Page 69 of Unholy Obsession

I should draw this out. Make some joke about clergy job security or how even God wouldn’t fire me. But I can’t.

“Of course, I have a job.”

I say it fast, like I need to get the words to her before they lose their meaning.

She crosses the room in a rush, colliding with me. I catch her, my arms wrapping around her small frame automatically. She fits against me like she was made for it. Her face presses into my chest, her body trembling the second she makes contact.

It hits me harder than it should—her shaking.

“Thank god,” she breathes, the words a soft exhale against my shirt. “I’ve been so worried.”

“I can tell,” I murmur, my hands sliding up her back, massaging the tension from her shoulders. She’s all tight knots and frail bones beneath my fingers.

“Shhh,” I whisper into her hair, breathing her in like I need her scent more than oxygen. “I told you everything would be fine.”

But that’s a lie. I seem to be stacking them up lately.

It wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

I don’t tell her that.

I don’t tell her about the bishop’s voice, sharp and cold, slicing through the screen like it could cut me where I sat. I don’t tell her about the way my name—Father Blackwood—sounded like an accusation instead of a title on the bishop’s lips.

I went to the church office for the video meeting, although meeting seemed like the wrong word. It was more like aninterrogation. The bishop’s face glared back at me from the screen, framed by the sterile white walls of her office.

“Explain to me why you’re on the front page of theDallas Chronicle.” She folded her hands underneath her chin like she was ready to deliver a verdict even though I’d barely said a word.

I kept my face neutral, hands in my lap, but my jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it.

“With respect, Bishop, I don’t control the media.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp as a scalpel. “Don’t be flippant with me. This isn’t just media, Father. This is a scandal waiting to explode. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

I didn’t flinch. “It looks like a man caught in a photograph.”

“A man caught with Moira Callaghan,” she snapped, her voice rising. “A woman with a—how shall I put this delicately—colorful history. The press didn’t even bother with subtlety.” She waved a hand, mockingly quoting, “‘Billionaire Tech Tycoon’s Unstable Fiancé and Sex-Addict Sister Cause Chaos at Charity Gala.’”

I said nothing.

She leaned forward, her voice colder. “But I know who you are. And I know who she is. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m serious about her.” The words left me before I could temper them. “That’s what you asked when we last met, and I am. Serious.”

She froze for half a second, then laughed—a short, humorless bark. “Serious? Have you heard a thing I’ve said? Clergy have to be above even theappearanceof reproach, Father. It doesn’t matter how serious youthinkyou are. She’s a known sex addict. The papers have statements from treatment facilities she seduced her way out of. Not just one. Several.” She shook her head like she pitied me. “I’d hardly call you naïve, but are you sure you’re not being played?”

The words hit harder than I would’ve expected, anger sparking beneath my ribs. But I didn’t let it show. I did grip the arms of my chair until my knuckles went white, though. I had to anchor myself in restraint somehow.

“I am not being played.” It took all my strength not to belie the fury humming like a live wire right beneath my skin. Rule one was do not disrespect your bishop.

But the bishop just continued relentlessly. “She’s manipulative. That’s not judgment—that’s fact. She’s estranged from her billionaire brother, and now she’s latched onto you? Another man with wealth and status? Wake up, Father.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “End it. End it now.”

I swallowed every retort burning on my tongue. Every curse, every defense. Instead, I bowed my head slightly.

“Thank you for your counsel, Bishop. Merry Christmas Eve.”

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