Ava saw the ambush coming. It wasn't planned in a dark backroom; it was scheduled in a brightly lit television studio. Julian's PR team had arranged a joint press appearance to give an "update on the UK-EU Ethics and Innovation Steering Committee." Ava knew it was a maneuver intended to showcase their supposed professional alignment, but Julian would inevitably use it to apply maximum psychological pressure.
She arrived at the BBC studios wearing a suit the colour of deep amethyst, sharp and unyielding. She moved through the corridors with the same glacial calm she reserved for a cross-examination, ignoring the buzzing energy of the production crew.
Julian was already in the green room. He rose when she entered, not with the predatory warmth of Paris, but with a frigid, textbook courtesy that was somehow infinitely more insulting.
"Ms. Sinclair," he said, extending his hand. His handshake was firm, brief, and entirely devoid of heat. It was the handshake of two strangers meeting for the first time or two adversaries confirming their mutual loathing.
"Mr. Thornfield," she responded, mirroring his formality. She withdrew her hand instantly, the lack of lingering contact confirming the shift in their dynamics. They were back to being opponents, but now, the weapons were concealed.
The interview was excruciating. The moderator, a polished journalist named Helena Vance, was clearly fishing for romantic drama.
"Mr. Thornfield, your legal team experienced a rather high-profile loss to Ms. Sinclair's Chambers recently. Now you sit on a joint committee. Is there any truth to the rumors that this pairing is less about ethics and more about burying a burgeoning personal or professional feud?"
Julian smiled, a practiced, corporate expression that made him look utterly ruthless. "Ms. Vance, that loss was a costly oversight, yes. It was a failure of due diligence. But Ms. Sinclair's counsel was correct on the technicality. I respect results, not excuses. The rumors of a 'feud' are flattering but incorrect. We are two professionals, equally determined to create robust legislation."
He didn't defend her. He didn't deny their past. He simply reframed her previous victory as a technicality he had now successfully internalized. It was a perfectly cold-blooded power move, stripping her win of its narrative force.
Ava retaliated instantly. "Indeed, Mr. Thornfield's support for the committee is a welcome change. It suggests that even the most powerful corporate entities can be persuaded that adherence to the spirit, not just the letter, of the law is beneficial in the long run. We are aligned on the goal, if not always the methodology." She delivered the line with perfect poise, subtly reminding the audience that Julian was the one who had to be "persuaded" to act ethically.
Their answers were a tight, intellectual tango, each phrase designed to compliment while simultaneously undermining the other. They talked about policy, AI, and regulatory reform, but the subtext was a searing, private argument about betrayal and distance.
Julian leaned toward her to look at a graphic on the monitor, his shoulder momentarily brushing hers. It was accidental, yet it triggered a jolt of recognition in Ava, a sudden, potent memory of that electric heat in Paris.
He immediately pulled back, but she saw it a minute, almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw, a flash of darkness in his eyes that acknowledged the physical trespass. He felt it too. The enforced formality wasn't working. The chemistry, which they were actively trying to suppress, was leaking into the atmosphere.
Later, as they were packing up, Julian moved to block her path to the exit, leaning against the doorframe, returning to the dominant posture she remembered from the gala.
"That was a calculated performance," he murmured, his voice low enough to be private, yet laced with accusation. "Your little email to my Head of Legal. The recusal. That was a tactical rejection, Ava."
"It was self-preservation," she corrected, refusing to look down, meeting his gaze. "Your world doesn't allow for casual complications, Julian. And I refuse to be collateral damage for your personal pursuits."
"Casual? You think Paris was casual?" He took a step closer, crowding her, his power a palpable thing. "I flew across three continents and bypassed my board because of you. That's not casual. That is reckless and you know I hate recklessness."
"Then you should have thought of that before you left. Your silence was a choice. Mine is a necessity." Ava felt her carefully constructed composure begin to crack. The public denial was easier than this private, honest anger.
Julian stared at her, his eyes burning with a conflict that mirrored her own. "You punish with distance. I punish with presence. I will not recuse myself from the most interesting and infuriating person in London, Ava. This formality ends the moment we are alone. And we both know it."
He didn't wait for a response. He pushed himself off the doorframe, his mission accomplished: he had delivered his retaliation, reminding her that their sexual dynamic transcended her professional walls.
As he walked past her, he paused just long enough for his hand to lightly graze the back of her neck a deliberate, non-negotiable touch that felt like a claim of ownership.
"See you tomorrow, Ms. Sinclair," he drawled, the title sounding like a threat, "in the courtroom."
Ava stood frozen, the phantom heat of his touch still searing her skin. He was right. Her professional retreat had only enraged him, turning their private passion into another battlefront. And now, he was bringing the war directly back into her domain: the London courtroom.