Chapter 23 Adrian
ADRIAN
The invitation arrives on cream-colored cardstock, embossed with Victory Life’s logo in gold foil. Pastor Derek Whitmore requests the pleasure of your company for lunch at The Sterling Room. The most expensive restaurant in town.
I stare at it for a long moment, my jaw clenching as I recognize the power play for what it is. Whitmore wants me on his territory, to remind me of the wealth and influence he commands while St. Michael’s crumbles around us.
I should decline. Every instinct screams that this is a trap. But curiosity wins, or maybe it’s pride.
I need to look this charlatan in the eye and understand exactly what we’re fighting.
The Sterling Room occupies the top floor of the newest high-rise downtown, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern art.
The hostess leads me through the dining room, past tables of business executives and politicians, to a corner booth where Whitmore holds court. He’s not alone.
A thin man in wire-rimmed glasses sits to his left, and a woman with severe features and an expensive suit sits to his right.
Both radiate the predatory confidence of people who make their living dismantling things.
“Father Cross!” Whitmore stands, his spray-tanned face splitting into that too-white smile. “So glad you could make it. This is Richard, my CFO, and Patricia, our real estate attorney.”
I shake their hands, noting the Rolex on Richard’s wrist and the designer briefcase at Patricia’s feet. Everything about this tableau is calculated to intimidate, to remind me that I’m outmatched in every way that matters to men like Whitmore.
“Please, sit.” Whitmore gestures magnanimously. “Order whatever you’d like. The ribeye here is exceptional.”
I order water and the cheapest item on the menu, a Caesar salad that still costs more than I spend on groceries in a week. Whitmore orders the ribeye, of course, along with a bottle of wine.
The small talk is excruciating. Whitmore asks about St. Michael’s history, feigning interest in our Gothic Revival architecture and century-old stained glass.
He mentions Victory Life’s explosive growth, the new satellite campus they’re planning, and the television ministry that reaches millions.
Every word is a reminder of what we’re not and what we’ll never be.
The food arrives.
My salad is artfully arranged, probably photographed for Instagram a thousand times. Whitmore’s steak bleeds across his plate, rare enough to still be mooing.
He cuts into it with relish, and I watch the juice run red, thinking of blood money and thirty pieces of silver.
“Let’s talk business,” Whitmore says, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I invited you here.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
Patricia slides a folder across the table.
Inside, I find a formal purchase offer for St. Michael’s property.
The number makes my stomach drop. It’s insultingly low, barely enough to cover our outstanding debts with nothing left over for relocation or rebuilding.
“We believe in preserving history,” Whitmore says, his tone dripping with false sincerity.
“That beautiful facade, the bell tower, the stained glass. We’d keep all of it.
Just modernize the interior, bring it into the twenty-first century.
Imagine your congregation worshiping in a space with proper climate control, state-of-the-art sound systems, and comfortable seating. ”
“Imagine my congregation not existing at all,” I counter, my voice carefully controlled. “Because that’s what this offer represents. Dissolution.”
Richard leans forward, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. “Father Cross, let’s be realistic. Your attendance is down thirty percent year over year. Your building needs extensive repairs you can’t afford. The diocese is already concerned about your financial viability.”
“How do you know about diocese concerns?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
Whitmore’s smile widens. “We have friends everywhere. People who share our vision for modern ministry, who understand that sometimes the old must make way for the new.”
I think about Charlie, about the way her hazel eyes shift between green and gold when she’s worried.
About Marcus’s protective fury and Elijah’s quiet strength. About the family we’ve built in the shadows of this crumbling church.
Whitmore wants to take it all, to gut our sanctuary and fill it with his prosperity gospel poison.
“The answer is no.” I close the folder and slide it back across the table. “St. Michael’s isn’t for sale.”
Morrison’s expression hardens. “Father Cross, I don’t think you understand the position you’re in.”
“I understand perfectly. You want our property because it’s prime real estate in a growing neighborhood. You want to eliminate competition and expand your empire. But St. Michael’s has served this community for over a century, and it will continue to do so.”
Whitmore sets down his fork, his mask finally slipping.
The jovial pastor disappears, replaced by something cold and calculating.
“You’re making a mistake. We have information that could accelerate the diocese’s decision to shut you down.
Concerns about pastoral conduct, inappropriate relationships, and financial irregularities. ”
My blood runs cold, but I keep my expression neutral. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reality check.” Whitmore leans back, his blue eyes hard as ice. “The diocese is already investigating you. We’re simply prepared to provide additional documentation that might speed up their timeline. Unless, of course, you reconsider our generous offer.”
The rage that floods through me is the same violence I spent twenty years suppressing, the underground boxer who nearly killed a man with his bare hands.
My fists clench beneath the table, rosary beads cutting into my palm.
I imagine reaching across this expensive table and wiping that smug smile off Whitmore’s spray-tanned face.
Instead, I stand slowly, my voice dropping to something quiet and dangerous. “Thank you for lunch, Pastor Whitmore. But I think we’re done here.”
“You have forty-eight hours to reconsider,” he calls after me. “After that, the offer expires and we move forward with alternative plans.”
I walk out, leaving Whitmore’s check on the table, my hands shaking with barely contained fury.
The elevator ride down feels eternal, my reflection in the polished doors showing a man barely holding himself together.
The collar feels like a noose, the cassock like chains.
I want to tear them off, to become Adrian Crosswell again, to solve problems with violence instead of prayer.
But that’s not who I am anymore. That’s not who Charlie needs me to be.
The drive back to St. Michael’s passes in a blur. My mind spins through Whitmore’s threats, the implications of what he knows or thinks he knows.
Someone has been feeding him information. Someone close enough to observe, to document, to betray.
I find Charlie in the parish kitchen, and the sight of her makes my chest tight with conflicting emotions.
She’s stress-baking again, flour dusting her simple dress, her auburn hair escaping its messy bun.
The scent of cinnamon fills the air, domestic and comforting, and I want to lose myself in the normalcy of it and forget Whitmore’s threats and the diocese’s investigation and the constant fear of discovery.
But my hands are shaking as I grip the counter, my knuckles white with tension.
Charlie looks up, and those hazel eyes immediately fill with concern.
“Adrian?” My name in her voice does something to me, makes the rage and fear twist into desperate need. “What happened?”
I can’t answer yet. Can’t form words past the fury choking me.
I watch her hands work the dough with practiced precision, see the way her dress clings to her curves, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
I remember how she felt beneath me in my office, how she tasted, how she whispered my name like a prayer and a curse.
This is what Whitmore wants to destroy.
This woman, this feeling, this impossible love that’s become more real than anything I’ve ever known.
Marcus enters, his dark eyes immediately reading my tension.
His tattooed arms are crossed over his chest, and I watch his jaw clench as he takes in my white-knuckled grip on the counter.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is rough, protective, and I’m grateful for his presence even as I hate that I need it.
“Whitmore.” The name tastes like poison. “He made an offer to purchase St. Michael’s. Insultingly low. When I refused, he threatened to provide the diocese with information about us.”
Charlie’s face goes pale, flour-dusted hands stilling in the dough. Marcus’s expression darkens, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
I watch the muscle jump in his jaw, see the same violence I’m feeling reflected in his eyes.
Footsteps echo from the choir loft stairs, and Elijah appears, drawn by the raised voices.
His gaze moves between the three of us, reading the charged atmosphere with unnerving accuracy.
“What’s wrong?” His French accent thickens slightly.
I explain Whitmore’s threats, the purchase offer, the forty-eight-hour deadline.
With each word, the temperature in the kitchen drops.
We stand surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and fear, four people who’ve built something beautiful and fragile that’s now under direct attack.
Charlie moves closer to me, her hand almost touching my arm.
The proximity makes my skin burn despite the layers of fabric between us. I’m hyperaware of every detail: the pulse hammering in her throat, the way her teeth worry her bottom lip, the curve of her hip visible through her dress.
I want to pull her close, to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in until Whitmore’s threats fade to nothing.
But Marcus and Elijah are watching, and the kitchen suddenly feels too small for all of us and our shared desperation.
“He’s bluffing,” Marcus says, but his voice lacks conviction. “He doesn’t actually know anything.”
“Doesn’t he?” I meet his dark eyes. “Someone has been watching us. Someone has been documenting. The PI, the surveillance photos, now this. Whitmore is too confident for this to be a bluff.”
Elijah leans against the counter, his angel face troubled. “What do we do?”
“We don’t give him what he wants.” Charlie’s voice is steadier than mine. “We don’t let him win.”
I look at her, this woman who stole from my church and somehow became the center of my entire world.
Her hazel eyes are fierce with determination, and I’m struck again by how strong she is, how brave.
She’s not running, not hiding, not letting fear make her decisions.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making us all jump. I pull it out and see an email notification from an unknown address.
The subject line reads: Regarding Your Property.
My stomach drops as I open it.
The attachment loads slowly, revealing an architectural rendering that makes my blood run cold. It’s St. Michael’s, but not as it is now. The exterior facade remains, but everything else has been gutted and modernized.
Sleek glass, contemporary lighting, Victory Life’s logo prominently displayed where our cross should be.
Below the image, a single line.
This is happening. The only question is whether you profit from it or lose everything. You have 48 hours to reconsider. –DW