The paparazzi’s cameras flashed like lightning outside the courthouse, but Ava Sincler didn’t flinch. She walked through the chaos as if it were a red carpet—chin lifted, shoulders squared, her father’s vintage briefcase in hand. Reporters shouted questions about her mother’s latest Oscar nomination, her brother’s scandalous Calvin Klein campaign, but she ignored them. She wasn’t here to be Saira Sincler’s daughter or Josh Sincler’s sister. She was here to win.
Inside, the courtroom buzzed. Her client—a tech billionaire accused of insider trading—nodded at her like she was a hired gun. Good, she thought. Guns didn’t need to be loved. They just needed to hit their mark.
“Counselor,” the judge said dryly, “are you ready to begin?”
Ava stood, her black suit sharp enough to draw blood. “Always, Your Honor.”
----------------------------------------
Sixteen Years Earlier
“Stop crying, Ava. Now.”
Her father’s voice cracked like a whip across the marble foyer of their Beverly Hills estate. Seven-year-old Ava froze, her tear-streaked face reflected in the polished floor. She’d skinned her knee chasing Josh through the garden, but Henry Sincler didn’t kneel to check the wound. He never did.
“Your brother isn’t crying, is he?” Henry nodded to where twelve-year-old Josh lounged on the staircase, already golden and careless under the chandelier’s glow.
“Dad, she’s bleeding,” Josh said, grinning around a stolen chocolate truffle.
“And?” Henry didn’t look away from Ava. “Pain is inevitable. Weakness is a choice.”
Ava swallowed her sobs.
Later, her mother found her in the library, pressing a stolen napkin to her knee. Saira Sincler smelled like Chanel No. 5 and melancholy, her Oscar-winning smile nowhere in sight.
“Let me see,” Saira murmured, her French manicure hovering over the wound.
Ava jerked back. “I’m fine.”
Saira’s laugh was bitter. “God, you’re just like him.” She stood, her silk robe whispering secrets. “But listen to me, ma chérie: Your father’s world will eat you alive. Men like him? They love the fight more than they’ll ever love you.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“You’re wrong,” Ava said, staring at the framed headlines on the wall—HENRY SINCLER DEVOURS COMPETITION IN LANDMARK TRIAL.
Saira just shook her head. “One day, you’ll wish you’d been soft. But by then, it’ll be too late.”
----------------------------------------
Present Day
Ava won the case. Of course she did.
Her client texted her a thumbs-up emoji and a wire transfer confirmation. Her law firm partners sent champagne to her office. She left it unopened.
Her phone lit up with a notification: @JoshSincler posted: “Birthday bash tonight! No lawyers allowed 😉” followed by a winking selfie with their mother. Saira, ageless at 55, blew a kiss to the camera.
Ava swiped the notification away.
Her assistant, Marco, peered into her office. “Your brother’s people called. Again. They want you at the party.”
“Tell them I’m billing hours.”
“They said…” Marco hesitated. “They said your mom’s asking for you.”
Ava didn’t look up from her briefs. “My mother hasn’t ‘asked’ for me since I chose Harvard over her Marie Claire cover shoot.”
Marco lingered. “There’s also… a package for you.”
The box sat on her desk, plain except for her father’s initials—H.S.—scrawled in the corner. Inside, she found his old trial notes from State v. Morrow, the case that made him a legend. Beneath them, a handwritten letter:
> Ava—
> Win this one for me.
> —Dad
Her throat tightened. Henry had died six months ago, mid-trial, collapsing in a courtroom just like this one. His last words had been “Objection!”
She slammed the box shut.
----------------------------------------
That night, Ava drove to the Sincler mansion. Josh’s party roared inside—bass thumping, models spilling onto the lawn—but she slipped through the side gate to her father’s old study. Dust motes floated in the moonlight, catching on the leather-bound law books Henry had forbidden anyone else to touch.
“You look terrible,” a voice drawled.
Josh leaned in the doorway, shirtless and glittering with someone else’s lipstick. “Relax, sis. Mom’s in Cannes. It’s just us rats in the palace.”
Ava didn’t smile. “Why did you send me Dad’s notes?”
“Me?” Josh snorted. “Please. I don’t do nostalgia. That’s your addiction, not mine.” He flopped into Henry’s cracked leather chair, spinning lazily. “But since you’re here… Mom wants you to handle my situation.”
“What situation?”
He tossed a tabloid onto the desk. The headline screamed: JOSH SINCLER’S COKE-FUELED YACHT ORGY!
Ava pushed it away. “Hire a PR team.”
“I did. They said to call you.” Josh’s grin faded. “Look, I just need you to… I don’t know, sue someone. Make it go away.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you did it,” she said coldly. “And I don’t defend guilty people.”
Josh stared at her, then burst out laughing. “Jesus, you really are Dad 2.0.” He stood, all playfulness gone. “But here’s the thing, Ava—he’s dead. And you’re still here, trying to impress a ghost.”
He left her alone in the dark.
Ava opened the box again, tracing her father’s handwriting. Win this one for me.
In the distance, the party raged on.