The concern in her voice does something to me. Makes me want to be the kind of man who deserves her worry, her care.
I’ve spent my whole life performing, being the angel-faced choir director everyone expects.
But with Charlie, I can be real. Flawed. Human.
Mon Dieu, I love her. The thought hits me with devastating clarity. Not just want, not just need. Love. The kind that makes you willing to risk everything.
“I will,” I promise, and the words feel like a vow.
The coffee shop is generic and forgettable, exactly the kind of place you’d choose for a clandestine meeting. I arrive early, positioning myself in a corner booth with a clear view of the entrance. My coffee grows cold as I wait, my mind spinning through worst-case scenarios.
She arrives exactly on time. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled into a severe bun, wearing jeans and a nondescript jacket. But it’s her eyes that catch my attention.
Haunted. Afraid.
The look of someone who’s been carrying a terrible secret for too long.
JT slides into the booth across from me, clutching a manila envelope like it contains explosives.
Her gaze darts around the coffee shop, cataloging exits, checking faces. “You came alone?”
“As requested.” I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. “Thank you for reaching out.”
“I shouldn’t be doing this.” Her hands shake as she sets the envelope on the table between us. “I signed an NDA. Whitmore threatened to sue me into bankruptcy if I ever spoke about what I saw.”
“Then why are you here?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see rage burning beneath the fear. “Because I can’t watch him destroy another church. He’s hurting more people while I stay silent.” She pushes the envelope toward me. “It’s all in here. Everything.”
I open it carefully, and my breath catches. Bank statements. Emails. Invoices. Contracts. Page after page of documentation that paints a picture of systematic corruption.
“He’s been embezzling for years,” JT explains, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Fake vendors that don’t exist. Inflatedexpenses for services never rendered. Money laundering through church donations.” She points to a bank statement. “See that transfer? Two hundred thousand dollars labeled ‘building fund.’ It went directly to his personal account.”
My hands shake as I flip through the pages. An email where Whitmore jokes about “stupid sheep” funding his lifestyle. Invoices for construction work that was never done. Contracts with vendors whose addresses don’t exist.
“There’s more.” JT’s voice cracks. “The affairs. At least three female staff members that I know of. All paid off with church funds to sign NDAs and disappear quietly.”
She pulls out more documents. Non-disclosure agreements signed by women whose names I don’t recognize.
Payment records showing large sums transferred to personal accounts. Photos that make my stomach turn.
“I was one of them,” JT admits, and the shame in her voice makes my chest ache. “Not the affairs. But I witnessed the financial fraud. Tried to report it internally. Whitmore called me into his office, showed me what his lawyers could do to me if I ever spoke about it. He threatened my family. My career. Everything.” Tears stream down her face. “I took the money and stayed quiet. And I’ve hated myself every day since.”
I reach across the table, covering her shaking hands with mine. “You’re speaking now. That takes courage.”
“It’s too late for courage.” She pulls her hands away, wiping her eyes. “I can’t come forward publicly. The NDA is ironclad. But I can give you copies of everything. Let you use it however you need to stop him.”
“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Why risk this for us?”
Jennifer’s smile is sad. “Because I’ve been watching what he’s doing to St. Michael’s. The whisper campaigns, the sabotage, the systematic destruction. It’s what he did to my last church before Victory Life. Tore it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left.” She meets my eyes. “Someone has to stop him. And if I can help, even anonymously, maybe I can live with myself again.”
I take the envelope, feeling its weight like a physical thing. “I promise to protect your identity.”
“Just stop him.” She stands, preparing to leave. “Stop him before he destroys anyone else.”
She’s gone before I can respond, disappearing into the afternoon crowd like a ghost.
That evening, I spread the documents across Adrian’s desk like tarot cards predicting our future.
