Paris was not a city, but a crucible.
Ava landed at Charles de Gaulle, stepping out of the pressurized cabin and into the cool, invigorating autumn air. She had spent the flight reviewing the Shared Accountability Protocol pages and pages of dense, cooperative legal and economic theory but every few minutes, her eyes had drifted to the black, sleek communication scrambler nestled in her briefcase. It was a ticking emotional time bomb.
Julian, ever the pragmatist, had arranged for them to be transported from the airport in a secure, armored sedan, citing the high-profile nature of their joint mandate. The journey into the city was silent. Julian sat opposite her, focused on a tablet, the very picture of detached professionalism. Yet, the air in the car was thick, heavy with the unaddressed tension from the elevator, and the silent knowledge that for the next seven days, they would be functionally living together.
"The conference organizers," Julian stated, without looking up from his tablet, his voice clipped, "have been meticulous. Our schedule is demanding, leaving no time for, shall we say, personal exploration."
"I am aware of the schedule, Julian," Ava replied, matching his cold tone. "My focus remains professional. My commitment to the UK mandate is absolute."
He finally lifted his head, his slate-gray eyes meeting hers. "Good. Because any lapse, any indiscretion, would be a catastrophic defeat. Not for the protocol, but for the narrative we are trying to control. In Paris, we are not rivals; we are the single, unified representation of excellence. Do you understand the terms, Ava? Zero tolerance for compromise."
"I understand the terms," Ava affirmed. And I understand the dare.
They arrived at the Hôtel de Crillon, a masterpiece of Parisian grandeur overlooking the Place de la Concorde. The hotel was swarming with international dignitaries and security details. Julian, moving with the ease of a man who owned the place, navigated the lobby, his hand resting lightly on the small of Ava's back—a public gesture of proprietary partnership that sent a confusing jolt of heat through her.
The check-in was chaos. A diplomatic error had occurred a double-booking of the official delegation suites. After twenty minutes of hushed, frantic consultation between the hotel manager and Julian's security detail, the manager approached them, profusely apologetic.
"Monsieur Thornfield, Madame Sinclair. We have resolved the security issue, but we only have two remaining secured accommodations that meet the necessary government protocols. They are adjacent, of course, with a shared external lounge for your immediate work, but I must inform you, they are indeed adjoining."
Adjoining. The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. It meant a private, hidden door a direct portal from his space to hers.
Julian's jaw tightened, not in panic, but in fierce, contained calculation. He glanced at Ava. Her own professional mask was firmly in place, but internally, she was a wreck. The universe, it seemed, was conspiring to destroy her self-control.
"Accept the arrangement," Ava murmured under her breath, her eyes flicking to the crowded lobby. "Any delay looks like disunity."
Julian nodded once, a gesture of grudging respect for her quick thinking. "We accept," he told the manager, his voice smooth. "Ensure the connecting door is locked and bolted from both sides immediately. We will use the shared lounge for all joint committee work."
The manager scurried away, relieved.
As they were escorted upstairs, Julian leaned in. "We are partners in this, Ava. A unified front. You will not allow this proximity to affect your professionalism."
"I am not the one who struggles with detachment when provoked, Julian," Ava reminded him coolly. "Ensure you maintain your side of the bolted door."
They were shown into their domain. The suites were palatial, traditional Parisian luxury contrasting with state-of-the-art tech. Ava's suite, a dream of pale silks and soft lighting, was separated from Julian's by the heavy, ornate double-door built into the wall of her sitting room.
Her suite felt like an elaborate, gilded cage. She walked over to the connecting door, placing her palm against the cool wood. On her side, she confirmed the deadbolt and chain were firmly set. It felt less like a barrier against him and more like a fortress against herself.
The jet-lagged work session started ninety minutes later in the small, exquisite external lounge that connected their two suites. They were joined by Julian's chief strategist, a quiet, brilliant woman named Elina, and one of Ava's junior barristers, Marcus.
The first two hours were spent in brutal, collaborative analysis of the protocol's fine print. Ava's focus was surgical, Julian's comprehensive. They were a devastating team their combined intellectual power could reshape continents. When Ava pointed out a potential loophole in the enforcement mechanism, Julian immediately supplied the financial infrastructure to close it, his mind moving with lightning speed.
But the collaboration was underscored by relentless, silent tension. Every time Julian leaned over the table to point to a graph, Ava felt his presence like a physical force. Every successful argument she made, she directed her gaze to him, seeking not approval, but a flicker of the grudging admiration that was their strange, shared currency.
By 10 PM, Elina and Marcus were dismissed, leaving Ava and Julian alone to finalize the presentation structure.
"Your work on the precedent analysis is flawless," Julian admitted, stacking the documents. "You found the precise language needed to anchor the protocol in established international trade law."
"Thank you," Ava accepted coolly. "And your financial modeling gives the protocol teeth it would otherwise lack."
"We are, as I said, a unified front," Julian said, rising to his feet.
He walked over to the minibar in the lounge. "I assume you won't accept a whisky. Or are your professional boundaries looser after hours, Barrister?"
"My boundaries are intact, Julian," Ava said, rising as well. She was exhausted, her head throbbing from the time change and the sheer mental effort. "And I prefer not to mix professional duty with substances that impair judgment."
He poured himself a measure of single malt, the sound of the ice clinking loud in the quiet room. "Ah, judgment. That's your fortress, isn't it, Ava? And you are terrified of me shattering it."
"I am terrified of your predictable arrogance."
Julian walked back toward her, stopping close enough that their shadows merged on the silk rug. He didn't offer a comeback. He simply looked at her a long, searching look that stripped away the silks, the exhaustion, and the legal briefs.
"You look tired, Ava," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. Not a challenge, but a genuine observation. "Get some rest. We brief the German delegation at 8 AM."
He turned and walked toward the door that led to his suite. As he reached it, he paused, his back to her.
"The connecting door is, as requested, locked and bolted," Julian stated. "It's a fragile barrier, Ava. You should be grateful for its existence. Good night."
The door closed with a soft, final click.
Ava retreated to her own suite. She started the elaborate process of winding down, running a bath, but her mind was too active. She kept imagining Julian, just a wall away undressing, working, sleeping.
She got out of the tub and walked to the connecting door, pressing her ear to the cold wood. Silence. Was he asleep? Was he working? Was he thinking about her?
She took out the scrambler, running her fingers over its smooth surface. It represented the ultimate transgression, the choice to sacrifice professional safety for personal chaos.
She finally slipped into the king-sized bed, surrounded by soft Parisian linens, but she lay wide awake. The jet lag had hit, amplifying every nerve ending.
Around 2 AM, the silence from the other side of the wall finally broke. It was a low, resonant sound a masculine voice speaking sharply in a low tone. Julian was on a call, clearly agitated, though Ava couldn't make out the words. Then, the rhythmic tapping of a keyboard aggressive, fast, indicating furious work.
Ava knew what this was: Julian, in his natural habitat, consumed by the demands of his global empire, even while in Paris for a diplomatic summit. He was The Gentleman Shark, relentlessly circling.
She hated the fact that she found the sound oddly comforting. It proved he was human, stressed, and, like her, driven to the point of exhaustion.
The keyboard tapping suddenly stopped, replaced by a sound that made Ava's breath catch in her throat: the heavy, unmistakable sound of something glass shattering, followed by a low, guttural curse.
It was quickly followed by a loud, thudding noise as if a heavy book or maybe a fist had impacted the wall. Their shared wall.
Ava instinctively sat up, adrenaline flooding her system. The sudden violence of the sound, the depth of his frustration, was alarming. Julian, the master of control, had lost it, even if only for a second, in the privacy of his room.
She froze, listening. Silence returned. Heavy, charged silence.
A minute later, the faintest sound reached her ear a soft clink from the other side. He was cleaning up the mess.
Ava stayed sitting up, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her professional instincts told her to ignore it. He was a volatile billionaire dealing with a crisis. Not her problem.
But the image of him, alone in the dark, smashing something out of sheer frustration, reached past her legal logic and struck a chord of empathy she didn't want to admit. He wasn't just arrogant; he was carrying a burden too heavy to bear gracefully, and tonight, it had broken him, just briefly.
She finally laid back down, closing her eyes. She was in Paris, separated from her bitter rival by a thin, bolted door. She had witnessed his private moment of emotional collapse.
And despite the shattered glass and the anger, a new thought settled over her, warm and unnerving: He is close. He is hurting. And I am the only one who knows.
She drifted into a shallow, restless sleep, the memory of his quiet rage and the scent of expensive wood and cold air lingering in her mind. She knew the connecting door was bolted. But she also knew that the boundary between them was already irreparably breached.