The woman standing there is everything I’m not. Late thirties, classically beautiful in ways that make my throat tight with inadequacy.
Her dark hair is cut in a sleek bob, framing high cheekbones and olive skin that glows with expensive skincare.
She’s wearing a tailored dress that whispers money and sophistication, designer heels that add inches to her already impressive height.
The kind of woman who belongs in magazines.
The kind of woman who makes me feel like a child playing dress-up in thrift store clothes.
Marcus has gone completely pale, his body rigid with shock. “Isabella.”
The name hits me like a physical blow.Isabella. The woman he almost destroyed himself for. The woman who made him leave the priesthood.
She steps into the storage room, her movements graceful and confident, and I watch her eyes take in everything, the cramped space, the donated clothes, Marcus’s defensive posture.
Then her gaze lands on me, and I feel assessed, cataloged, and found wanting.
Her eyes linger on my simple dress, my worn cardigan, and the way I’m standing too close to Marcus despite our attempt to create distance.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Isabella says, her voice smooth and cultured. “I thought you’d left town years ago.”
Marcus clears his throat, and I watch him physically step away from me, putting more space between us.
The movement feels like rejection, even though I know it’s necessary. “Isabella. This is…unexpected.”
“I just moved back.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “My divorce was finalized last month. I’ve been thinking about returning to St. Michael’s, reconnecting with my faith.” Her gaze flicks to me again, curious and calculating. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
Marcus makes awkward introductions, his voice strained. “This is Charlie Davis. She’s volunteering at the parish. Charlie, this is Isabella Moretti.”
I force myself to smile, to extend my hand like a normal person instead of someone whose world is tilting sideways. “Nice to meet you.”
Isabella’s handshake is firm, her skin soft and manicured.
Everything about her screams polish and sophistication, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of my chipped nail polish, my flour-dusted clothes from this morning’s stress-baking, and the way my hair is escaping its messy bun.
“Volunteering,” Isabella repeats, her tone suggesting she doesn’t quite believe it. Her eyes move between Marcus and me, reading the subtext we’re trying so hard to hide. “How wonderful. Marcus always did have a gift for inspiring devotion.”
The words sound innocent, but there’s an edge underneath that makes my stomach clench.
She knows.
Maybe not everything, but enough to recognize that what’s between Marcus and me is more than volunteer coordinator and volunteer.
“I should let you get back to work,” Isabella says, but she doesn’t move toward the door. Instead, she touches Marcus’s arm, her fingerslingering on his bicep. “But we should catch up properly. Maybe coffee? I’d love to hear what you’ve been doing all these years.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches, and I watch him fight for composure. “I’m pretty busy with parish duties.”
“I’m sure you can spare an hour for an old friend.” Isabella’s smile widens, and there’s something possessive in the way she’s looking at him. Like she’s staking a claim. “I’ll return to daily Mass soon. We can talk after.”
She finally leaves, her heels clicking against the tile floor, and the silence she leaves behind is suffocating.
I stare at the doorway, my hands shaking as I try to process what just happened.
Marcus stands frozen, his face pale and his dark eyes haunted.
“She’s that Isabella, isn’t she?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I just need to hear him say it.
Marcus’s silence tells me everything.
