Charlie in her simple dress and worn cardigan, flour still dusting her sleeve from this morning’s baking, looking young and uncertain and heartbreakingly beautiful.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Charlie says, her voice steady despite the pain written across her face. “I just need to return these.”
She sets the keys on the counter and turns to leave, and every instinct I have screams at me to go after her.
To pull her close and make her understand that Isabella means nothing, that she’s the one I want, that I’d choose her over the acceptable choice every single time.
But the Bishop is in the hallway. Sister Margaret is watching. And all I can do is maintain my distance while my heart screams in protest.
“Thank you, Miss Davis,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.
Charlie’s eyes meet mine for just a moment, and I see everything she’s feeling.
The hurt.
The doubt.
The fear that she’s just a distraction, that what we have isn’t real, that I’ll eventually choose Isabella because she’s the safer option, the one that won’t destroy my life.
You’re wrong,I want to tell her.You’re so wrong, querida. You’re not the distraction. You’re the whole point.
But I can’t say any of that. So I watch her leave, her shoulders rigid with the effort of holding herself together, and I feel something crack open in my chest.
Isabella’s hand is still on mine, and I pull away like I’ve been burned. She notices, her expression shifting to something calculating. “She’s very young,” Isabella says carefully. “Pretty, in that fresh-faced way. Is she a volunteer?”
“She’s working off a debt to the parish.” The words come out sharper than I intend.
“Ah.” Isabella’s tone suggests she understands more than I want her to. “Well, I’m sure Father Cross is keeping a close eye on her. Young women can be…impressionable. Especially around men in positions of authority.”
The implication makes my hands curl into fists at my sides. I force them to relax, force my voice to remain level. “Charlie is a valued member of our community. She’s been nothing but professional.”
“Of course.” Isabella’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
But she did. And we both know it.
I finish organizing the pantry in tense silence, hyperaware of Isabella’s presence beside me, of the way she keeps finding excuses to touch my arm, to stand close, to remind me of what we almost had.
When we’re finally done, I make an excuse about needing to prepare for evening Mass and escape to the sacristy.
Adrian and Elijah find me there later, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
I’m staring at the wall, seeing nothing, my mind replaying the hurt in Charlie’s eyes over and over.
“We saw,” Adrian says quietly, closing the door behind them. His gray eyes are dark with shared frustration. “Isabella’s campaign. Your discomfort. All of it.”
“I can’t do this,” I admit, my voice rough. “I can’t pretend she means something when all I want is—” I stop myself, but they know. They always know.
“Charlie left quickly,” Elijah adds, his gaze troubled. “Her eyes were red. She’s hurting, Marcus.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The words come out harsher than I intend. “You think I don’t see it? But what am I supposed to do? The Bishop is watching. Sister Margaret is taking notes. If I go to her now, if I show any sign that she’s more than just a volunteer, we’re done. All of us.”
Adrian’s expression darkens, but he nods slowly. “We have to endure this charade until the Bishop leaves. It’s the only way to protect her.”
“By hurting her?” I shake my head. “By making her think she doesn’t matter? That Isabella is the acceptable choice and she’s just…what? A mistake? A distraction?”
“She knows that’s not true,” Elijah says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Does she?” I meet his eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, we’re doing a damn good job of making her feel exactly that way.”
