London was a living storm that morning sharp wind slicing between the marble pillars of the Royal Courts of Justice, rain threatening but never breaking, sunlight teasing between the clouds as if unsure which side it belonged to.
Inside Courtroom Seven, the air was warmer but far more dangerous.
You could always tell when something historic was happening. You could feel it in the seats, in the nervous page-turning of junior barristers, in the tight shoulders of expensive suits white-knuckling their briefcases. You felt it in the tension that made silence feel louder than words.
Today's electricity had only one source.
Zara Bennett.
Twenty-nine. The youngest Queen's Counsel in London.
Black, brilliant, breathtaking in a charcoal wig and a robe that moved like smoke around her tall, poised frame.
People whispered about her the way they whispered about approaching storms.
She sat at the defense table, calm as still water, flipping through her submissions with the serene confidence of a woman who did not lose. Ever. Her skin smooth, deep brown glowed under the lights. Her braids were pinned neatly under her wig, every line of her posture precise enough to cut glass.
Behind the prosecution's table sat a team of five, each with identical expressions of corporate panic.
But none of them truly mattered.
Not compared to the man sitting in the second row, the man whose presence alone tilted the gravity of the room.
Damon Huxley.
Billionaire. Media tycoon.
Black, sharply handsome, dangerous in the effortless way of men who never hear the word "no."
He didn't wear a wig or a robe. He wore a custom black suit that fit like sin, the jacket open to reveal a shirt pressed so perfectly it looked sculpted. His skin was the color of polished mahogany, flawless. His jaw was clean-shaven, sharp enough to be considered a weapon. And his eyes dark, intelligent, assessing sat on Zara like she was the only person in the room.
He looked like a man used to watching the world bend to him.
Zara looked like a woman who refused to.
Today, they were enemies.
And everyone could feel it.
The judge entered. Everyone rose. Zara stood without looking back, but she felt Damon's gaze like a hand sliding down her spine.
"Be seated," the judge said.
Chairs scraped. Papers rustled. The room inhaled.
And the war began.
Zara rose first.
"Your Honour," she began, voice low, rich, and cool, "with the court's permission, I would like to continue the cross-examination of Mr. Harrington."
The witness a senior executive from one of Damon's media subsidiaries looked like he hadn't slept in days. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt.
"You may proceed, Ms. Bennett," the judge said.
Zara smiled politely a controlled, lethal little thing and stepped toward the witness box. Every step measured. Every gesture smooth. Behind her, Damon leaned forward slightly, watching with a mix of irritation and fascination.
Zara stopped a few feet from the witness.
"Mr. Harrington," she said, tilting her head, "yesterday you stated that you had 'no prior knowledge' of the manipulated data Huxley Media published regarding my client."
"Yes," he squeaked.
"But this morning," Zara continued, sliding a document onto the evidence screen, "we received a bundle of internal emails. Dated two days before the publication."
The courtroom murmured.
Damon's jaw flexed once.
Just once.
But Zara saw it.
She always saw everything.
"Your email address is listed here," she said, tapping the screen lightly. "Correct?"
Harrington swallowed. "Yes… but…"
"And this attachment," Zara continued smoothly, "clearly shows you warning your team that the original data contradicted the headline your CEO wanted."
The witness collapsed inward like a punctured balloon.
Zara arched an eyebrow. "Would you like me to read it aloud?"
"No," he whispered. "I… I sent it."
Damon's fingers tightened on the back of the chair in front of him.
"Thank you," Zara said, turning slightly toward the judge. "That concludes the matter. I would merely like to note for the record that this email directly undermines the defense's entire claim."
The judge leaned back, impressed.
The courtroom vibrated with whispers.
A junior barrister two seats behind Damon muttered, "She just killed them."
Damon heard it.
He didn't disagree.
Zara returned to her seat, posture elegant, eyes forward.
She did not look at Damon.
But Damon looked at her fully, intensely, with an expression no one recognized on his face.
Not anger. Not defeat. Something far more dangerous. Interest.
The judge returned after a short recess.
"Having reviewed the evidence," he began, "this court finds in favor of the claimant."
Zara didn't smile. She didn't need to.
Victory radiated from her like heat.
"The court orders Huxley Media to pay damages in the amount of..:"
Damon didn't hear the number.
He heard the silence.
The kind of silence that follows a fatal blow.
He exhaled slowly, jaw ticking, his eyes never leaving Zara.
Beside her, her client burst into grateful tears.
Zara placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. "You're safe now," she said softly.
Damon stood.
His team scrambled after him, sweating, panicking, whispering suggestions for emergency press responses. He ignored all of them.
He only watched one person.
Zara.
As she packed her files, as she tucked a stray braid beneath her wig, as she stood with the easy grace of a woman completely in control.
He could feel his heartbeat in places he hadn't felt in years.
When she finally lifted her gaze just briefly it collided with his.
The impact was electric.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Undeniable.
Not a word exchanged.
But the room felt too small for the force between them.
Zara looked away first.
A mistake.
Because Damon's lips curved.
Not into a smile.
Into a promise.
The press exploded outside the steps as Zara exited, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward.
"Ms. Bennett! How does it feel to beat Huxley Media?"
"Do you think this ruling will affect Mr. Huxley's empire?"
"Zara! Look this way!"
She handled them with composed grace.
"Justice is not a competition," she said. "It is a standard. And today, that standard was upheld."
The crowd roared with approval.
Behind her, the doors opened with a heavier thud.
Damon stepped out.
The press turned like a school of fish.
"Mr. Huxley! Do you have a comment?"
"Is Huxley Media apologizing publicly?"
"Do you regret taking on Zara Bennett?"
He said nothing.
He just watched her.
Zara walked down the steps, spine straight, chin up. She refused to acknowledge him. Refused to give him the satisfaction.
Damon descended after her slowly, deliberately like a predator stalking its distraction rather than its prey.
When the crowd parted, forcing them momentarily side-by-side, Damon leaned just a little closer. His cologne warm, smoky, expensive wrapped around her.
"Enjoy your victory, Ms. Bennett," he murmured.
His voice was deep, smooth, intimately controlled.
Her pulse betrayed her.
"Victories don't last," Damon added, eyeing her mouth. "Courts open. Cases change. Empires shift."
Zara gave him a tight smile. "So do reputations."
His eyes darkened.
She walked away.
He watched her go, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
A storm gathered behind his eyes.
And yet…
A spark.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
Something unwelcome.
Something irresistible.
Zara's chambers were alive with celebration when she returned. Her mentor, Eleanor Westbridge, handed her a glass of champagne. "You just made legal history."
Zara accepted it with grace but felt the exhaustion creeping in. Victories always felt… heavy. Eleanor studied her. "Are you alright?"
Zara smiled faintly. "Just tired."
The older woman nodded knowingly. "Take tomorrow off."
Zara considered it but the truth was, she didn't rest. Resting meant remembering. And remembering meant pain.
She slipped into her office, locked the door, and exhaled. The room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of London's skyline through the window. Her wig sat on her desk next to the champagne she hadn't touched. She leaned back against the door, her eyes closing briefly.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Zara frowned and opened the message.
Unknown: That was impressive.
She stared at the screen.
Another message followed.
Unknown: Not the result. You.
Her chest tightened.
A third message:
Unknown: You don't fight. You dissect.
Zara's breath hitched.
There was only one man bold enough foolish enough to send something like that after being humiliated in court.
Another message:
Unknown: Enjoy the evening, Counsel. You earned it.
DH.
Her stomach flipped an involuntary, infuriating reaction.
Damon Huxley had her number.
And used it.
And worse… he knew exactly what effect he had on people.
Her fingers hovered over her screen.
She typed:
Zara: Delete my number. Immediately.
She hit send.
Three seconds later:
DH: No.
A slow, hungry smile tugged at her lips a smile she immediately erased.
She had just defeated Damon Huxley in court.
She was not going to let him win anywhere else.
But God… he was going to try.
High above London, in a penthouse overlooking the river, Damon Huxley poured a glass of whiskey and watched the skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. His assistant hovered nervously behind him.
"Sir, the damage report…"
"Later."
"Investors want…"
"Later."
"Your PR team says.."
"I said later."
The assistant swallowed and left.
Damon stood alone in the dim light, jaw tense, the burn of the whiskey grounding him.
He had lost before. Losing wasn't new.
But losing to her? That was different.
He thought of her voice low, sharp, deliberate.
Her posture regal even in robes.
Her eyes steady enough to unsettle even him.
He thought of the way she didn't flinch when he pushed.
The way she walked away when he wanted her attention.
The way she refused to look impressed.
Every other woman he knew leaned in.
Zara leaned away.
And that…
that was intoxicating.
He glanced at his phone.
Her message glowed.
Delete my number. Immediately.
He smirked.
She had no idea what kind of game she'd just entered.
No idea what her victory had awakened in him. She thought she could outrun him. But Damon Huxley didn't chase. He hunted. And he had just found the one woman in London worth hunting.
Zara removed her wig, letting her braids fall free. She looked at her reflection in the window not the mirror, never the mirror and inhaled deeply.
Victory tasted different tonight.
Sharp.
Unsettling.
Electric.
She felt watched.
Not in a dangerous way.
In a… deliberate way.
She tried to shake it off, but the truth slid beneath her skin: Damon Huxley wasn't angry. He was intrigued. That made him ten times more dangerous.
She moved to her desk, opened a new case file, and forced her brain into work mode.
Focus.
Discipline.
Control.
Her phone buzzed again.
She refused to look.
Then another buzz.
And another.
Finally, she exhaled sharply and flipped the phone over.
DH: When I want something, I get it.
DH: And I want to understand you.
DH: This isn't over. Not even close.
She stared at the words.
Heat curled low in her stomach unwelcome, undeniable.
She typed nothing.
But she knew something she wouldn't admit aloud: Today, in that courtroom, something had awakened.
Not just between them.
Inside her.
A spark.
A burn.
A whisper of something she knew she shouldn't feel. Damon Huxley was trouble.
Danger.
Temptation.
A threat to everything she'd built from the ashes of her father's ruin.
And yet; when she closed her eyes…
She saw his.
Dark.
Knowing.
Hungry.
She exhaled, pressing a hand to her temple.
"This is a mistake," she whispered to herself.
But God help her…
It already felt inevitable.