London woke up hungry. Every major news outlet ironically, most owned by Huxley Media splashed the same headline:
"HUXLEY MEDIA LOSES £80M DEFAMATION CASE — CEO SILENT."
The city buzzed, the internet roared, analysts panicked, and investors demanded explanations.
But Damon Huxley?
He was quiet. Too quiet.
People who knew him understood: Damon didn't lose quietly.
He lost like weather abrupt, unpredictable, and always followed by a storm.
Zara just didn't know the storm was coming for her.
Damon stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his executive office, staring down at London as if the entire city had personally offended him.
He hadn't slept.
He hadn't eaten.
He hadn't even changed clothes just removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves, showcasing strong forearms that his assistant tried very hard not to stare at.
"Damage reports?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.
His PR director swallowed. "We've lost six advertisers. Shareholders want an emergency statement…"
"Later," Damon murmured.
"What about…"
"Later."
"Sir, we need a strategy."
Damon turned then. Slowly.
He wasn't angry.
He was focused.
Which was worse.
"Ms. Bennett thinks she won," he said softly. "That's adorable."
The director paled. "What are you planning?"
Damon's jaw tightened just slightly the only sign of emotion.
"She humiliated my company," he said. "Not me directly. Which means I have several options."
"Sir.."
But Damon's eyes, dark and calculating, were already moving.
"Find everything on the whistleblower we can legally use. Anything questionable. Anything that makes her motives or credibility thin."
The assistant froze. "That could be… morally grey."
"Most truths are," Damon said, dismissive. "Do it."
The PR director exchanged a nervous glance with the legal advisor.
"And then?" the advisor asked carefully.
Damon slid his hands into his pockets, his voice remaining smooth, almost bored.
"Then," he murmured, "we remind Zara Bennett that in the real world, courtrooms aren't the only battlegrounds."
Zara arrived at her chambers mid-morning, coffee in hand, braid bun tight, posture flawless but underneath the polished exterior, she felt the fatigue of the previous day.
Her mentor, Eleanor Westbridge, met her halfway down the hall.
"You need to see this," Eleanor said.
Zara blinked. "Is something wrong?"
"Take a look."
Eleanor handed her an iPad. Zara tapped the screen.
Her stomach dropped.
There, plastered across a tabloid site:
PRIVATE AFFAIRS? ZARA BENNETT'S STAR CLIENT HAS A SECRET PAST!
Zara felt her chest tighten.
"What where did this come from?" she whispered.
"Anonymous source. Miraculously timed," Eleanor said dryly. "And far too convenient to be coincidence."
Zara's eyes hardened. "Damon."
Eleanor didn't deny it.
"He leaked this?" Zara asked, voice low and dangerous.
"Or someone working under him. Either way, it's retaliation."
Zara inhaled sharply.
Anger wasn't enough to describe what burned inside her.
This wasn't strategy.
This wasn't professional.
This was personal.
She turned on her heel.
"Where are you going?" Eleanor asked.
Zara grabbed her robe, her wig, her phone.
"To war."
By noon, her inbox buzzed with a message from a BBC producer: We're hosting a live panel tonight regarding the Huxley Media case.
We want you and Damon Huxley both present.
Prime-time slot.
Zara read it twice.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Don't."
"I have to."
"You'll be walking into the lion's den."
Zara's gaze sharpened.
"Then I'll remind the lion he's not the only thing with teeth."
At 7pm, Damon arrived at the BBC studio, impeccably dressed in a midnight suit, tailored so sharply it could cut air.
His assistant adjusted his lapel. "Sir… is this necessary?"
"Yes."
"You're doing this because..?"
Damon didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Was this vengeance?
Control?
Curiosity?
Obsession?
Zara Bennett had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn't predicted.
And Damon hated unpredictability.
He sat in the green room, scrolling through the updated dossier on the whistleblower… his retaliation neatly packaged.
Then he saw her name.
Zara Bennett: Former barrister's daughter. Father disgraced in major corruption scandal.
Damon froze.
And for the first time
something uncomfortable flickered inside him.
Guilt.
The tables turned in his mind.
He closed the file.
Locked the phone.
Leaned back.
He shouldn't feel anything.
He didn't feel things.
But Zara Bennett…
She complicated the rules.
At 7:42pm, Zara walked into the BBC studio dressed in a fitted black ensemble that was professional yet devastating. Her makeup was minimal except for her red lipstick a sharp, deliberate line of defiance.
The room shifted.
Producers stared.
Cameramen straightened.
Assistants swallowed.
She walked like she owned the floor.
Damon saw her through the glass wall.
Their eyes locked.
For a moment the entire room vanished.
He stood.
She didn't break eye contact.
Their chemistry was immediate, combustible, silent.
She approached slowly, expression cool.
"Good evening, Mr. Huxley," she said.
Her voice was steel.
Damon's lips twitched. "Ms. Bennett."
"You leaked private information about my client," she said without preamble.
His gaze darkened. "Prove it."
"I don't need to prove it," she said. "I know it."
"That makes one of us."
She stepped closer just enough to challenge him.
"What's your strategy?" she demanded quietly. "Smear campaigns? Character assassination? Bullying victims into silence?"
His jaw tightened.
"Don't pretend you can judge my world," he murmured. "You work in a courtroom. I work in reality."
"No," she said sharply. "You work in manipulation."
"And you work in arrogance."
They stood inches apart.
Breathing the same air.
Electricity humming between them.
A producer poked his head in. "We're live in 60 seconds!"
Neither looked away.
Then Zara pulled back, smooth and controlled.
Damon felt the absence immediately.
She walked into the studio without looking back.
He followed slowly, deliberately like a man approaching a challenge he wanted more than victory.
The cameras blinked red.
"We're live," the host announced.
Zara crossed her legs elegantly, posture flawless. Damon leaned back slightly, seemingly relaxed but his eyes were sharp, locked onto her.
The host smiled. "Tonight we're discussing media ethics with two major figures Queen's Counsel Zara Bennett, and tech magnate Damon Huxley. Thank you both for being here."
Zara nodded. Damon gave a charming half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Mr. Huxley," the host began. "Your company lost a major case yesterday. Do you accept responsibility?"
Damon opened his mouth.
But Zara beat him.
"Of course he doesn't."
Gasps rippled.
Damon slowly turned to her.
Her tone was cool, precise. "Men like Mr. Huxley rarely accept responsibility. They deflect. They obscure. They weaponize information rather than engage with truth."
Damon's smirk sharpened. "You seem fascinated with what men like me do."
"I'm fascinated by corruption," Zara replied.
"And yet," Damon said softly, "you haven't looked in the mirror."
Her eyes snapped to him.
"Care to explain that?" she asked, voice low.
Damon leaned forward slightly, lips curling.
"You've built a career on humiliation, Ms. Bennett. Your victories aren't justice they're performance."
Zara's jaw flexed.
"I fight for victims," she said.
"You fight for attention."
The host swallowed. "Moving on…"
"No," Zara said, gaze piercing. "Let's stay right there."
Damon's breath stilled.
"You think I perform?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You think I chase attention?"
"Yes."
"You think I enjoy seeing men like you crumble?"
Damon's eyes flared. "Absolutely."
Zara's voice dropped to a lethal whisper.
"Then you've mistaken skill for spectacle."
Silence.
Then…
Applause from the audience.
For her.
Damon's fingers tightened on his knee.
She wasn't just brilliant.
She wasn't just fierce.
She was dangerous.
The host cleared his throat. "Mr. Huxley, do you believe your company acted ethically?"
"No," Damon said.
Everyone froze.
"What?" Zara breathed.
Damon looked directly at the camera.
Then at her.
"My company failed," he said quietly. "And Ms. Bennett was right to challenge us."
She stared at him, stunned.
He continued. "But what she doesn't understand is that the world doesn't run on justice. It runs on power. Influence. Leverage."
He tilted his head.
"And she just became part of that equation."
Zara felt heat ripple down her spine both fury and something else.
Something she didn't want to name.
The host looked terrified. "Uh… we're going to cut to commercial…"
Cameras cut.
Silence filled the studio.
Zara turned to Damon, eyes blazing. "What the hell was that?"
"A reminder," he said, voice low and intimate, "that you're not untouchable."
"And you're not untouchable either," she whispered.
Damon stepped closer, breath warm against her ear.
"No," he murmured. "But I'm inevitable."
Her pulse skipped.
She hated him.
She wanted to slap him.
And God help her…
She was aware of his breath.
His scent.
His heat.
His presence inches from hers.
This man was entirely too close.
Too confident.
Too intoxicating in ways she despised.
She forced herself to step back.
"We're done," she said.
"Not even close," he whispered.
Zara stormed backstage, ripping off her mic. Producers scrambled to praise her performance.
"That was legendary!" one said.
"You destroyed him!" said another.
Zara didn't bask in it.
She felt… unsettled.
Unsteady.
Damon followed moments later, calm, slow, as if he owned the studio.
His security hovered behind him, nervous.
Zara refused to look at him.
He stopped beside her anyway.
"You fight beautifully," he murmured.
She stiffened.
"That's not a compliment," she snapped.
"It wasn't one," he said softly. "It was an observation."
His voice dipped, tone shifting from antagonistic to something darker.
Something that made her breath catch.
"You think this was victory," he murmured. "But all you did was make me interested."
Her head snapped toward him.
His eyes were molten.
Focused.
Dangerously fixed on her.
"This isn't attraction," she said. "This is obsession."
He smiled slowly.
"Perhaps."
Her throat tightened.
"And do you know the problem with obsession?" she whispered.
He stepped closer, lowering his head.
"Tell me."
"It ends in ruin."
Damon's breath brushed her cheek.
"Let's find out," he whispered.
She pulled back as if burned.
He didn't chase her.
He didn't need to.
His message was clear:
The war had changed.
Turned.
Shifted shape.
This wasn't courtroom rivalry anymore.
This was something deeper.
Hotter.
More dangerous.
And neither of them knew how to stop it.