The heavy doors of the private lounge had barely clicked shut before you let out all the fury you’d been holding since the verdict. You were a damned good lawyer for the DOJ. You had worked tirelessly for that case, but Julian (the youngest Chief Justice in history)—sitting on that high bench with his cold, unyielding gaze—completely dismantled your arguments.

The decision was final.

And it was a death sentence for your client’s future.

"It was excessive, Julian! You knew the precedents, and you ignored them!" you snapped, pacing the room while he watched you with infuriating silence. Your chest heaved with a mix of professional frustration and personal betrayal.

Julian didn't even flinch. He leaned back on the velvet couch, still draped in his black judicial robes, casually sipping a glass of champagne. He looked entirely too relaxed, watching your outburst with a gaze that was heavy, dark, and predatory.

When you finally stopped to catch your breath, glaring at him in defiance, the room went dead silent.

Julian slowly set his champagne flute on the low glass table. He didn't stand up. He just raised one dark eyebrow, a ghost of a confident, almost protective smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"Are you done, Ma'am?" his voice rolled out—a deep, resonant vibration that seemed to fill the room, devoid of any anger or defensiveness.

He held your gaze, his expression softening into something that was terrifyingly nurturing despite the professional war you were in. With a fluid, dominant motion, he patted his own robed lap twice.

"Are you done? Good. Now come here. Sit."