Ava awoke to the smell of expensive cologne and the crushing, immediate weight of reality. Julian was gone. A handwritten note lay on the pillow where his head had been, stark against the white linen: "NYC. Back soon. Don't forget the scrambler." There was no endearment, no heart, only instruction and a possessive reminder of their secret. It was exactly the kind of emotional distance she expected from Julian Thornfield, and yet, it was the only safe way to continue.
She felt physically different raw, vibrant, and utterly exposed. Every professional bone in her body screamed for the immediate re-establishment of control. She spent the next hour eradicating every trace of him: smoothing the sheets, gathering the discarded papers, and checking the security seal on the door twice.
Back at her own residence later that day, the quiet hum of her life felt deafening. She was due in chambers. Her mentor, Sir Richard Reeve, had summoned her for a "review of media protocols," a euphemism she recognized instantly.
The atmosphere in Sinclair & Reeve Chambers was noticeably cooler. There were smiles, but they didn't reach the eyes. Ava was met with a strained politeness, a subtle shift in the social temperature that was more damaging than outright hostility. Her friend and co-barrister, Chloe, pulled her aside into an unused office.
"Ava, you're the lead story on Financial Chronicle again," Chloe whispered, her eyes wide with alarm. "The headline is 'The Billionaire's Barrister: Is Ava Sinclair Compromising Integrity for Influence?' They're not talking about your court win anymore. They're talking about the gala and the Paris committee photos."
"The committee is public record. The gala photos were two months ago," Ava dismissed, but the cold knot in her stomach tightened.
"They're linking it, Ava. And the whisper campaign is vicious. People are suggesting the Thornfield Innovations' loophole wasn't incompetence; it was a... transaction."
The accusation was a direct assault on her character, the very foundation of her Nigerian-British pride and her father's legacy. She realized her brief, desperate moment of surrender in Paris was threatening to dismantle her decade of meticulous work.
Her meeting with Sir Richard was predictable. He didn't accuse her, but he delivered a sharp, lawyerly warning: "You are the face of this Chambers, Ava. We have a reputation for being surgically clean. Mr. Thornfield is a necessary association, but his world is defined by chaos and leverage. You must ensure there is no perception of impropriety. You are to avoid all non-essential contact with him for the next quarter. Is that understood?"
Ava swallowed her pride. The order gave her the professional cover she desperately needed to pull back. She nodded, her composure absolute. "Understood, Sir Richard. Complete professional distance."
She left the meeting resolute. The affair, which had been thrilling and terrifying, now had a price tag too high to ignore. She was not meant for stolen hours; she was meant for the pinnacle of her profession. Julian had brought her down to earth with a crash, and now she had to claw her way back up.
Later that evening, Julian's text came through from his private number: Contract review needed. Attached are the draft terms for the Lagos port venture. Need your eye on Clause 5.
It was a professional request, but she saw the test in it. He was offering her access, proximity, and an excuse to continue their dangerous dance.
Ava deleted the message without replying. She opened her laptop and composed a cold, formal email to Julian's Head of Legal: "Please note that, due to my current commitments and Sir Richard's directives, I am temporarily recusing myself from all non-committee related dealings with Thornfield Innovations. I recommend you use your internal counsel for Clause 5."
It was a professional death sentence for their secret. The distance was not a choice for pleasure; it was a mandate for survival.
She sent the email and watched her phone screen for five silent minutes, waiting for his reply, a fiery, possessive text that acknowledged her move.
Nothing came.
The silence was worse than an argument. It meant Julian understood the tactical retreat and accepted it. It meant the power struggle had simply moved into a new, colder dimension. Ava had rejected him in the language he understood best the language of terms and conditions. And the sting of that rejection was entirely her own.