The suite door opens so suddenly, I drop the cotton ball I’m using to swipe my makeup off.
When Jagger calls an overly loud goodnight and slams the door, I grit my teeth and try not to glare at his reflection in the ornate gold mirror when he appears, glitter and feathers tangled in his hair, reeking of smoke and whiskey.
His tailored jacket is unbuttoned, his collar undone, and there are several shades of lipstick on his cheek.
"Wholesome evening, I see," I say.
He ambles over to the shower and switches it on.For one hot minute I wonder if he’s drunk enough to forget himself.
But when the spray roars to life, filling the bathroom with white noise, he grabs his ear and tugs, letting me know it’s cover only.
"I got you something," he says.His voice is rough, like gravel scraped raw.
With his eyes on me as I swipe makeup off, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a velvet box.
I squint at the gold cross inside, then at him.What on earth was he thinking?This isnotthe kind of gift that he should be giving me.
“How did you get a chance to buy this?I thought you were at a show?”
His mouth twitches, but there’s no humor in it.“I walked out.Took me an hour to go back in again.”
That gets my attention.And not because he’s supposed to have called Silas.“You left Marquez and Ortega that long?”
He nods once.I turn fully then, facing him.“Why?”
Jagger’s gaze drops to the cross again.“Doesn’t matter.I wanted to talk to you before tomorrow.”
I put the cotton ball down.“Okay.”
He rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t look at me.“You said Jesus took what we couldn’t carry ourselves.How?”
My stomach flips.He's not asking about theology.Something happened tonight, and now he’s asking because he needs to know if there’s a way out—of the thing he's been carrying alone, of the version of himself that thinks strength means never setting anything down.And he's asking me because I'm the only person he's let see him trying.
I take a breath.Pray without showing it.Lord, help me explain You to him.
“Okay, so, God isn’t a concept,” I say.“He’s Spirit—living, personal, real.He made us, which means He has the right to define what is good.”
He looks at the cross again, like it’s suddenly something sharp.
“And that’s what I meant when I said Jesus took the burden we can’t carry,” I continue.“God didn’t leave us to drown in the mess we made.He came down.He took on flesh—real humanity.”
Jagger’s throat works as he swallows.“And then He was executed.”
My voice steadies, because this is the center of it.“He chose to be.He took the punishment justice demands for sin—not His, ours.”
Jagger’s eyes flick to mine.“How does that even?—”
“It’s called substitution,” I say.“He stood in our place.Like… if you stepped between someone and a bullet meant for them because you loved them.Only it wasn’t just pain.It was judgment—God’s righteous wrath against sin—poured out on Him.”
Jagger stares at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m insane or if I’m the only sober person in the hotel.“You really believe this happened,” he says.
“I do,” I say, no hesitation.
His gaze shifts—just for a second—to his reflection in the mirror.“So what,” he says, “I just… believe it, and everything’s fine?”
“No.”I shake my head.“It isn’t magic.It’s surrender.It’s choosing which master you serve—God or His enemy.”
“Surrender,” he repeats, like the word tastes wrong.
