Chapter 19 Charlie
CHARLIE
The fluorescent lights in the grocery store buzz overhead as I reach for a tomato, my fingers hovering over the red skin while my entire body goes rigid.
Two women stand just around the corner in the produce section, their voices carrying clearly despite their attempt at discretion.
“I’m just saying, St. Michael’s isn’t what it used to be,” the first woman says. I recognize her voice but can’t place the face. “My sister went to Victory Life last Sunday and said the worship was incredible. Modern. Relevant.”
“Well, St. Michael’s has that lovely old architecture,” the second woman offers, though her tone suggests she’s already lost the argument.
“Architecture doesn’t pay the bills. Did you see that article in the paper? Their attendance is down thirty percent. The building is literally crumbling.”
I squeeze the tomato too hard, feeling it give beneath my fingers. Juice seeps through the thin skin, and I quickly set it back, wiping my hand on my jeans.
“And that girl,” the first woman continues, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial that makes my stomach clench. “The one who’s always hanging around the priests. There’s something off about that whole situation.”
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I force myself to examine another tomato, my hands shaking as I pretend I can’t hear every word.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. Just the way she looks at them. The way they look at her. My daughter Sarah mentioned something about it after choir practice. Said the girl seems…possessive.”
I abandon my basket and walk quickly toward the exit, my vision blurring at the edges.
The automatic doors can’t open fast enough.
Outside, I lean against my car, gulping air that tastes like exhaust and fear.
Victory Life’s whisper campaign has begun.
And I’m not just collateral damage.
I’m the weapon they’re using to destroy everything.
The choir loft smells like old wood and sheet music when I arrive that afternoon. Elijah sits at the piano, his golden hair catching the light streaming through the stained glass windows.
He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearms as his fingers dance across the keys.
The music is something classical, beautiful, and I pause at the top of the stairs just to watch him.
He looks up, those crystalline blue eyes finding mine, and his smile transforms his angel face into something warmer, more human. “Charlie. Perfect timing. I need help organizing the Christmas music.”
I cross to the filing cabinet, hyperaware of how his gaze tracks my movement.
The dress I’m wearing swirls around my thighs, and I catch him watching before he forces his attention back to the piano.
The sexual tension between us is a living thing, crackling in the air despite the careful distance we maintain.
“How was your morning?” he asks, his French accent thickening slightly as he transitions into a new piece.
“Fine.” The lie tastes bitter. I pull out folders of sheet music, trying to focus on the task instead of the memory of those women’s voices. That girl who’s always hanging around the priests.
Footsteps echo on the spiral staircase, and Sarah Chen appears at the top, her long black hair pulled into a high ponytail.
She’s wearing a long skirt and cardigan, a silver cross necklace catching the light.
In her hands, she carries a coffee cup from the expensive place downtown.
“Brother Elijah!” Her voice is bright, eager. “I brought you coffee. Two sugars, no cream, just how you like it.”
Elijah’s fingers still on the keys. I watch his expression shift from surprise to something that looks like discomfort before he smooths it into polite gratitude. “That’s very thoughtful, Sarah. Thank you.”
She crosses to the piano, setting the cup down with exaggerated care. Her body angles toward his, close enough that I can see him shift slightly away. “I was hoping you could teach me some French phrases. For the Christmas cantata. I want to pronounce them correctly.”
“Of course. We can work on that during rehearsal.”
“I meant now.” Sarah’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “If you have time.”
I continue sorting music, but I’m watching them in my peripheral vision.
The way Sarah leans in when Elijah speaks.
How her fingers brush his arm when she laughs at something he says.
The possessive tilt of her head when she glances my direction.
Our eyes meet across the loft, and the look she gives me is pure venom wrapped in teenage sweetness.
Jealous. Territorial.
Warning me away from something she’s decided belongs to her.
My stomach drops.
Elijah is patient as he teaches her the pronunciation, his voice gentle and professional.
But I notice how he maintains distance, how his body language stays carefully neutral.
When Sarah asks him to demonstrate proper breathing technique, standing close enough that her shoulder touches his, I see his jaw clench.
“That’s good, Sarah,” he says, stepping back. “Practice those phrases before rehearsal. The other choir members will be arriving soon.”
Sarah’s face falls slightly, but she recovers quickly. “Of course. Thank you so much.” She touches his arm again, her fingers lingering. “You’re such an amazing teacher.”
After she descends the stairs, I cross to where Elijah stands by the piano. He’s gripping the edge, his knuckles white.
“Elijah,” I say quietly. “You need to be more careful with her.”
His gaze finds mine, confused. “What do you mean?”
“The way she looks at you. The coffee. The touching. She’s not just an enthusiastic student.”
“Charlie.” His smile is indulgent, dismissive. “She’s seventeen. She’s just excited about music.”
“She’s seventeen and in love with you.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “And she sees me as competition.”
Elijah’s expression softens as he reaches for my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
The touch sends electricity up my arm despite the warning bells ringing in my head.
“You’re reading too much into it. Sarah is a good kid with a crush on her choir director.
It happens. I’ll handle it appropriately. ”
I want to argue, to make him see what I saw in Sarah’s eyes. But his hand is warm in mine, and the way he’s looking at me makes my breath catch. Like I’m the only person in the world who matters.
“Just be careful,” I whisper.
He pulls me closer, his free hand finding my waist. We’re standing too close for propriety, but the choir loft is empty, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I’m always careful. Except when it comes to you.”
His mouth finds mine, and I melt into the kiss despite knowing we shouldn’t. His lips are soft, gentle at first, then hungry as his control slips. My fingers tangle in his golden hair, and he groans against my mouth.
The sound of voices below breaks us apart. We step back quickly, both breathing hard, my lips swollen and his hair mussed. The choir members are arriving for rehearsal.
“Tonight,” he whispers, his eyes dark with promise. “Come to my quarters after everyone’s asleep.”
I nod, unable to form words, and flee down the stairs before anyone can see my flushed face.
That evening, I find Adrian in his office, the door open but his attention completely absorbed by the newspaper spread across his desk.
The late afternoon light streams through the window, illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the way his jaw clenches as he reads.
He’s still in his cassock, every button fastened, but his rosary beads are wrapped so tightly around his knuckles they’ve left red marks on his skin.
I knock softly on the doorframe. “Adrian?”
His gray eyes lift to mine, and the intensity in them makes my stomach flip. Even angry, even stressed, he’s beautiful in that severe, untouchable way that makes me want to mess him up completely.
“Charlie.” My name sounds rough in his voice. “Come in.”
I cross to his desk, reading over his shoulder.
The headline makes my chest tight. “Victory Life Church Sees Explosive Growth.” The article is glowing, praising Pastor Whitmore’s modern approach, his community outreach, his vision for contemporary worship.
But it’s the sidebar that makes my blood run cold.
“Meanwhile, traditional churches like St. Michael’s Catholic struggle with declining attendance and aging congregations. The historic building, while architecturally significant, requires extensive repairs the parish can barely afford.”
“Sponsored content,” I say, noticing the small disclaimer at the bottom. “Victory Life paid for this.”
“Of course they did.” Adrian’s voice is ice wrapped in barely contained rage. “They’re not just competing. They’re trying to destroy us.”
I move closer, my hand hovering near his shoulder. I want to touch him, to offer comfort, but we’re too visible here.
Anyone could walk past.
Instead, I let my fingers brush the edge of his desk, close enough that he can feel my presence.
“We’ll figure something out,” I say, though I don’t know if I believe it.
Adrian looks up at me, and the hunger in his gray eyes has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the way my dress clings to my curves.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts beneath the thin fabric.
When his eyes meet mine again, they’re dark with want.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but he doesn’t look away. “Not when I can barely control myself around you.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Adrian—”
Footsteps in the hallway make us both freeze.
Marcus appears in the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes immediately reading the charged atmosphere between Adrian and me.
His jaw clenches as he takes in how close I’m standing, how Adrian’s hand has moved toward mine on the desk.
“We have a problem,” Marcus says, his voice rough. He pulls out his phone and angles it toward us.
It’s a screenshot from Victory Life’s social media, posted minutes ago.
The image shows their modern sanctuary, all glass and steel and expensive lighting.
But it’s the caption that makes my stomach drop.
At VLC, we believe in transparency and accountability in leadership. Pray for our neighbors struggling with these values. #CommunityFirst #FaithMatters
Already, the post has dozens of shares.
The comments are filling with speculation, questions, and thinly veiled accusations about what “struggles” St. Michael’s might be facing.
Adrian’s hands curl into fists on his desk. Marcus’s jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jumping.
And I stand between them, feeling the weight of being the weapon Victory Life is using to destroy everything we love.