Chapter 25 Marcus
MARCUS
Isabella Moretti kneels in the third pew from the front, exactly where I can’t avoid seeing her during morning Mass.
The black lace mantilla frames her face like something from a Renaissance painting, all classical beauty and practiced devotion.
Her hands are folded in prayer, diamond wedding ring conspicuously absent, replaced by a simple gold band on her right hand.
Everything about her presence screams calculated perfection.
I force my attention back to the liturgy, but I feel her eyes on me like a physical touch.
The weight of her gaze makes my skin crawl even as I maintain my professional demeanor, assisting Adrian at the altar with movements I’ve performed thousands of times.
My hands are steady as I prepare the communion vessels, but inside I’m screaming.
This is what they want to see, I remind myself.
The acceptable choice.
The age-appropriate woman with the right background, the right clothes, the right everything.
Isabella’s tailored navy dress whispers wealth without ostentation. Her heels are designer but understated.
Even her perfume is expensive but subtle, the kind that costs more per ounce than most parishioners spend on groceries in a week.
She’s everything the Bishop and Sister Margaret think a deacon should want. Everything I’m supposed to want.
Except I don’t. Dios, I don’t want her at all.
My eyes find Charlie in her usual spot near the back, and my chest tightens painfully.
She’s wearing a simple floral dress and that worn cardigan she always has, the one that’s slightly too big and makes her look younger than twenty-five.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and even from this distance I can see the dark circles under her eyes.
She hasn’t been sleeping.
Neither have I.
The forced distance between us is destroying me slowly, like dying of thirst while watching water just out of reach.
Adrian’s voice rises and falls through the familiar prayers, but I catch the strain beneath his careful control.
He’s watching Charlie too, though he’s better at hiding it than I am.
His gray eyes find her for just a moment during the homily, and I see the hunger flash across his face before he buries it behind priestly composure.
We’re all pretending. All performing for an audience that’s watching our every move, cataloging every glance, every gesture, and building a case against us or for us, depending on what they see.
After Mass, Isabella approaches me in the vestry with a covered dish in her hands. “Deacon Reyes, I hope you don’t mind. I made lasagna for you and the fathers. My grandmother’s recipe.” Her smile is warm, genuine, the same smile that used to make my heart race three years ago.
Now it just makes me tired.
“That’s very thoughtful, Mrs. Moretti.” I keep my voice professional, distant, but she steps closer anyway.
“Please, call me Isabella. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” Her hand finds my arm, fingers lingering on my bicep as she laughs at something I don’t remember saying.
She stands close enough that I can smell her perfume, see the fine lines around her eyes that weren’t there three years ago, and notice how her body angles toward mine with practiced ease.
She’s beautiful. I’m not blind.
The years have been kind to her, and she carries herself with the confidence of someone who’s always been told she’s stunning.
But when I look at her, all I feel is the ghost of what I almost became.
The man who was prepared to destroy his vows, his calling, his entire life for a fantasy that was never real.
“We should catch up properly,” Isabella continues, her voice dropping to something more intimate. “Maybe coffee? I’d love to hear what you’ve been doing all these years.”
Before I can deflect, Bishop Carmine appears in the doorway. His steel-gray eyes take in the scene with unnerving perception, but his expression is approving. “Mrs. Moretti, how wonderful to see you back at St. Michael’s. Your family has been missed.”
Isabella’s face lights up as she turns to greet the Bishop, and I use the moment to step back, putting necessary distance between us.
But the damage is done.
I catch Sister Margaret hovering in the hallway, her sharp blue eyes watching everything, and I know this interaction will be noted, analyzed, and reported.
This is what they want, I think again. The acceptable choice.
“Mrs. Moretti is exactly the kind of devout parishioner every parish needs,” the Bishop says to Adrian, who’s appeared beside me.
His voice carries approval, encouragement, the subtle suggestion that this is the kind of relationship the Church would bless.
Adrian’s jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, but his response is perfectly measured. “We’re blessed to have her back in our community.”
I want to scream and tell them Isabella isn’t what they think is, that what we had three years ago was born from her desperation and my savior complex, that I don’t want the acceptable choice.
I want the girl who steals from collection plates and stress-bakes at midnight and looks at me like I’m worth keeping despite all my failures.
But I can’t say any of that.
So I smile and nod and accept Isabella’s lasagna with appropriate gratitude while my heart bleeds out in my chest.
The food pantry needs organizing, and Isabella volunteers to help. Of course she does.
We work side by side, sorting donated cans and boxes, and she fills the silence with stories about her divorce, her new life, and her return to faith.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she reaches for a box, and I’m hyperaware of how this must look to anyone watching.
“I’ve missed this,” Isabella says softly, her dark eyes finding mine. “Missed you. Missed feeling like I was part of something meaningful.”
“Isabella,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“I know. I know we can’t go back. But maybe we could start fresh? As friends?” Her hand finds mine, squeezes gently. “I’m not the same woman I was three years ago, Marcus. And I don’t think you’re the same man either.”
She’s right about that, at least. I’m not the same man who almost left the priesthood for her.
That Marcus was running from something.
This Marcus knows exactly what he’s running toward.
The sound of footsteps makes us both turn.
Charlie stands in the doorway, keys in her hand, her face carefully blank.
But I see the hurt flash in her hazel eyes before she hides it, see the way her body goes rigid as she takes in the scene.
Isabella’s hand on mine. Our bodies close together in the small pantry. The easy familiarity between us that comes from shared history.
The contrast between them is stark and brutal. Isabella in her tailored dress and designer heels, every hair in place, the picture of sophisticated elegance.
Charlie in her simple dress and worn cardigan, flour still dusting her sleeve from this morning’s baking, looking young and uncertain and heartbreakingly beautiful.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Charlie says, her voice steady despite the pain written across her face. “I just need to return these.”
She sets the keys on the counter and turns to leave, and every instinct I have screams at me to go after her.
To pull her close and make her understand that Isabella means nothing, that she’s the one I want, that I’d choose her over the acceptable choice every single time.
But the Bishop is in the hallway. Sister Margaret is watching. And all I can do is maintain my distance while my heart screams in protest.
“Thank you, Miss Davis,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intend.
Charlie’s eyes meet mine for just a moment, and I see everything she’s feeling.
The hurt.
The doubt.
The fear that she’s just a distraction, that what we have isn’t real, that I’ll eventually choose Isabella because she’s the safer option, the one that won’t destroy my life.
You’re wrong, I want to tell her. You’re so wrong, querida. You’re not the distraction. You’re the whole point.
But I can’t say any of that. So I watch her leave, her shoulders rigid with the effort of holding herself together, and I feel something crack open in my chest.
Isabella’s hand is still on mine, and I pull away like I’ve been burned. She notices, her expression shifting to something calculating. “She’s very young,” Isabella says carefully. “Pretty, in that fresh-faced way. Is she a volunteer?”
“She’s working off a debt to the parish.” The words come out sharper than I intend.
“Ah.” Isabella’s tone suggests she understands more than I want her to. “Well, I’m sure Father Cross is keeping a close eye on her. Young women can be…impressionable. Especially around men in positions of authority.”
The implication makes my hands curl into fists at my sides. I force them to relax, force my voice to remain level. “Charlie is a valued member of our community. She’s been nothing but professional.”
“Of course.” Isabella’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
But she did. And we both know it.
I finish organizing the pantry in tense silence, hyperaware of Isabella’s presence beside me, of the way she keeps finding excuses to touch my arm, to stand close, to remind me of what we almost had.
When we’re finally done, I make an excuse about needing to prepare for evening Mass and escape to the sacristy.
Adrian and Elijah find me there later, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
I’m staring at the wall, seeing nothing, my mind replaying the hurt in Charlie’s eyes over and over.
“We saw,” Adrian says quietly, closing the door behind them. His gray eyes are dark with shared frustration. “Isabella’s campaign. Your discomfort. All of it.”
“I can’t do this,” I admit, my voice rough. “I can’t pretend she means something when all I want is—” I stop myself, but they know. They always know.
“Charlie left quickly,” Elijah adds, his gaze troubled. “Her eyes were red. She’s hurting, Marcus.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The words come out harsher than I intend. “You think I don’t see it? But what am I supposed to do? The Bishop is watching. Sister Margaret is taking notes. If I go to her now, if I show any sign that she’s more than just a volunteer, we’re done. All of us.”
Adrian’s expression darkens, but he nods slowly. “We have to endure this charade until the Bishop leaves. It’s the only way to protect her.”
“By hurting her?” I shake my head. “By making her think she doesn’t matter? That Isabella is the acceptable choice and she’s just…what? A mistake? A distraction?”
“She knows that’s not true,” Elijah says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Does she?” I meet his eyes. “Because from where I’m standing, we’re doing a damn good job of making her feel exactly that way.”
The silence that follows is heavy with guilt and frustration and the weight of impossible choices.
We’re trapped between protecting Charlie and destroying her, between maintaining appearances and being honest about what we feel.
I think about Isabella’s hand on mine, about the Bishop’s approving expression, about Sister Margaret’s calculating gaze. I think about Charlie’s hurt eyes and the way she held herself together even as I watched her break.
I’m trapped between my past and my present, between the woman I almost destroyed myself for and the woman who’s become my entire world.
Later, I retreat to my quarters, exhausted and heartsick.
I need space to think, to pray, to figure out how to survive this without losing everything that matters.
The small room feels suffocating as I pace, my mind spinning through scenarios that all end badly.
A knock on my door makes me freeze.
I open it to find Isabella standing in the hallway, her expression soft and hopeful. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just wanted to thank you properly for today. For being so kind, so welcoming.”
My stomach drops as I realize what this looks like. What it will look like if anyone sees her here, at my door, in the evening when the rectory is quiet.
“Isabella, this isn’t—” I start, but movement in the hallway catches my eye.
Charlie stands frozen at the end of the corridor, a basket of laundry in her hands.
She’s clearly just come from her apartment upstairs, probably heading to the basement to do laundry.
Her hazel eyes are wide as she takes in the scene. Isabella at my door.
The intimate hour.
The way Isabella’s body angles toward mine with familiar ease.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and I watch something die in her expression.