Chapter 1: The Art of Winning

The room stilled when Ava Sinclair walked in. She carried herself like a verdict already decided—poised, precise, and unyielding. Conversations faltered, shoulders straightened, and even the air seemed to shift in acknowledgment of her presence. She didn't need to command attention. It was simply given. A woman at the back lowered her voice mid-sentence, a paralegal fumbled with a stack of papers, and even the opposing attorney stiffened just slightly. She noticed, of course—she always noticed. But she didn't acknowledge it. She never did.

Ava smoothed the sleeve of her fitted black blazer and strode past them all, her heels clicking in a steady, deliberate rhythm. A bailiff held the door open for her. She didn't thank him. Not because she was rude—because she simply didn't see the point.

She slid into her seat at the defense table, ignoring the knowing glances from the press seated at the back. They never wrote about her wins, only about her ruthlessness. It didn't matter. Let them talk.

Someone behind her whispered, "She looks just like Saira Sinclair."

Her jaw tightened.

The comparison was inevitable. Saira Sinclair had been Hollywood's golden girl, a name that still lingered in nostalgic conversations about old Hollywood glamor. But Ava was not her mother. Where Saira had floated through life in silk and diamonds, Ava had sharpened herself into steel. She didn't play to the cameras. She played to win.

She focused on the judge, her expression giving away nothing. He adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat as if buying himself a moment under her unwavering gaze. His fingers drummed lightly against the bench—an unconscious tell. Ava caught it. She caught everything. Sentimentality was for the weak. She'd learned that the hard way.

Brian Sinclair had been a man of discipline, a titan in the courtroom, and the only person she had ever truly respected. After his death, the Sinclair name became a memory her mother chased like a fading dream. But Ava? Ava made sure it remained a force.

She sat, fingers steepled, as the opposing attorney rose. He was older, experienced. He thought that gave him the upper hand. Unfortunate for him.

She allowed him his opening argument. Then she stood, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle on her blazer. "Your Honor," she began, and the real game began.

As she stepped into the courtroom, the air shifted. Not with admiration. Not with warmth. But with an awareness of her presence—sharp, undeniable, and cold. Ava adjusted the cuff of her custom-tailored black blazer, her face unreadable as she took her seat at the defendant's table. The opposing attorney, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an overinflated ego, smirked at her like he'd already won.

Poor thing.

She met his gaze with the same detached indifference she reserved for most people. They weren't opponents. They were obstacles. And obstacles existed to be removed.

"Ms. Sinclair, would you like to make your argument?" the judge prompted.

She stood smoothly, her heels clicking against the polished floor. "Gladly."

For the next ten minutes, Ava dissected the opposition's claims with surgical precision. No wasted words. No unnecessary emotion. Just facts, strategy, and an unwavering command of the law. By the time she finished, the opposing attorney was visibly flustered, his earlier confidence crumbling under the weight of her argument.

The judge ruled in her favor almost immediately. A hush settled over the courtroom. The opposing attorney clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into a fist atop his notes before forcing them to relax. He offered a tight nod, but Ava caught the flicker of frustration in his eyes. Another one who thought he could outmaneuver her. Another one proven wrong. Another victory. Another reminder that emotions were nothing more than liabilities.

She exhaled softly as she gathered her files. One more case closed. One more step forward. It should have felt good. It did. Didn't it?

Pushing the thought aside, she exited the courthouse, the California sun glaring down like an interrogation light. Her phone buzzed.

The city hummed beneath her as Ava stepped out of the courthouse, the Los Angeles skyline stretching into the distance. She inhaled sharply, letting the weight of yet another victory settle on her shoulders. It was supposed to feel like triumph. It never did.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She frowned at the screen. "Unknown Number."

With an irritated sigh, she answered. "Ava Sinclair."

"Ava." The voice on the other end was familiar, yet distant—like a memory blurred by time. "I thought you might ignore my call."

She almost did. "If this is business, call my office."

"It's not business," the voice replied, smooth, measured. "It's personal."

Her jaw tightened. "I don't do personal."

A quiet chuckle. "That's a lie."

Annoyance flared in her chest. "Who the hell is this?"

"I thought you'd recognize me," he mused. "I guess you only remember the people who matter."

Before she could snap a retort, a soft chime interrupted the call—another incoming message. This one from someone she couldn't ignore.

Liam Sinclair: Dinner tonight? You still owe me for canceling last time.

Ava exhaled through her nose, debating. Unlike most people, her younger brother had a habit of pulling her into situations she preferred to avoid. He was the only person she ever gave an inch to, though she'd never admit it. And he knew it.

"I have to go," she muttered, ending the call without another word.

She stared at the message from Liam for a moment before typing back: 7 PM. Don't be late.

Because for all her coldness, for all her calculated detachment, there was one exception to her rules.

And his name was Liam Sinclair—her baby brother, though she'd never use the term aloud. He was the only person who had ever managed to slip past the armor she so meticulously maintained. Not that she'd ever admit it. Love, after all, was just another liability. A weight she refused to carry, a distraction she couldn't afford. And yet, as she stared at her phone, her fingers hesitated—just for a second—before locking the screen. She would never say it, never admit it, but some burdens weren't so easily discarded.