Victory Life members have flooded our review pages with one-star ratings.
The complaints are eerily similar, clearly coordinated.Unwelcoming atmosphere. Creepy vibe. Staff seems distracted and unprofessional. Would not recommend.
The attacks are relentless, systematic, and designed to destroy our reputation from every angle.
I spend my time searching into Whitmore and Victory Life, hoping to find some sort of trail, any kind of evidence.
I don’t want to fight fire with fire, but I’m not sure we have a choice anymore.
By afternoon, I’m helping Charlie organize sheet music in the choir loft, both of us seeking refuge in the familiar task.
She’s wearing a simple floral dress that clings to her curves in ways that make my dick ache despite everything falling apart around us.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and I can see the exhaustion written across her face.
The dark circles under her eyes tell me she hasn’t been sleeping.
Neither have I. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face when Adrian walked past her without acknowledgment, when Marcus maintained that devastating distance.
I see the hurt we’re causing in the name of protection, and it’s destroying me.
“The Christmas cantata needs new arrangements,” I say, trying to focus on something normal, something that doesn’t involve inspectors and sabotage and the constant fear of discovery. “I thought we could add that French carol you mentioned.”
Charlie nods, but her attention isn’t on the music. She’s staring out the window, her body going completely still. I follow her gaze and feel my chest tighten painfully.
Below in the garden, Marcus stands close to Isabella Moretti.
Too close. Isabella is crying, her face buried in her hands, and Marcus has his hand on her shoulder.
His head is bent toward hers, his body angled protectively. From this distance, it looks intimate. It looks like something more than pastoral comfort.
I know the truth. Isabella’s ex-husband is contesting the annulment, dragging her through legal hell, and she came to Marcus for guidance.
He’s being kind, offering the same comfort he’d give any parishioner in distress.
But from Charlie’s vantage point, it looks like everything she’s been fearing.
I watch her face crumble, see every insecurity she’s been fighting rise to the surface.
“Charlie,” I start, but she’s already moving toward the stairs.
“I need to go,” she says, her voice tight. “I have…I need to go.”
She flees down the spiral staircase, and I let her go because following would only make things worse. Sister Margaret is somewhere in the building, watching, documenting. The Bishop is conducting interviews. We’re all performing this careful dance of distance and denial, and it’s killing us.
I find her twenty minutes later in the storage room, crying into her hands.
She’s sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes of donated clothes, her shoulders shaking with sobs she’s trying to muffle.
The sight breaks something in my chest.
I kneel beside her, my hand hovering near her shoulder but not quite touching. The space between us feels like miles. “Charlie.”
“Don’t.” Her voice is muffled by her hands. “Please don’t tell me it’s not what it looked like. I saw them. I saw how he was with her.”
“Isabella’s ex-husband is contesting the annulment,” I say gently. “She’s devastated. Marcus was just offering comfort.”
“The way he used to offer her comfort three years ago?” Charlie’s hazel eyes find mine. They’re swimming with tears and doubt and all the insecurities I wish I could erase. “She’s everything I’m not, Elijah. The kind of woman who belongs with someone like Marcus.”
