passion," Julian murmured, his eyes fixed on hers. "Do you want to survive this scandal? Then let the narrative burn itself out. Stop fighting the chemistry you clearly feel."
"I feel nothing but the desire to see you discredited," Ava insisted, her chest tight.
"Prove it," Julian challenged, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Tell me, right now, standing this close, that the kiss we shared the night of the gala was meaningless. Tell me you didn't spend last night watching the news, remembering the pressure of my hands on your arm, and fantasizing about how to win the next round."
Ava's professional shield was cracking. She felt the seductive pull of his confidence, the terrifying power of his honesty. It was a dizzying, dangerous combination. She wanted to slap him; she wanted to kiss him again and wipe the smug, knowing look from his face.
The door handle rattled. Rhys was attempting to check in.
Julian didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on Ava, forcing the intensity.
"Rhys," Julian called out, his voice not raising, but carrying an unassailable authority. "Five more minutes. We are discussing the intricacies of image management."
The term was a clear, dark joke a public signal that they were still in the throes of their professional battle, even as the walls between them were crumbling.
Julian turned his attention back to Ava, his gaze demanding. "I am offering you a professional truce on the image crisis. We both ignore it. We both focus on the committee. We let the press speculate. And in return, you concede that the tension between us is real, professional, and entirely captivating."
"I concede nothing," Ava forced out.
"Then I'll be waiting for your public statement to the Bar Council. And I will prepare my legal rebuttal to your inevitable lie," Julian countered smoothly. He picked up his briefcase, the meeting adjourned. "Good day, Ms. Sinclair. Try to find some amusement in the narrative. It's far less draining than perpetual outrage."
He walked past her, leaving her in the empty room, her mind racing. He hadn't fought her anger; he had deflected it, absorbed it, and then weaponized the undeniable truth of their physical reaction against her.
Ava left the summit feeling defeated not by Julian's strategy, but by her own emotional volatility. He had forced her to admit, if only to herself, that her contempt was not pure; it was laced with a potent, terrifying desire.
She returned to her hotel suite, the decision facing her with clarity. If she issued a denial, Julian would use his media power and resources to immediately challenge her, turning a rumor into a full-blown public spectacle of her professional deception. If she remained silent, the rumor would eventually fade, subsumed by the next news cycle, allowing her brilliance to reassert itself.
The silence was the higher ground. The silence was the necessary retreat.
Later that afternoon, a courier delivered a small, unmarked box to her suite. Inside, resting on a bed of dark silk, was an ancient, leather-bound volume: The Complete Laws of Roman Contract (1745 Edition).
A tiny, square card was tucked inside the front cover. It contained only Julian's handwriting:
"Study the foundations, Ava. Before we write the new ones. J.T."
It was a peace offering, an intellectual challenge, and a devastatingly personal gesture all rolled into one. He had remembered her statement about valuing the foundational texts of law. He was acknowledging her genius, even as he was trying to dismantle her control.
Ava ran her hand over the aged leather binding. It was expensive, rare, and profoundly unnecessary. He was still trying to buy her cooperation, not with a contract, but with intellectual currency.
She settled into a chair, the book open on her lap. She wouldn't thank him. She wouldn't acknowledge the gift. She would simply absorb the knowledge, preparing for the next round.
Ava had survived the confrontation. She had refused to be publicly discredited. But she had been forced into an uneasy truce with the enemy, a ceasefire dictated by the terrifying realization that their animosity was fueled by a mutual, explosive chemistry that was now visible to the entire world. The war of wit and policy was about to become a war of passion.