Chapter 8 - Adrian
ADRIAN
I notice them during the opening hymn.
Three people I’ve never seen before sit scattered throughout the congregation, each holding a small notebook instead of a hymnal.
They’re not singing.
They’re watching.
Taking notes.
Their eyes track every movement I make at the altar, every word that leaves my mouth, every interaction between parishioners.
My jaw clenches as I continue the Mass, hyperaware of their presence. Victory Life members. I’d bet my collar on it.
After the service, I stand at the church entrance shaking hands and greeting parishioners as they file out.
Mrs. Patterson, who’s attended St. Michael’s for forty years, mentions almost casually that she visited Victory Life last week. Her daughter invited her.
The worship was so energetic, she says. So modern. The music really spoke to her.
I feel the first crack in my congregation’s foundation.
In the parking lot, I watch through the window as those same three strangers approach my parishioners with glossy brochures.
They’re smiling, friendly, promising worship that changes lives. Several people take the brochures.
Some linger to talk. My hands curl into fists at my sides, rosary beads cutting into my palm.
Charlie appears beside me, her presence immediately calming and inflaming me in equal measure.
She’s wearing a floral sundress that clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
The neckline dips just low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and I force my gaze back to the parking lot before she catches me staring.
“They’re recruiting,” she says quietly, following my line of sight. “Right here. In your parking lot.”
“I know.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She shifts closer, and I catch the scent of vanilla and cinnamon that always clings to her clothes. Her arm brushes mine, and electricity shoots through me at the contact. I should step away. I don’t.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
I watch one of the Victory Life members hand Mrs. Patterson a brochure, see her smile and nod. “I don’t know.”
We stand there, watching everyone leave, then slowly walk back inside.
The parish council meeting that afternoon feels like a funeral.
Marcus arrives first, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his expression grim.
He’s wearing a black button-down that stretches across his shoulders, and I notice Charlie’s eyes linger on him before she catches herself. The way she bites her lower lip makes heat pool in my gut.
“Three families,” Marcus says without preamble. “The Hendersons, the Morales, and the Thompsons. All officially transferred to Victory Life this week.”
The words hit like physical blows. The Hendersons have been parishioners for two generations. The Morales family has five children who were all baptized here. The Thompsons donated the new altar candles last year.
Charlie sits across from me, taking notes in her careful handwriting.
She’s wearing reading glasses today, and the sight of them perched on her nose does something to me.
I watch her teeth worry her bottom lip as she concentrates, and I imagine what that lip would feel like beneath my thumb. Beneath my mouth.
I force my attention back to Marcus, but not before our eyes meet.
His dark gaze holds mine for a beat too long, and I see the understanding there.
He knows exactly what I’m thinking about. What I’m fighting.
He’s probably thinking the same thing.
The door bursts open, and Elijah rushes in, his golden hair disheveled, his blue eyes stormy with emotion.
He’s usually so composed, so angelic in his demeanor. Seeing him upset sends alarm through me.
“Two choir members,” he says, his French accent thickening with distress.
“They’re joining Victory Life’s contemporary worship band.
” He drops into a chair, running his hands through his hair.
“They apologized, said they love our choir, but Victory Life has a full band. Drums, guitars, and professional sound equipment. They want to sing with accompaniment that isn’t just my piano. ”
Charlie reaches across the table, her hand covering Elijah’s. The gesture is innocent, comforting, but I watch his fingers curl around hers and feel jealousy burn through my chest.
Her hand is small in his, delicate, and I remember how those fingers felt tangled in my hair, how her nails dug into my shoulders. How she touched his hands as he played the piano.
“We can’t compete with their resources,” Marcus says, his voice rough. “They have a multi-million dollar facility. Professional staff. Marketing budgets that exceed our entire annual income.”
“So what do we do?” Charlie asks, her hazel eyes moving between the three of us. “Just let them take everyone?”
I watch her face as she speaks, the way her eyes shift from green to gold in the afternoon light.
The curve of her throat is visible above her cardigan, and I remember pressing my lips there, feeling her pulse race beneath my tongue.
My hands grip the edge of the table until my knuckles go white.
“We focus on what makes us different,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. “We’re not a show. We’re a community. We offer something real, something authentic.”
“Will that be enough?” Elijah asks quietly.
I don’t have an answer.
The meeting drags on, each of us throwing out ideas that feel inadequate against Victory Life’s machine.
Charlie suggests a parish newsletter highlighting community outreach.
Marcus proposes expanding the food pantry.
Elijah mentions free music lessons for children.
All good ideas.
None of them flashy enough to compete with a megachurch’s spectacle.
I catch myself watching Charlie again. The way her cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the strap of whatever she’s wearing underneath. The way her dress rides up slightly when she shifts in her chair, exposing more of her thighs. The way her breasts rise and fall with each breath.
Marcus clears his throat, and I realize he’s caught me staring. His expression is knowing, almost amused, but there’s heat in his dark eyes too.
He’s been watching her as well.
We’re both fighting the same battle, wanting the same woman, and pretending we don’t.
After the meeting ends, I retreat to the vestry to count the Sunday collection. The routine task usually calms me, but tonight my hands shake as I sort bills and coins.
The numbers are down again. We’re hemorrhaging parishioners and money in equal measure.
That’s when I find it.
A Victory Life business card tucked between two twenty-dollar bills. On the back, someone has written in neat script, “Your flock deserves better.”
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate. My hands curl into fists around the card, crumpling it. How dare they. How dare they infiltrate my church, recruit my parishioners, and leave their poison in my collection basket!
The vestry door opens, and Charlie enters. She’s returning the keys to the parish hall, her movements graceful and unconscious. She sees my face and stops.
“Adrian?” My name in her voice does things to me. “What’s wrong?”
I hold up the crumpled card, unable to speak past the anger choking me.
She crosses the small space, standing close enough that I can feel her warmth, smell her scent.
Her hand reaches for the card, and our fingers brush.
The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.
I jerk back like I’ve been burned, but not before I see her pupils dilate, her lips part slightly.
The air between us crackles with unspoken want, with weeks of suppressed desire, with the memory of that night in my office when I claimed her on my desk.
“Adrian,” she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips makes my control fracture.
I want to pull her against me.
Want to bury my hands in her auburn hair and kiss her until neither of us can breathe. Want to lift her onto this counter and make her forget everything except my name.
Instead, I step back, putting necessary distance between us. My rosary beads cut into my palm as I grip them, using the pain to ground myself.
“They’re trying to destroy us,” I say, my voice rough. “Victory Life. They’re not just competing. They’re actively sabotaging.”
Charlie smooths out the crumpled card, reading the message. Her face hardens with anger that mirrors my own. “What are you going to do?”
Before I can answer, footsteps echo in the hallway.
We both turn as Marcus appears in the doorway.
His dark eyes move between us, reading the charged atmosphere with perfect clarity. The way we’re standing too close. The way Charlie’s breathing is shallow.
The way my hands are clenched into fists.
His jaw tightens, and I see the same jealousy I’m feeling reflected in his expression.
But there’s something else too.
Understanding.
Solidarity.
We’re in this together, whether we want to be or not.
Marcus holds up his phone, screen facing us. “Pastor Whitmore just posted this.”
I take the phone and frown.
It’s a photo of St. Michael’s roof, taken from the street. The weathered shingles, the missing tiles, the obvious signs of decay are all captured in high definition. The caption makes my hands shake.
Pray for our neighbors at St. Michael’s. Their building is as broken as their leadership. #CommunityFirst #VictoryLife.
The post already has dozens of shares and comments. People expressing concern. People suggesting St. Michael’s should close. People praising Victory Life’s modern facilities.
Charlie gasps softly, her hand finding my arm. The touch burns through my cassock, and I’m hyperaware of Marcus watching us, of the way his jaw clenches when he sees her fingers on my sleeve.
“He’s declaring war,” Marcus says quietly.
I stare at the photo, at Whitmore’s smug caption, at the comments already piling up. My church. My congregation. My life’s work, being dismantled piece by piece by a charlatan in an expensive suit.
The rage that’s been simmering all day finally boils over as I stalk out the door.