Chapter 274

[ 1,122 words ]

Katia’s POV

The silence of the Windsor family mansion was supposed to be a sanctuary, but today, it felt like the heavy, pressurized quiet before a storm.

I sat on the edge of the plush velvet sofa in the morning room, my hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea that Gail had pressed into my palms twenty minutes ago. I hadn’t tasted it. My body was still vibrating with the lingering adrenaline of the penthouse siege, my mind trapped in a loop of the brutal, blood-splattered violence I had watched Julian unleash on Jude.

My muscles were incredibly stiff, and every time I shifted my weight, the deep, dark purple prints of Julian’s fingers on my waist and the raw, burning soreness between my thighs from his relentless touch the night before made themselves known.

In the garden outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Aiden was playing with a wooden model airplane, his laughter carrying through the glass, light and entirely untouched by the blood on my kitchen floor. Gail was standing near him, her eyes watchful, keeping my son safe in the only place in this city where the press could not reach him.

Grandma Celeste sat in her high-backed armchair across from me, her dark silk shawl draped over her shoulders, her hands resting calmly on the silver handle of her walking cane. She hadn’t asked me about the police, she hadn’t asked about the murder charge, and she hadn’t asked why my face was pale. She simply watched me with those ancient, sharp eyes that seemed to catalog every single breath I took.

A shadow fell across the threshold of the morning room.

Julian walked in. He had changed out of his blood-stained black shirt into a fresh charcoal-gray button-down, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his jaw clean and set. His knuckles were wrapped in tight, white medical tape, the only physical proof of the skull-shattering blows he had delivered to Jude Wolfe.

He didn’t walk to me. He didn’t offer a hand, a comforting word, or a single look that could be interpreted as anything other than professional distance. He stood five feet away, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an icy, controlled focus that kept our physical reality completely hidden behind a wall of cold corporate partnership. To anyone else in the room, we were simply business associates managing a crisis.

“The press team in London has issued the squash match concussion statement,” Julian said, his voice a low, level rumble. “Jude’s team is cooperating with the narrative. They don’t want ’physical decimation by a rival executive’ on the UK stock exchange any more than we do p>

“And the AG’s office?” I asked, my voice dry.

“The original rooftop footage has been officially processed,” Julian replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tracked the slight tremor in my fingers. “The homicide investigation is functionally dead. They are preparing the formal dismissal of the charges now p>

Before I could answer, the heavy oak double doors of the mansion’s main foyer opened.

The sound of rapid, heavy footsteps echoed on the stone floor, accompanied by the loud, rustling sound of paper. Two Windsor security guards walked in, their faces tight with a sudden, tense confusion. They were carrying an arrangement of flowers so massive, so utterly ridiculous, that they had to hold the wooden container between the two of them to keep it balanced.

It was a towering, absurd mountain of pure white roses and lilies, their heavy, sweet scent instantly filling the cool air of the foyer like a physical suffocating weight.

“Mr. Windsor,” the lead guard said, stopping near the entrance of the morning room. “This was just delivered to the main gatehouse. The florist had security clearance under a priority corporate courier protocol. It’s addressed to Ms. Kensington p>

My heart did a sudden, cold thud against my ribs.

I stood up, my knees stiff as I walked slowly out of the morning room and into the grand foyer. Julian followed, his steps long and silent, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle beneath his skin twitched violently.

Tucked into the center of the white petals was a thick, cream-colored card. The text was written in a highly elegant, flowing gold cursive that looked like it had been hand-penned by an eighteenth-century clerk.

I reached out, my fingers cold as I pulled the card from the envelope and read the words:

My darling Katia,

My temper only flares because my love for you is a tempest. I look forward to holding my family soon.

Your devoted husband, Jude.

A dry, incredulous laugh escaped my lips. “A tempest,” I whispered, the sheer, ridiculous audacity of the man making my brain stall. He was sitting in a hospital bed with a wired jaw and titanium screws in his skull, and he had used his encrypted courier network to track me to the Windsor family sanctuary just to send me a bouquet of roses and a love poem.

Beside me, Julian went entirely rigid.

The control he had spent the last hour maintaining didn’t just slip; it turned into a freezing, murderous wall of pressure. He stepped forward, his taped hand reaching out to snatch the card from my fingers. He read the cursive gold text once. His chest let out a slow, violent breath that tasted of pure iron, his knuckles turning a bloodless, pale white under the medical tape as he crushed the expensive cardboard in his fist.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw a tantrum.

Julian slowly turned his head, his pitch-black eyes locking onto the lead guard. “Burn them,” he ordered, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register that made the guard instantly step back. “Take this garbage to the incinerator at the back of the property and burn every single leaf. If I smell a rose in this house in five minutes, I will fire the entire shift p>

“Yes, sir,” the guard said, quickly signaling his partner. They hauled the massive arrangement back toward the service entrance, moving as fast as their feet could carry them.

Julian threw the crushed card onto the marble console table, his jaw set, his breathing heavy and deliberate. He didn’t touch me. He kept his hands in his pockets, but the sheer, territorial heat radiating off his body was so intense it made my skin burn through my suit jacket. He was ready to go back to the hospital and rip Jude’s arms off his torso, and we both knew it.

Before the silence of the foyer could settle, the front doors of the mansion were pushed open with a sharp, frantic force.

Delia stood in the doorway.

If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.