Let Them Kneel (kaelani and Julian) novel Chapter 47

The streets were nearly empty by the time Kaelani locked the bakery behind her. The heat that had clung to the town all summer was finally breaking; the night air carried a faint chill that slipped beneath her sleeves. Her boots scuffed against the sidewalk, the sound too loud in the quiet.

She kept her eyes ahead, the glow of streetlights flickering in patches along the road. Every so often, a gust of wind from a passing car stirred the stray pieces loose from her braid, brushing against her face like a taunt.

He can go back to his perfect world, she thought. To his Luna and his rules and all the people who worship the ground he walks on. She didn’t need any of it.

A dog barked somewhere down the block, sharp in the stillness. The air smelled faintly of dust and cooling asphalt.

She hugged her arms around herself but refused to call it shivering. It was just the cold. That was all.

Another gust swept through, carrying a whisper of rain. She tilted her head toward the sky — dark, heavy with clouds — and muttered, “Figures.”

By the time she reached her house, her anger had cooled into something quieter. Not peace. Just the hollow stillness that came after the storm.

And then she saw it — a rectangular package sitting neatly on her porch step.

Kaelani hesitated on the porch, her gaze sweeping over the box. No markings, no return address—just her name, written in confident, unfamiliar handwriting. She crouched to pick it up, the faintest scent of cedarwood and Dior Sauvage clinging to the paper. A scent that was now ingrained in her memory.

Inside, the house was still and dim, the air cool against her flushed skin. She set the box down on the kitchen table, flicked on the overhead light, and reached for a pair of scissors.

The tape peeled back with a soft tear. Beneath the lid, layers of delicate tissue paper rustled as she pushed them aside—and then her breath caught.

Scarlet.

The red dress lay folded with impossible care, its satin gleaming under the light like poured wine. For a second, she couldn’t move. The memory of it—of that boutique window, of how she’d stood there imagining another version of herself in it—slammed into her with a force that made her chest ache.

“Of course,” she whispered, the bitterness soft but trembling. “Of course it’s from him.”

But even as she said it, her eyes couldn’t help flicking back to the dress—its folds catching the light, the same red that had wrapped around her in the dream.

Kaelani stood there for a long time, staring at the box like it might vanish if she blinked hard enough. But curiosity—or maybe something she refused to name—drew her closer again.

She reached down and lifted the dress from its nest of tissue, the fabric spilling over her hands like liquid fire. The material caught the light with every movement, shifting between crimson and wine, soft and impossibly smooth beneath her fingers.

The stitching was fine, precise; the satin soft enough to whisper against her skin as she pressed it to her front. She carried it to her bedroom, the hem brushing against her bare feet, and stopped before the mirror.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t recognize the woman staring back. The glass showed her draped in a dream—red satin against her figure, the hint of a smile that didn’t belong to her anymore. The reflection staring back was almost unfamiliar—a flash of what could’ve been.