Let Them Kneel (kaelani and Julian) novel Chapter 55

The afternoon light stretched long across Julian’s desk, spilling over stacks of files and the open blueprints before him. He sat back in his chair, pen in hand, sketching adjustments to a real estate proposal that demanded his focus—but his mind refused to stay there.

He needed the distraction.

He needed something to keep from thinking about her.

Numbers, projections, zoning lines—cold, predictable things—were easier than the storm that lived behind his ribs. He’d made his choice, done what was expected of him. But somehow, the certainty felt heavier than doubt.

The quiet click of his office door broke his thoughts. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Elara never knocked.

Her perfume—sharp, sweet, overdone—reached him before she did.

“I was looking for you earlier,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the page. “No one knew where you’d gone off to.”

“Oh, I just went for a little drive,” she replied, her tone light, almost sing-song. “A small little town, actually.”

Something thudded onto his desk.

Julian’s pen stopped mid-line, his gaze narrowing at the white boutique box now sitting squarely on top of his sketch, the silk ribbon still perfectly tied, its logo stamped in elegant gold across the lid.

The air in the room shifted.

He finally looked up. Elara’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Where,” he asked slowly, voice low, “did you get this?”

“Well,” she began smoothly, “while I was waiting here for my beloved mate to finally show up to his own office, I received a rather interesting call from Maison Verenne Boutique.”

Julian’s hand stilled on the edge of his desk.

“They wanted to inform Mr. Julian Hale that the custom dress he purchased yesterday had been returned this morning.” Her voice dripped with sugar and poison. “Since they couldn’t offer a refund, I took it upon myself to… pick it up for you.”

She removed the lid from the box with a kind of performative care, every movement slow and deliberate—the calm before a storm. The tissue rustled as she reached in and pulled the dress free.

“Well, isn’t it pretty,” she mused, holding the gown up by its delicate straps. “Though I must say, it’s not exactly couture. Maison Verenne?” Her mouth curled in disdain. “An unknown designer. You know I only wear the most reputable names, Julian—Dior, Versace—never something so… provincial.”

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