Chapter 18 Adrian
ADRIAN
Sister Margaret’s knock still echoes in my ears as I follow her down the hallway, my body still thrumming with interrupted need.
Behind me, in my quarters, Charlie is frantically redressing while Marcus and Elijah try to look like they weren’t seconds away from devouring her on my kitchen counter.
The flour-dusted mixing bowl sits abandoned, a monument to our recklessness.
“I apologize for the interruption, Father,” Sister Margaret says, her voice clipped and professional. She doesn’t look at me, just walks with that rigid posture that speaks of decades in traditional habit. “But this arrived by courier this morning. The diocese marked it urgent.”
She hands me a thick envelope, the formal seal of the Archdiocese embossed in red wax. My stomach drops before I even touch it. Nothing good ever comes in envelopes like this.
“Thank you, Sister.” I keep my voice steady despite the dread crawling up my spine. “I’ll review it immediately.”
She nods and disappears down the hallway, her sensible shoes clicking against the tile.
I stand there holding the envelope, feeling its weight like a stone in my hands.
Through the wall, I can hear movement in my quarters.
Charlie’s soft voice, Marcus’s low rumble, Elijah’s French-accented response.
The sounds of them trying to salvage what we almost did.
What we’ve been doing for weeks now.
I force myself to walk to my office instead of returning to them.
The envelope burns in my hands as I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment.
My body is still hard, still aching for Charlie’s touch, for the taste of her skin, for the sounds she makes when we claim her.
But the formal seal stares at me, demanding attention.
I cross to my desk and sit, the leather chair creaking beneath my weight.
My hands shake as I break the seal, and I have to grip my rosary beads to steady them.
The paper inside is thick, expensive, the kind the diocese uses for official correspondence.
Dear Father Cross,
This letter serves as formal notification that Bishop Vincent Carmine will conduct a pastoral visit to St. Michael’s Catholic Church in two weeks’ time.
The purpose of this visit is to address concerns that have been brought to the diocese’s attention regarding pastoral conduct and parish atmosphere.
The words blur as I read them again. Concerns regarding pastoral conduct.
The vague language tells me everything I need to know. Someone has reported us.
Someone has been watching, documenting, gathering evidence of whatever they think they’ve seen.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I force myself to keep reading.
Bishop Carmine will conduct interviews with clergy, staff, and select parishioners during his visit. All personnel are expected to cooperate fully with this investigation. Further details regarding the schedule will be provided upon the Bishop’s arrival.
Please ensure all parish records are current and available for review.
In Christ,
Monsignor Thomas Brennan
Vicar General
I set the letter down with trembling hands. Two weeks. We have two weeks before the Bishop arrives to investigate “concerns” about my conduct.
About our conduct.
Someone saw something.
Someone knows something.
And now the full weight of the Church’s authority is descending on St. Michael’s to root out whatever scandal they think is festering here.
I think about the PI’s photos. Pastor Whitmore’s surveillance. Mrs. Delacroix’s bitter expression at the bake-off. The way we’ve been so careful and yet so reckless.
Every stolen glance during Mass.
Every touch that lingered too long.
Every moment we thought was private but might have been witnessed.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus.
What did Sister Margaret want?
I type back.
My office. Now. Both of you.
I don’t mention Charlie. Can’t mention her. Not in writing. Not when everything feels like it’s being documented, recorded, used against us.
Marcus arrives first, his tattooed arms crossed defensively over his chest. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” His dark eyes search my face, reading the tension there with unnerving accuracy.
I hand him the letter without speaking. His expression darkens as he reads, his jaw clenching as his hands curl into fists around the paper.
“Mierda,” he breathes. “Someone reported us.”
Elijah appears in the doorway moments later, his golden hair still slightly mussed from our interrupted morning. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down, the top buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat.
“What’s happened?” Elijah’s French accent thickens as he takes in our expressions. His eyes move between Marcus and me, and I watch his usual angelic composure crack.
Marcus hands him the letter. We stand in weighted silence while Elijah reads, the only sound the ticking of the clock on my wall. Each second feels like a countdown to our destruction.
“Two weeks,” Elijah says finally, his voice carefully controlled. “We have two weeks before the Bishop arrives.”
The paranoia sets in immediately, flooding through me like poison. I move to the window, staring out at the church grounds. “Who? Mrs. Delacroix? She’s been bitter since the bake-off, watching Charlie with those calculating eyes.”
“Could be Deacon Paul,” Marcus offers, his tattooed arms still crossed. “He’s resented me since I arrived. Maybe he saw something, put pieces together.”
“Or Victory Life,” Elijah adds quietly. “They have those surveillance photos. What if they sent them to the diocese?”
I turn from the window, my hands gripping my rosary beads until they cut into my palm. “We need to review everything. Every interaction with Charlie. Every moment someone might have witnessed.”
“Adrian.” Marcus’s voice holds a warning. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we need to protect her.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “The Bishop is coming to investigate pastoral conduct. That means me. My behavior. My relationship with a parishioner.”
“Our relationship,” Elijah corrects. “All of us.”
“But I’m the priest.” My voice rises despite my attempt at control.
“I’m the one who took vows of celibacy. I’m the one who’s supposed to be above reproach.
If the Bishop finds out what we’ve been doing, what we’ve become to each other, it won’t just destroy me.
It’ll destroy all of us. And Charlie…” My voice breaks slightly.
“She’ll be labeled a seductress who corrupted three men of God. ”
Marcus moves closer, his dark eyes burning into mine. “So what? You’re just going to push her away? Pretend she doesn’t exist?”
“I’m going to protect her.” My jaw clenches. “By maintaining appropriate distance. By being Father Cross instead of Adrian. By doing what I should have done from the beginning.”
“That’s bullshit.” Marcus’s voice rises with frustration. “You think suddenly going cold will help? You think she won’t be hurt by that?”
“She’ll be more hurt if the Bishop discovers the truth.” I force the words out. “If the whole parish finds out. If she becomes the scandal that destroys St. Michael’s.”
Elijah moves between us, his hands raised placatingly. “Adrian, Marcus is right. Sudden coldness will raise more questions than it answers. If you start treating Charlie differently now, people will notice the change.”
“Then what do you suggest?” I turn on him, my control fracturing visibly. “That we continue as we have been? That we keep claiming her in confessionals and on kitchen counters while the Bishop investigates us?”
“I suggest we be smart.” Elijah’s voice is calm, reasonable, and infuriating. “We maintain professional distance, yes. But we don’t freeze her out completely. We act like clergy and volunteer, nothing more, nothing less. No sudden changes that draw attention.”
I want to argue, to insist that complete separation is the only way to protect her.
But I’m already mentally cataloging every touch, every word, every sin I need to bury before the Bishop arrives.
The way I watched her during Mass, my gaze finding her in the third pew.
The night in my office when I claimed her on my desk.
The confessional where we turned sacred space into something profane.
Every moment feels like evidence now.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, and we all freeze.
The door opens, and Charlie appears, drawn by our raised voices.
She’s wearing one of her vintage sundresses, the fabric clinging to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry despite everything.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.
She sees our faces and stops. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t look at her.
Can’t meet those hazel eyes that shift between green and gold, can’t see the concern there without breaking completely.
My gaze fixes on the letter in my hands, on the formal diocese seal that represents everything threatening to destroy us.
“The Bishop is coming,” Marcus says when I don’t speak. “In two weeks. To investigate concerns about pastoral conduct.”
Charlie’s breath catches. I hear it even though I’m not looking at her. “Concerns about what?”
“About me.” My voice comes out flat, emotionless. “About my conduct with parishioners.”
The air between us, usually electric with want and need and barely restrained desire, goes cold and distant.
I force myself to maintain the separation, to not cross the room and pull her against me, to not promise that everything will be okay.
Because I don’t know if it will be.
“Adrian.” My name in her voice makes my chest tight and my control fracture further. But I don’t respond. Can’t respond.
She stands there for a moment longer, and I feel her gaze on me like a physical touch.
Then she turns and leaves, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, each one feeling like a nail in a coffin.
Marcus rounds on me the moment she’s gone. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’m protecting her.” But my voice lacks conviction.
“You’re hurting her.” Elijah’s gaze hold mine. “And yourself.”
Before I can respond, voices echo from the church entrance. Multiple voices, unfamiliar, accompanied by the sound of equipment being moved.
I move to the window and see a white van parked in the lot, Diocese Technology Services printed on the side.
“What the hell?” Marcus joins me at the window.
We watch as a crew of technicians unloads equipment, led by a man in a diocese polo shirt carrying a clipboard.
Sister Margaret appears to greet them, gesturing toward the church entrance.
My stomach drops. “They’re here to upgrade our systems.”
“What systems?” Elijah asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t authorize any upgrades.”
We move as one toward the church, arriving just as the crew begins setting up in the nave. The man with the clipboard approaches, his smile professional and impersonal.
“Father Cross? I’m Dave Mitchell, Diocese IT. We’re here to install the new audio-visual system. Should have received notification last week?”
“I didn’t receive anything.” My jaw clenches.
Dave frowns, checking his clipboard. “That’s odd. Well, we’re here now. Shouldn’t take more than a few days. We’ll be installing cameras for livestreaming Mass, upgrading the sound system, and running new cables throughout the building.”
“Cameras?” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
“Standard equipment now. Most parishes are livestreaming services for homebound parishioners.” Dave gestures to his crew, who are already measuring walls and marking drill points. “We’ll try to minimize disruption.”
I watch them work, my hands gripping my rosary beads. They’re drilling near the confessionals, running cables through walls that haven’t been touched in decades. Installing cameras that will record everything.
Marcus appears at my shoulder. “This can’t be coincidence.”
“It’s not.” My voice is hollow. “The diocese is preparing. Making sure they have documentation of everything that happens here.”
Elijah joins us, his expression grim. “Or making sure nothing else happens that they can’t see.”
We stand there watching the crew work, watching our sanctuary being transformed into something monitored, recorded, and documented.
Every corner that used to offer privacy now feels exposed.
Every shadow that used to hide our stolen moments is now illuminated by the harsh reality of discovery.
A technician approaches the confessional booths, drill in hand.
I watch him mark the wall beside them, preparing to run cables through the very space where we claimed Charlie just days ago.
Where Marcus’s hands gripped her thighs, and Elijah’s mouth made her sing, and I commanded her through the carved screen.
The drill whines to life, biting into ancient wood and stone.
I shudder, my whole body going rigid. Everywhere I turn, things are changing at St. Michael’s.
The church I’ve served for twenty years, the sanctuary I’ve built my life around, is being systematically dismantled and rebuilt into something I don’t recognize.
And I don’t know if any of us will survive what comes next.