The silence that follows is heavy with guilt and frustration and the weight of impossible choices.
We’re trapped between protecting Charlie and destroying her, between maintaining appearances and being honest about what we feel.
I think about Isabella’s hand on mine, about the Bishop’s approving expression, about Sister Margaret’s calculating gaze. I think about Charlie’s hurt eyes and the way she held herself together even as I watched her break.
I’m trapped between my past and my present, between the woman I almost destroyed myself for and the woman who’s become my entire world.
Later, I retreat to my quarters, exhausted and heartsick.
I need space to think, to pray, to figure out how to survive this without losing everything that matters.
The small room feels suffocating as I pace, my mind spinning through scenarios that all end badly.
A knock on my door makes me freeze.
I open it to find Isabella standing in the hallway, her expression soft and hopeful. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just wanted to thank you properly for today. For being so kind, so welcoming.”
My stomach drops as I realize what this looks like. What it will look like if anyone sees her here, at my door, in the evening when the rectory is quiet.
“Isabella, this isn’t—” I start, but movement in the hallway catches my eye.
Charlie stands frozen at the end of the corridor, a basket of laundry in her hands.
She’s clearly just come from her apartment upstairs, probably heading to the basement to do laundry.
Her hazel eyes are wide as she takes in the scene. Isabella at my door.
The intimate hour.
The way Isabella’s body angles toward mine with familiar ease.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and I watch something die in her expression.
26
CHARLIE
POV:
The transformation happens overnight, and it destroys me.
Adrian becomes Father Cross again, all austere lines and cold distance, like the man who held me three nights ago never existed.
When I approach him after morning Mass to discuss the parish newsletter schedule, he cuts me off mid-sentence.
“Miss Davis, I’m quite busy. Please leave any questions with Sister Margaret.”
His jaw clenches tight as he walks away, cassock swishing with each deliberate step. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge the way my breath catches, the way my hands shake as I clutch the folder against my chest.
Miss Davis.Not Charlie. Not the name he groaned against my throat while his rosary beads pressed into my hip.
I stand frozen in the hallway, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner.
My body remembers how those shoulders felt beneath my hands, how the muscles shifted when he moved inside me. Now he won’t even meet my eyes.
Marcus is worse.
During Mass preparation, he keeps physical distance between us like I’m contagious.
