Page 62 of Unholy Obsession

AmI furious that Moira’s cornered me into this public spectacle of a night?

Yes.

Is it my own damn fault for the way I’ve handled things from the start and then doubling down on stupidity by feeding her some half-baked lie about a worship committee meeting to wiggle out of it?

Also yes.

I tried to justify it to myself, of course.Technically, it wasn’t really a lie. Theyhavebeen asking me to join those calls, nudging me to step in and lead. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The second I’m on the line, everyone suddenly defers to me, looking for guidance they’re perfectly capable of providing themselves. I’ve been trying to cultivate leadership from within and make them realize they don’t need me. Priests only stay in a parish for seven years or so. They should stand on their own, whether I’m presiding or not.

But when you peel away all the righteous justification, it was a bullshit excuse.

And Moira saw right through it.

So here I am, sitting in the back of an Uber, grinding my teeth as we circle the city blocks congested with traffic, all funneled toward the bright chaos of the famous yearly Christmas charity gala.

Even from here, I can see the flashes of paparazzi cameras strobing against the night like tiny, relentless explosions.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.

The driver glances in the mirror, brows lifted in silent question.

“This is fine. You can drop me here,” I say, already reaching for the door handle.

Moira only sent me the ticket half an hour ago, like an afterthought—or a challenge. But I’d already Googled the event, the venue, the date. Had to know what I was walking into.

I slide out of the car, the city’s evening air cool against my face, tinged with exhaust fumes, expensive perfume, and the faint buzz of anticipation that always hovers near events like this—where wealth, influence, power and beauty feel tangible in the glitter of each jewel and stitched into every designer seam.

I know it’s an illusion. But it’s such a compelling one that I’ve yet to meet a person who couldn’t be seduced, even if just a little, by its charms.

I glance into the car’s side mirror, adjusting the priest’s collar around my neck.

It’s the only disguise I could muster.

My hair’s longer than it used to be—a little shaggy, the edges flirting with unruly. I haven’t bothered with the razor today either, and stubble shadows my jaw. It’s all a far cry from the slick, carefully curated image I used to maintain. Back when I thought being polished made me untouchable. Back when Ibelieved I could control perception like I controlled everything else.

Tonight, I’m hoping the collar does most of the heavy lifting. It usually does.

People’s eyes slide right over it—or, more accurately, they glanceatit but notpastit. It makes them squirm, either out of reverence or discomfort, unsure whether to engage or retreat. Especially around here, where religion’s either woven into your bones or treated like an awkward relic from someone else’s attic.

It’s the perfect camouflage.

Nobody looks too closely at a man in a collar. They see what they want to see.

Which is exactly what I need tonight.

I start walking toward the entrance, the ticket tucked into my pocket like a dare, like Moira’s voice is still echoing in my head:Meet me tonight or we’re over.

So, of course, I’m here.

Because losing her isn’t an option.

But as I approach the building, it’s clear the red carpet’s a battlefield. Paparazzi are clustered like vultures, their flashing lenses hungry for scandal. I’d be an idiot to walk straight into that.

So, I circle the block, cutting through the shadows where the noise thins out. I follow the quiet hum of generators and the faint clatter of service carts.

Every event like this has a pulse beneath the glamor. A heartbeat of staff, security, and overworked coordinators trying to hold it all together with duct tape and desperation.

I find a side entrance tucked between dumpsters where a catering van is parked, half-hidden under a flickering security light. A woman with a headset and a clipboard stands there, snapping orders. Her stress is palpable as her eyes dart between the staff and her checklist.

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