Including Mrs. Delacroix, who I know monitors the parish’s social media like a hawk.
My hands shake as I screenshot the post, my mind already spinning through the implications.
This isn’t just a crush anymore.
Sarah is publicly claiming Elijah, creating a narrative that could destroy him. And she’s doing it where everyone can see.
My phone rings, making me jump. Mrs. Delacroix’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach drops. I consider not answering, but that will only make things worse.
“Hello?”
“Charlie, dear.” Mrs. Delacroix’s voice drips with false concern. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” I force my voice to stay steady.
“I wanted to let you know that I’ve seen some concerning posts on social media. About Brother Elijah and young Sarah Chen.” She pauses, letting the words sink in. “People are talking, dear. About inappropriate relationships. About a man in his thirties accepting expensive gifts from a teenage girl.”
My throat tightens. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“I’m sure it’s all perfectly innocent,” Mrs. Delacroix says, but her tone suggests she believes the opposite. “But you know how people talk. And I thought you should know that I’ve already mentioned my concerns to someone who’ll be visiting the parish soon. Someone with the authority to investigate such matters properly.”
The line goes dead, and I stand in my tiny kitchen, surrounded by the scent of brownies and the weight of everything falling apart.
Mrs. Delacroix was the one to light the fuse that could destroy us all.
23
ADRIAN
The invitation arrives on cream-colored cardstock, embossed with Victory Life’s logo in gold foil.Pastor Derek Whitmore requests the pleasure of your company for lunch at The Sterling Room.The most expensive restaurant in town.
I stare at it for a long moment, my jaw clenching as I recognize the power play for what it is. Whitmore wants me on his territory, to remind me of the wealth and influence he commands while St. Michael’s crumbles around us.
I should decline. Every instinct screams that this is a trap. But curiosity wins, or maybe it’s pride.
I need to look this charlatan in the eye and understand exactly what we’re fighting.
The Sterling Room occupies the top floor of the newest high-rise downtown, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern art.
The hostess leads me through the dining room, past tables of business executives and politicians, to a corner booth where Whitmore holds court. He’s not alone.
A thin man in wire-rimmed glasses sits to his left, and a woman with severe features and an expensive suit sits to his right.
Both radiate the predatory confidence of people who make their living dismantling things.
“Father Cross!” Whitmore stands, his spray-tanned face splitting into that too-white smile. “So glad you could make it. This is Richard, my CFO, and Patricia, our real estate attorney.”
I shake their hands, noting the Rolex on Richard’s wrist and the designer briefcase at Patricia’s feet. Everything about this tableau iscalculated to intimidate, to remind me that I’m outmatched in every way that matters to men like Whitmore.
“Please, sit.” Whitmore gestures magnanimously. “Order whatever you’d like. The ribeye here is exceptional.”
I order water and the cheapest item on the menu, a Caesar salad that still costs more than I spend on groceries in a week. Whitmore orders the ribeye, of course, along with a bottle of wine.
The small talk is excruciating. Whitmore asks about St. Michael’s history, feigning interest in our Gothic Revival architecture and century-old stained glass.
He mentions Victory Life’s explosive growth, the new satellite campus they’re planning, and the television ministry that reaches millions.
Every word is a reminder of what we’re not and what we’ll never be.
