Anyone could walk past.
Instead, I let my fingers brush the edge of his desk, close enough that he can feel my presence.
“We’ll figure something out,” I say, though I don’t know if I believe it.
Adrian looks up at me, and the hunger in his gray eyes has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the way my dress clings to my curves.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts beneath the thin fabric.
When his eyes meet mine again, they’re dark with want.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but he doesn’t look away. “Not when I can barely control myself around you.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Adrian?—”
Footsteps in the hallway make us both freeze.
Marcus appears in the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes immediately reading the charged atmosphere between Adrian and me.
His jaw clenches as he takes in how close I’m standing, how Adrian’s hand has moved toward mine on the desk.
“We have a problem,” Marcus says, his voice rough. He pulls out his phone and angles it toward us.
It’s a screenshot from Victory Life’s social media, posted minutes ago.
The image shows their modern sanctuary, all glass and steel and expensive lighting.
But it’s the caption that makes my stomach drop.
At VLC, we believe in transparency and accountability in leadership. Pray for our neighbors struggling with these values. #CommunityFirst #FaithMatters
Already, the post has dozens of shares.
The comments are filling with speculation, questions, and thinly veiled accusations about what “struggles” St. Michael’s might be facing.
Adrian’s hands curl into fists on his desk. Marcus’s jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jumping.
And I stand between them, feeling the weight of being the weapon Victory Life is using to destroy everything we love.
20
ADRIAN
The note falls from my breviary during morning prayers, landing on the worn kneeler with a soft whisper that sounds like damnation.
My hands shake as I unfold the paper, recognizing the handwriting before I read the words. Sharp, aggressive strokes that haven’t changed in twenty years.
The abandoned gym. Midnight. Come alone. –T
Tommy “the Hammer” Delgado.
The breviary slips from my fingers, pages fluttering as it hits the floor.
I stare at those four words until they blur, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I should ignore this, burn the note and pretend the past isn’t reaching for me with scarred knuckles and predatory smiles.
But the past demands attention. It always does.
