THE PERFECT VOW

A Dark Psychological Thriller

The Perfect Series

FRANKLIN CHRISTOPHER

Unstereotypical Publishing

Synopsis

The Perfect Marriage. The Perfect Lie. The Perfect Vow.

Ever since childhood, my mother instilled in me that as a woman, I had to be perfect to even compete with the mediocrity of men. Never a hair out of place. Perfect makeup. Perfect smile. Perfect language. This obsession with flawlessness became my armor and my prison. But when you meet the perfect man, everything is heightened to the third degree.

When my business partners convinced me to bring that perfect man into our company—claiming his masculine presence would boost viewership and ratings—I reluctantly agreed. I instantly regretted it after discovering pink panties carefully hidden in his gym bag and a few days later while snooping in his office found a second laptop I wasn't aware of filled with love letters to another woman named Sandra Newman, where he chronicled our fertility struggles and reminisced about a life with her instead of me.

My carefully constructed world that I built with surgical precision began to fracture, revealing the rot beneath. Then weird things started happening. Orchids in glass vases of chocolate milk appeared at my doorstep. My parents tormented me about the child they lost decades ago on the anniversary of his death. And the man I thought I'd buried deep enough never to be found started appearing everywhere. He was in reflections, in shadows, even invading my dreams with whispers of vengeance. Someone was not just threatening to expose the secret I had spent decades burying, they were methodically dismantling the fragile façade of my sanity.

Now I wonder: will my marriage survive these betrayals and threats, or will the darkness I've kept at bay finally consume everything, including me?

Copyright © 2025 by Franklin Christopher

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

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1. Angelica: The Burial

2. Angelica: If God were a Woman

3. Sean: Electronic Priest

4. Sean: Leaked

5. Angelica: Viral

6. Angelica: When The Saints Go Marching In

7. Angelica: Jealousy

8. Sean: The Encounter

9. Angelica: The Announcement

10. Angelica: The Incident

11. Sean: Confrontation

12. Angelica: Mommy’s New Girl

13. Angelica: Deacon Clare

14. Angelica: Mommy and Daughter Time

15. Sean: Lake Carnegie

16. Sean: The Search

17. Angelica: Chocolate Milk

18. Angelica: Unraveling

19. Sean: Exposure

20. Sean: Brothers

21. Sean: Real Pastors of New Jersey

22. Angelica: The Therapy Session

23. Sean: Idols

24. Sean: Pills

25. Angelica: God’s Plan

26. Sean: Questions

27. Sean: Truth

28. Angelica: The _ Reveal

29. Angelica: The Pink Letter

30. Sean: The Past

31. Sean: Duality

32. Angelica: Divine Miracle

33. Sean: My Brother’s Keeper

34. Sean: Pink Panties

35. Carolyn: Orchids

The Husband’s Secret: Sneak Peak

The Reflection: Sneak Peak

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1

Angelica: The Burial

Grayish blue clouds peppered San Diego’s skyline, swelling like water balloons ready to burst. Within seconds, raindrops begin their aggressive assault on the limousine’s tinted windows. This was unusual weather for San Diego, but California needed the rain to avoid another drought.

I rolled down my window, entered the code into the keypad, and watched as Ever Hollow Cemetery’s silver gates parted before us, their metallic groan barely audible above the blossoming storm. Every October, we returned to my hometown to allow my parents to visit Andrew. Not to mourn him—he had to die–but to allow them to dispel any guilt they might cling to. They weren’t responsible, of course, but parents always blamed themselves. I, however, had to kill him. And I carry no guilt.

Guilt makes people irrational.

Guilt leaves clues.

Guilt tells secrets.

Guilt has a conscience, and I didn’t have time for it. I had goals to accomplish and couldn’t allow the sins of my past to rob me of the fantastic future I was building. I only visited San Diego once a year because there were too many terrible memories here. Memories that I wanted to bury with Andrew and never dig up again.

When the black-on-black limousine stopped, I took a deep breath and stepped out. The unexpected wind nipped at my perfectly made-up face as I used my umbrella to shield the rain and wind from destroying my hair. If I learned anything from my mother, it was never to leave the house without looking my absolute best. Not even Mother Nature would ruin my efforts.

I took another deep breath as I walked across the grass. My Prada boots left size ten footprints in the snow. Luckily, at 5’11, it didn’t look bad on me. As a tall woman, I often felt insecure about my big feet. That’s why it was imperative that my husband be 6’4, and Sean was.

I laid pink orchids—Andrew’s favorite—at the base of his headstone and watched as the pink petals decorated the dark marble. Tears trickled down my cheeks like condensation on a cold Coke on a warm summer day. The engraving stared back at me, accusatory in its simplicity:

Andrew Michael Webster, 1991-2003, Our Beloved Son. I don’t know if he was beloved. Maybe tolerated would be a better word. My parents kneeled beside me, their joints creaking like wooden steps in a 19th-century mansion. After twenty-four years, the groundskeeper, Jim, still kept this plot immaculate, perhaps sensing the weight of secrets buried beneath the manicured grass.

As I kneeled next to my parents, my mother, Carolyn, turned to me and asked the same question she asked every year. I knew it was coming but avoided it at all costs. It was the only time I allowed her to feel motherly for Andrew.

“Do you regret killing him, Angelica?” My mother’s voice carried the same ambiance it carried every October 31st. She always lowered her volume so that only she and my father could hear. It wasn’t exactly crowded in the cemetery. Her diamond necklace, which I bought, sparkled alongside her dark skin.

Her face was a complete disaster from the streams of tears that fell like raindrops from her eyes. I wanted to roll my eyes and tell her to get up and wipe her face. She never allowed me to cry. Carolyn said crying was for the weak, yet she contradicted her statement. She was so dramatic. She acted like he’d just died a few days ago. It’s been 20 freaking years. I wanted to tell them to get over it, but I didn’t. Today was about them.

I returned her gaze, my face serious and stern. As the wind and icy rain sent chills up my toned, caramel legs, I looked my mother dead in the eye without an ounce of guilt.

“No, Mom. He had to die. The pain he caused me was too much to bear, and death was the only way to free me from his debilitating clutches.”

My father’s breathing became erratic. He took out his inhaler and pressed a few pumps to get it under control. His lean frame shook beneath his cashmere coat as he pushed himself to his feet. His eyes were bloodshot with decades of grief. He placed his hand on the tombstone. Then he took his finger and circled Andrew’s name with it. He then pulled a baseball out of his coat pocket and placed it by the grave site. He took a Susan B Anthony silver dollar and pushed it into the dirt. One single tear fell from his eye. 

He turned away, my mother trailing behind him. I worried about him more than her—in all these years, he’d never uttered a word about Andrew, just silently followed us here each time. I watched as he walked away, his heels sinking slightly into the soft dirt, leaving footprints in the grass. Once they were out of view. I opened my purse, pulled out a bottle of chocolate milk, and put one of the orchids inside the bottle. “I’m not sorry I killed you. The only way I could truly live is if you died.” I sat up, dusted off my skirt, and returned to the limousine.

I watched them retreat down the winding path, past so many graves. Some headstones were for babies who had only lived a few days, and others were for individuals who had lived upwards of one hundred years. I hoped I had seventy-plus years left on this earth because there were so many things I still wanted to do. The two most pressing were to hire a new assistant pastor and to become a mom. The first one would be easy to accomplish once I found the right candidate, but having children proved impossible for me, even with today’s medical advancements.

As we continued walking away from Andrew’s grave site, I saw a tall, handsome man crying alone. The headstone before him said Kayla Witherspoon. I wondered what his story was. Why had his daughter died the same day she was born, and where was the mother? Why was this man here alone bearing this burden by himself?

I always felt like the wrong people became parents and took their children for granted, while the ones that would truly appreciate children never got blessed with them. I knew why I was here without Sean, but why was he here without his wife or partner? At that moment, I wondered if it was better to have loved and lost or not to have loved at all.

 I put myself in this man’s shoes. Was it better to have a child and lose them, or not have a child at all? I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I couldn’t afford to think like this. I said a small prayer for the man and continued our walk. My thoughts turned to my father, Clark. I noticed that this annual pilgrimage was becoming harder for him, but he came.

He’d lost his only son. His dreams of playing catch in the backyard and teaching his son to tie a tie were dead. I’d robbed him of father-son marathons, graduation days, wedding toasts, and grandchildren with Andrew’s eyes. They worked hard not to let the guilt of theft plague me because even though I wanted to, I hadn’t given him a biological grandchild.

 But Andrew and I couldn’t both exist in this world. It was a complex equation with a simple solution. Andrew was troubled, and he had to die. My survival meant his death, and I chose to survive. I decided to thrive. And my parents—God help them—chose me too, and for that, I was grateful. I was their perfect daughter and a chance at a normal family. They would do whatever it took to ensure I got everything I wanted, even if that meant uprooting their lives, burying their secrets, and destroying half of their own hearts.

 Standing there, I could almost see him as he was that last night he was alive. Twelve years old, all awkward limbs with a smile that appeared authentic to everyone else but that I knew was fake. He wore that ratty Marilyn Manson t-shirt he loved the night it happened. Maybe he would have understood, on some level, that the world would have been unkind to him for something he couldn’t control. Perhaps he would have understood that I was doing what our parents were too afraid to do—ending the whispers, the sideways glances, the growing rumors that threatened to shatter our family’s carefully maintained façade.

The medication was easy enough to get. I think that’s why mom blamed herself. I just walked into my mother’s bathroom while she was at her weekly book club meeting and grabbed a handful of her sleeping pills—a lethal cocktail served in his favorite chocolate milk. I watched him drink the chocolate milk and fall asleep not long after. Andrew never woke up. I simply said,

“It’s better this way. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. It was necessary.

I had a love-hate relationship with Andrew. While I missed the sound of his laugh and the way he’d leave silly drawings in my textbooks, I hated how he made me feel. He made me feel guilty. He brought me so much pain. I hated the stigma that followed him. Our society didn’t accept people like him. I didn’t regret my decision. The world was a simpler and better place with him six feet under. Our family survived. Our reputation remained intact. The whispers died before they could become shouts.

I removed my umbrella and let the rain fall on my face. Whenever it rained, I wondered if the sky was crying, if God was crying at the loss of Andrew. Did God hate me for what I had done? I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I had made the right decision, and even if I hadn't, there was nothing I could do now. Soon, the cemetery gates would close, and another year would pass before we made this pilgrimage again. I touched the cold metal of the gates one last time and then turned to join my parents in the limousine.

“Sleep well, Andrew,” I whispered, though I knew he hadn’t slept well since that night over twenty years ago. None of us had.

As I walked away, the rain fell in earnest, my heels clicking against the wet pavement like a metronome, counting down the moments until next year’s pilgrimage. Ahead, I could see my parents waiting by the car, two black shadows against the gray horizon, still bound by love and guilt and the weight of choices we couldn’t unmake.

The world might have been better without Andrew, but it would never be the same. Some nights, I still heard him in the creaking floorboards of my home, smelled phantom chocolate milk on my hands, and saw his last understanding smile in my dreams. I had made my choice. I would live with it.

Twenty-four years later, I still couldn’t stand the taste of chocolate milk. Not because I felt guilty—I didn’t do guilt. Some wounds aren’t meant to heal—they’re meant to remind us of the price we paid to survive when predators came hunting. I stared at Andrew's headstone. Until next October, Andrew. Until next October.

2

Angelica: If God were a Woman

I tapped my freshly painted French manicure against my mahogany desk. I rehearsed within the comfort of my mind why I had no intention of choosing any of these candidates for the assistant pastor position.

Clare, my assistant, barged into my office and placed applications for the assistant pastor position on my desk, lining up the cream-colored manila folders with military precision. I didn’t acknowledge her presence because I was still rehearsing how to shoot down all these candidates in front of the board.

All I could think about was how this situation would have been handled differently if I were a man. First, I wouldn’t have been demoted from my position in my church. Second, I wouldn’t have to prove myself to a congregation I built. I had sacrificed my time, sweat, money, and energy to build a church from nothing. My church wasn’t handed to me like some of these other televangelists. Plenty of them inherited millions of viewers because their daddies died or retired, leaving them a flourishing ministry. I worked three times as hard as my male colleagues.

I hated church politics. This is how I knew God wasn’t a woman. A woman would have seen through Satan’s jealousy eons ago and eradicated him without ceremony. But I guess God likes the drama. I only mention this because I sense Satan’s presence again, slithering back into my life just when I am finally returning everything to order.

I was so angry; I took off my high-heeled stiletto and threw it at the wall across from me. It was a move I’d seen my mother do many times when she was mad, and she never, and I mean never, missed her target. I wasn’t as good as her, but there was a noticeable dent in the drywall that I would now have to have repaired.

Clare jumped when the shoe hit the wall, but she knew better than to say anything. She looked at my shoe on the floor, immediately went to pick it up, and placed it on my desk.

“Why would you put a dirty shoe that has been all over the floor on my clean desk?” I swiped it off the desk and let it fall to the floor.

“My apologies. I was just trying to help.”

“We don’t try at Unconditionally Love Ministries; we just do.” I took out a hand sanitizing wipe and wiped off the part of my desk that the shoe was on.

“You’re right; I’m sorry.”

 “What do you want, Clare?” She stepped a few feet closer and spoke barely above a whisper.

 “Don’t forget, the meeting with the deacons will take place in the next ten minutes,” she said, her voice carrying that hint of manufactured sweetness that set my teeth on edge. Bitch, I know my job, and I don’t need you to tell me. I knew pastors shouldn’t curse, but I only cursed her out in my mind, so technically, I didn’t, and I was going to ask for forgiveness, so it was fine.

 I pulled my glasses down my nose and looked her up and down. “Let’s try this again. Leave my office, and let’s try knocking this time.”

 “I’m so sorry, Angelica.”

“Pastor Angelica,” I corrected.

“I’m so sorry, Pastor Angelica,” Clare’s shoes squeaked as she left my office, closing the door behind herself.

I took a deep breath and laid my head on the desk, my designer reading glasses pressed uncomfortably against my temple. The fireplace crackled, keeping my office nice and toasty as I sipped my morning coffee. I stood up and examined myself in my floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I was determined to look my best.

My assistant began knocking again, and my lips curved into an annoyed frown. I was pissed. I shouldn’t have been because Clare was an excellent assistant. She took seminary courses part-time and aspired to become a deacon and minister. Clare was the only child of a single mother and reminded me of myself in many ways. She wore a perfectly pressed pencil skirt and blazer, and her natural hair was immaculately styled. I always knew when she was near because her stilettos clicked purposefully across our marble floors.

She arrived early, completed her work ahead of schedule, and my coffee order was perfect every time. It was one pump of vanilla, oat milk, and extra hot. She was of mixed ethnicity—a perfect mix of black and white. If Sean and I had a daughter, she would’ve looked like this. She was a threat because she looked better than I did, although I’d never admit it verbally or act as if she did. But my designer clothes, makeup, and toned physique leveled the playing field.

My gut told me not to trust her because I hadn’t hired her. The last senior pastor did, and I only suspected he had because he wanted some eye candy to look at while he was at the office. I’d caught him staring at me one too many times when he thought I wasn’t watching, his eyes lingering a second too long on my sister girl curves. She was lucky she was good at her job since she hadn’t come with many skills or qualifications.

Technically, I could have fired her, but that wouldn’t have been the Christian thing to do, and I didn’t need a lawsuit or any more drama on my plate. I decided to deal with her for now, but I watched her like a hawk watching its prey and made sure to nitpick at the most minute details to keep her on top of her game.

The last few years had been brutal for Sean and me. Not only was I demoted from the church I founded, but I was also dealing with that while struggling with fertility issues. The countless doctor’s appointments, the failed IVF attempts, and the sympathetic looks from well-meaning church members wore on me like Jesus’s cross.

The memory of the scandal with Pastor Donald Matthews burned fresh in my mind. It was like a wound that refused to heal completely. Every time it tried to heal, I would pick at the scab, and it would delay the progress. He was the man who charmed our deacon board with his Ivy League credentials, beautifully built body, pearly white crest smile, and promises of innovation. The smooth-talking snake stole my church from me. He was skilled at manipulation; I’ll give him that. His perfectly tailored suits and megawatt smile had hidden a heart filled with evil and personal greed.

Within twenty-four months, he had convinced the board to invest our building fund in risky options investments, redirected our missionary funds to his offshore bank account under the guise of a youth scholarship program that never materialized, and somehow made me look like I was the obstacle to our church’s progress.

The memory of being called into that board meeting still made my hands shake. I could still smell the leather chairs and feel the weight of their judgment as they said, “Sister Angelica,” as if I hadn’t founded and led this church to over 5,000 members, as if I hadn’t poured my blood, sweat, and tears into every brick of this building. “Perhaps it’s time to step back into a supporting role.” So, I did what any woman would do. I stepped into a supporting role like we, as women, often do, but I refused to stay stagnant. I started digging into our finances. I looked at every transaction, and every receipt, and what I found was heartbreaking and shocking.

Three months later, the SEC investigation began. By then, Matthews had stolen over two million dollars of our hard-earned money, leaving behind a trail of bounced checks, broken trust, and a tarnished reputation. He denied everything, but the evidence was damning.

It took me three years to rebuild our finances and our reputation. Three years of twelve-hour days, personal loans, and swallowing my pride as I served as interim pastor. It took three years of charity galas and dinner parties to woo the wealthy members of our congregation back to Unconditional Love Ministries.

Sean and I rebuilt this church from a negative bank balance and brought it back to a positive. I remembered him coming to help me after finishing his duties at Pennington University, his professor’s blazer exchanged for work clothes as he helped me salvage what we could. His office at Pennington, where he taught Hebrew and Religious Studies, was just a few blocks away, near Palmer Square, where the old-money Princeton residents shopped at boutiques and sipped nine-dollar lattes. We lived in the historic district, in a contemporary Victorian home with twelve-foot ceilings and original hardwood floors that cost too much to heat but looked exactly like what people expected from a successful pastor and professor power couple.

Things were just now falling into place, but as I stared at these applications on my desk, I immediately wanted to vomit. The mere thought of choosing someone from this stack made my stomach churn with anxiety. I stuffed the applications in the drawer, and my mood immediately improved.

I had no desire to have an assistant pastor because assistant pastors inevitably wanted to be senior pastors or co-pastors. Frankly, I didn’t want to share the pulpit with another man who thought he could do this job better than me despite being less qualified. They were all less qualified. I’d considered hiring a woman, but the deacon board would never allow two women to lead a church, though they wouldn’t bat an eye if it were two men. The hypocrisy of it all made my blood boil.

To temporarily distract myself, I turned my attention to the beautiful fall day outside my window. From my corner office on the second floor, I could see black, white, and yellow warblers migrating south for the winter. I smiled as their pretty wings caught the morning sunlight. Multi-colored leaves fell from trees and swirled in the wind before settling on the almost frozen ground. Fall was my favorite time of year. It was symbolic; it meant a metamorphosis was on the way, and I needed my life to mirror the weather. I needed a change, something new. I needed the lord to do a new thing. This would be my sermon: Lord, do a new thing in our lives. I took a cherry cough drop from my purse and let it slowly dissolve on my tongue. I liked to suck on them because they tasted like candy, and people always left me alone when they thought I might be coming down with something. I looked at the clock, and immediately, I was pulled from my pleasant thoughts and returned to reality.

Taking a deep breath and forcefully exhaling, I pulled the first application from the drawer. Timothy Simmons’s application’s sleek graphic design and carefully chosen fonts screamed new-age ministry. His current congregation, a small but growing youth ministry in New Hope, Pennsylvania, had made waves for its inclusive message. The photos on their website showed pride flags alongside crosses. Tim himself was charismatic, with perfectly styled silver hair and designer glasses that probably cost more than some people’s monthly tithe. His sermons went viral on TikTok, Facebook, and YouTube, and his recent book about reconciling faith and sexuality climbed the Amazon rankings.

“He’s exactly what we need,” Deacon Williams had insisted yesterday, his Brooks Brothers suit rustling as he leaned forward earnestly. “Princeton’s changing. Look at the new businesses moving in. We need to position ourselves for the future.” The future, I’d heard that before. I’d watched other historic churches chase relevance right into bankruptcy and irrelevancy. He was a hard no because the last thing I needed was a member of the LGBTQ community in my pulpit. We welcomed their money and families and loved them unconditionally, but we wouldn’t put them on display. Besides, the thought of a gay man running a church was absolutely absurd. It was the antithesis of God’s word. I balled up his application and threw it in the trash can without giving it another thought. I was all for the gays but keep your business to yourself. We don’t need to know what you do behind closed doors.

Dr. Raquel Washington’s resume came next. She graduated from Harverton Divinity School with a PhD in Theological Ethics. There, she spent three years as an associate pastor at a mega-church in Atlanta. Her recommendation letters praised her organizational skills and vision for urban ministry. I looked her up on YouTube, my fingers tapping impatiently on the desk as the video loaded. Her interview outfit probably cost more than my first car, and when she spoke about her five-year growth plan, I nearly fell asleep from boredom. She wanted to be me.

The only thing she had that I didn’t have was a degree from Harverton. I decided on Yalington because Haverton put me on a waiting list, and I refused to be someone’s second choice. She was an absolute no because I would not compete with an attractive, well-educated, boring black woman. I needed to be and would always be the HBBIC–Head Black Bitch in Charge. I turned on the shredder and fed her application into it, watching with satisfaction as her perfectly crafted resume turned to confetti.

The third candidate, Peter Hernandez, looked perfect on paper. He had twenty years of experience as an associate pastor in medium-sized churches, with no controversy or ambitious plans for change. His sermons were solid yet uninspiring, his theology safely in the middle of the road. He was also, I suspected, planning to retire within five years, which meant I wouldn’t have to do this again until then. He was my top choice because he wouldn’t make waves, wouldn’t challenge me, and would allow me to do what I wanted. Most importantly, I could control him.

“Pastor Angelica?” Clare’s voice crackled through the intercom, interrupting my thoughts. “The board members are waiting in the conference room for you.” I rolled my eyes, gathered my folder with the applications, and stood, smoothing my burgundy and gold skirt. I checked my reflection in my mirrors–not a hair out of place in my shoulder-length bob, and my makeup was still perfect despite the morning’s stress. I headed into the conference room.

When I arrived, six deacons sat around the mahogany conference table, their expressions ranging from expectant to anxious. I took my seat at the head of the table. “I’ve chosen Peter Hernandez,” I announced, expecting no pushback. “He’s traditional, stable, has no scandals, and will attract the Hispanic and Caucasian community. It’s the demographic we’re currently lacking. His wife is Caucasian, and his children are biracial.” I laid out his application like an award-winning poker player with an unbeatable hand.

“We were hoping you would go with Tim,” Deacon Roberts said, his bow tie slightly askew. “His inclusive message is inspiring and corresponds well with Unconditional Love Ministries’ message of love.”

“I thought you might say that, so I had a private investigator look into him.” I passed around several sheets of paper to the deacons. I observed their faces. “I found out that he had a few sexual harassment lawsuits that were settled out of court. I simply want to avoid a recurrence of the previous incident, where the last person you elected embezzled two million dollars from the church, funds which remain largely unrecovered. That should have been enough to get all of you fired and replaced, but I am a forgiving woman, so I decided to give you all another chance. Peter is my choice. All who are voting for Peter say ‘aye.’”

All the deacons said, ‘aye’, except Priscilla, her perfectly manicured nails gleamed under the fluorescent lights. “It looks like I didn’t need your vote after all,” I said, my voice sweet but my eyes hard as nails. “This meeting is adjourned. Clare, could you type up an offer letter for Peter and send it to my email by tonight? And Priscilla, can you stay after for just a minute? I would like to have a conversation with you.”

“Consider it done, Pastor,” Clare said.

“Thank you and close the door behind you.” Priscilla turned around on her heels and took a seat, her mediocre suit rustling softly against her flabby arms and rotund stomach. She disgusted me and needed to cut back on the doughnuts and fried foods. She was turning into a tub of lard. Once the door was closed, I looked at her, my gaze unwavering. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“And why is that?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“There are two reasons,” I said. I stood and circled the table slowly, like a wild animal circling her prey. “The first one is that as a woman and a woman of color, I would expect you to have my back in situations where a vote is concerned. Even our Bible says a house divided against itself will fall.”

“It’s not personal; I just didn’t agree with your candidate,” she replied, but I could see the tension in her shoulders.

“I disagree with your caloric intake, but I wouldn’t take food from your plate to prevent you from eating. No, I let your fat ass eat whatever you want because it’s your body. I expect you not to take my church and livelihood from under me.”

“It’s not your church. It is the Lord’s church. This is the Lord’s money.”

I leaned in close, my voice dropping to a whisper. “But was it the Lord’s money when your ex-brother-in-law stole two million from our church, and you didn’t disclose that information to the deacon board? Was it the Lord’s church when you chose not to disclose that Tim, the guy you want to be pastor, is bisexual and is saying he’s gay just to capitalize off the LGBTQ agenda? Was it personal that you forgot to mention that he is also your cousin?”

“My brother-in-law didn’t steal that money. He denied it. How are you finding this information out?” The color drained from her face, leaving her mocha skin pale.

“I found out because you are sloppy, and my private investigator is incredible at what he does.” I moved behind her chair, my hands resting on her shoulders. “So, this is how this is going to work. Going forward, you will vote in favor of everything I propose and sway the committee to all my initiatives, or your little secret will come to light. And I know a hungry woman like you wouldn’t enjoy spending the next ten to fifteen years of her life in prison where bread and water will be your only source of nourishment, so do you understand what you need to do going forward?” I whispered in her ear as I pulled her long dark locks so hard it caused her neck to flick backward.

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“Yes, what?”

 “Yes, Pastor Angelica.”

“Perfect. Now grab your things and have a great day.” I stood there with my arms folded, watching as she gathered her belongings with trembling hands. Her face wore an expression of disgust mixed with fear, and I knew that this was just the beginning of our little cat-and-mouse game. She slammed the door on her way out, the sound echoing through the empty conference room. I knew I’d have to get rid of her, but I’d have to do it strategically and intelligently.

The great irony was that we called ourselves Unconditional Love Ministries. The name had come to me years ago when I was just starting out. Back then, it had seemed simple: love everyone, no conditions attached. But love, I’d learned, comes with responsibility. Sometimes, love means protecting what you’ve built. Sometimes, it means saying no to predators who only aim to destroy you, and sometimes, it means becoming the bully, so you won’t be bullied again.

 If people only knew the things I did to get here, they wouldn’t try me—a decade of weddings, baptisms, graduations, celebrations, and murder. We spent over a decade building something significant. I grabbed my purse, opened my pill bottle, and took a few pills before I headed home to play the perfect wife. This was my church, my ministry, my vision, and no one was going to get in my way, and I meant no one.

3

Sean: Electronic Priest

The stillness of our modern Victorian home was so quiet I could hear the crackling of the fire I prepared. Angelica loved fireplaces. It was one of the reasons we loved this home because there were three. The flames were my only companion, consuming everything I fed them, cleansing through destruction. Sometimes, I wished there was a child in this house to distract myself from the regret that permeated my mind, but perhaps the silence was my penance.

Angelica and I have spent years and tens of thousands of dollars trying to conceive, primarily for all the wrong reasons. Angelica’s primary motive seems to be to complete our picture-perfect life, but perhaps that was my bitterness talking.

I have been relying mostly on the hope that my love for the baby would replace the love I have given up. I removed my laptop, took off my wedding ring, and extracted my thoughts from my brain onto the blinking cursor. It was the only way to free myself from the guilt that haunted me from my past. I watched as my darkest thoughts burned into digital existence, like confessions to an electronic priest.

Dear Sandra Newman,

I miss your beautiful smile and how your caramel skin gently touched mine. I apologize for ending things the way I did, but I was scared. I was afraid. I was a coward who took the easy way out. Please know that I still love you and that no one could replace the love you and I have — it’s forever.

Love,

Sean

The alarm clock on my cellphone beeped, and I quickly put away my laptop and put back on my wedding ring. Angelica would be home, and the last thing I needed was for her to read my electronic journal. I knew writing out my feelings could be problematic if found, but there was no one I could speak to about the guilt that had been plaguing me for the last 20-plus years. I stood up from my desk, its surface scattered with half-graded papers from my Pennington theology students, their margin notes bled red into the cream-colored pages. I walked out of my office, being sure to lock the door behind me. This was a habit I’d developed after finding one of Angelica’s deacons wandering our house uninvited last spring during one of our dinner parties. 

The moment I stepped outside my office, I heard the garage door rise, and a few minutes later, I heard the rhythm of her heels on our hardwood floors. But something was off with my wife. She wasn’t her usual chipper self, and I could tell just by the way her heels collided against the floor. Her usual stride was typically soft, almost angelic, but this stride was hard and angry. It carried a hostility that made me nervous. She was always a little uneasy when she returned from her pastor’s conference in San Diego every last weekend of October. That, coupled with her weekly meeting with the deacon board, probably pushed her over the edge. I never desired to attend the pastor’s conference because there was nothing but pain in San Diego. Besides, what married man doesn’t want a weekend alone now and then to indulge and relax?

 As I hurried down the stairs to find out what was wrong, I saw her racing up our curved staircase. Her caramel skin was ashen beneath her makeup. She raised her hand, signaling she didn’t want to talk, and covered her mouth with her remaining hand. The diamond tennis bracelet I’d given her for our last anniversary caught the light as she ran toward our master bathroom and slammed the door. The next thing I heard was her emptying her stomach into the toilet, the sound echoing off the marble tiles.

My heart leaped into my throat. Could it be? After ten years of marriage and countless prayers whispered into tear-stained pillows, could this be morning sickness? I followed her to the bathroom door and leaned my ear against it, the stainless steel was cool against my cheek.

“Angel?” I called softly, using the nickname I saved for our private moments when she didn’t have to be Pastor Angelica when she could just be my wife. “Can I come in?”

A desperate moan escaped her lips. “Yes,” she replied, her voice weak and trembling.

I pushed open the door. Our master bathroom, with its waterfall shower heads and sleek marble vanity finishings that Angelica had spent months selecting, usually felt luxurious and spacious.

But now it seemed crowded and suffocating, because the air was thick with the smell of sickness.

I knelt beside Angelica, who was hunched over the toilet in her tailored navy blue skirt suit. Her pearl necklace hung so low it nearly touched the water. I gently pulled her dark hair back from her face and removed her necklace. I placed it carefully in my blazer pocket before slowly rubbing her back. Her body trembled beneath my touch.

“I think...” she started, but another wave of nausea cut her off, causing her to explode in the toilet. I continued rubbing her back in slow, circular motions, noting with growing concern that her silk blouse was damp with sweat.

“It’s okay; just let it all out.” My mind raced with possibilities. Could she be five weeks along? Eight? Should I call Dr. Templeton now or wait until we are sure? When the nausea finally subsided, Angelica slumped against me. I pressed my lips to her forehead and froze. She was burning up.

“You’re running a fever, sweetheart.” I reached past her to grab a washcloth from the brass rack, wetting it with cool water from the marble sink. She tried to stand but swayed dangerously, her usual grace abandoned. “I have to prepare for Sunday’s sermon,” she mumbled, her voice rough like sandpaper. “The deacons are expecting me to deliver the word.”

“The deacons can wait.” I scooped her into my arms, remembering. When I carried her up the steps for the first time in this house, she had demanded that I carry her in her wedding dress, and we laughed when I tripped over it and almost fell. Now, her head lolled against my shoulder, her breath hot and uneven against my neck. I carried her into our bedroom. I set her down gently on our dark blue Egyptian cotton comforter, “Lift your arm,” I instructed. She complied reluctantly as I helped her out of her suit jacket and silk blouse. Her skin burned against my fingers as I unfastened her skirt and eased it over her hips. In her lace underwear, she looked vulnerable in a way few people ever saw. She was not the confident Pastor Angelica who commanded attention from the pulpit, but my Angel, who still woke up crying sometimes from nightmares she refused to speak of.

I retrieved her favorite Betty Boop pajamas from our dresser drawer. I gave them to her as a random “I love you” gift when she’d mentioned they were cute while watching the home shopping network. I placed my hand on her stomach. “Do you think we could be pregnant?”

“First of all, we will never be pregnant. I will be pregnant. I will be the one lugging around 25-35 pounds of extra weight. And for the record, all sickness isn’t morning sickness. It’s already enough dealing with fertility issues, but you make it worse by touching my stomach every few days. It’s extremely triggering, Sean.”

“I’m sorry. I was just a little excited. I won’t ask again.” As I helped her into her pajamas, she grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong despite her weakness.

“I’m sorry. You did nothing wrong. I just had a bad day with the deacons.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You could preach this Sunday.” Her brown eyes were intense. “And probably next Sunday, too.”

My stomach dropped like an elevator, racing to its doom. Speaking in churches had never been something I’d aspired to do. That’s why I’d gotten a PhD at a Divinity school and not a master’s in divinity. I preferred teaching in front of students, where I was always the one who knew more and had all the answers. But no matter how knowledgeable you were in church, there was always some Bible-thumping person who claimed to know more than I did but couldn’t tell Matthew from Paul. The thought of standing before her congregation, all those expectant faces turned toward me, made my palms sweat.

 “Angel, I don’t know⁠—”

“Please.” She coughed, the sound rattling deep in her chest. “The deacons are already pushing for an assistant pastor. If you don’t preach for me, that wench Priscilla will be vying to get one of her candidates in as a guest pastor to make a case for why we shouldn’t go with my pick.” Was I going to do this? I knew how ambivalent the deacon board was toward her. The memory of that corrupt pastor still haunted our home like an unwelcome ghost.

I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my fingers through her damp hair, feeling the heat radiating from her scalp. “Okay, I’ll do it. But you must promise to rest. No sneaking into your office, no Zoom calls with any committees. I mean it. I’m demanding you to rest.” A wide smile brightened her fever-flushed face.

“Deal.” Her eyes closed as I pulled the mink blankets over her body. I glanced at my watch. It was almost 8:00 p.m. on Saturday. “Sleep,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll figure something out.” But to my surprise, she was already unconscious, her breathing heavy and labored.

 I waited until her breathing evened out before retreating to my library down the hall. The thousands of books on my bookshelves and leather-bound volumes of biblical literature had always been my sanctuary. Now, my sanctuary felt like my cramped childhood bedroom. I had less than twenty-four hours to prepare a sermon and to let her congregation of 5,000 know that Angelica wouldn’t be delivering the word on Sunday. I prayed I could deliver something as charismatic and inspiring as Angelica.

I dropped into my leather chair and allowed my body permission to sink into it. The leather creaked softly against my muscular body. Grading papers would have to wait because my wife needed me. I pulled my well-worn Bible out of my desk drawer, opened my space gray MacBook laptop, and typed Sermon 126 at the top. The cursor blinked accusingly at me like a judging eye.

Through the open door, I could hear Angelica coughing in her sleep. The sound echoed off our historic home's high ceilings, reminding me why I was doing this. I thought about the way she’d looked in that bathroom. She was so vulnerable, human, mortal. Very different from the influential figure she presented to the world. My eyes drifted to the family photo on my desk–our wedding day, both laughing on the church steps, her white dress catching the summer breeze. She’d built that congregation from nothing, nurturing it through countless trials. It was my turn to support her dream, even if it meant facing my biggest fear.

I flexed my fingers over the keyboard and typed: “In the Book of Ruth, we find a story about loyalty in the face of uncertainty...” The words came slowly at first, then faster as I lost myself in the rhythm of writing. I told myself this wasn’t so different from preparing for a lecture. It's just a different kind of story to tell. This would be a story that uplifted and encouraged rather than educated and pontificated.

I straightened my shoulders and typed through the night. I emailed her assistant Clare and sent her a Teams message: “Please email the church email list informing them I will deliver the Word this Sunday because Angelica is ill, and once the email is sent, then email the deacons informing them of the change.”

“I was instructed that the deacons or the pastor themselves must approve all emails,” Clare replied. 

“Most of the deacons are in bed, and I don’t want to worry them, and Angelica is sick. I can tell her you refused an order, but I am sure that won’t go over well.”

“No need. I will make an exception.”

“Thank you. I am forwarding the message now.”

Five minutes later, I got a response. “Email has been sent.”

“I corrected a few of your grammatical errors and passed on the email, LOL.”

 “I don’t make grammatical errors,” I typed back, my professor’s pride slightly wounded.

 “Calm down, Sean. I am just giving you a hard time. Tell your wife to stay sick because I don’t want to see her in this office.”

“I’m going to show her this message.”

 “No, you won’t. You know better.”

 “Goodnight, Clare.”

“Good night, Superman Sean.” I deleted our messages and then closed my laptop.

4

Sean: Leaked

I watched from my car as the sun crawled from the darkness like a wounded animal attempting to escape its predator. The weak light barely cleared the horizon, spilling across Unconditional Love Ministries with a sickly glow that matched the unease I felt welling in my stomach. This sunrise directly reflected what I wanted to do: escape from my promise to my wife. I felt like a fish out of water. While I knew the material, this wasn’t the environment where I wanted to deliver it. There was just too much judgment.

I arrived at the church two hours early, desperate for the sanctuary’s familiar quiet to settle my nerves and review my sermon notes. I stepped out of my car and headed to the church. I had prayed for peace, but instead of peace, I found a line already snaking down Dickerson Street.

The autumn air was festive with hushed conversations, and the rich scent of coffee with Chris’s signature brew wafted from across the street. It was a new coffee spot specializing in high-end coffees and hot chocolates. They ran $10.00 for an 8-oz cup. Just as I was about to stop by and grab my morning brew, I heard my name being called, and I knew by the high-pitched and annoying voice exactly who was vying for my attention.

“Good morning, Dr. Myers!” The voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. Deacon Priscilla Preston broke away from the line. She touched my arm, the contact sending an uncomfortable jolt through me. I tried to step back, aware of the phone cameras clicking. Angelica’s voice echoed in my head. She had given me countless warnings about this woman, and I was instructed to stay away from her at all costs.

Priscilla leaned close, resting her head on my arm with a familiarity that made my skin crawl. I immediately pushed her away, gentle but firm, my eyes scanning the crowd for anyone who could distract me from her. “Now, whose idea was it to use your naked picture in the email blast about you preaching this Sunday?”

“Naked picture? Priscilla, what are you talking about?”

“Yes, it appears to have gotten all the gals and the gays out to church this morning.” She cupped her hands through my arms and walked straight by security without standing in line, her presence beside me feeling like a malevolent spirit who won’t stop possessing its host. I looked up and saw a familiar face and an opportunity to escape Priscilla’s clutches. It was one of my students, Andy. To my surprise, he was one of the security guards working this morning. He smiled and shook my hand as I walked through the door. “Good morning, Pastor/Dr. Myers. I take your Hebrew class at the seminary.”

“It’s Dr. Myers,” I corrected, grateful for the distraction from Priscilla’s proximity. “No need for the pastor tag. And I know who you are, Andy. You work and attend college?”

“Yes, got to pay for that expensive tuition somehow.”

“Remember, it’s an investment in your future.” I saw myself in Andy. He was a tall black dude with a thirst for knowledge and literature. He reminded me of a childhood friend who died years ago. Whenever I looked at him in class, it was like seeing a ghost. We had similar backgrounds. We both worked two jobs to pay tuition while taking classes. This was difficult but possible, and so whenever I saw a young brother doing the same, I felt inclined to help.

“I’ll keep that in mind when the negative thoughts attempt to take root.”

“Talk to me after class on Wednesday. I may know of a scholarship that could help alleviate the tuition cost.”

“Thanks, Sean. I mean Dr. Myers,” he said. I smiled and continued walking through the door, my mind already spinning back to the growing chaos of the morning. I looked behind me; Priscilla followed me like a Pomeranian would walk behind his owner. She was just waiting to tell me the gossip I didn’t want to hear.

“Now, what picture are you talking about?” Priscilla pulled up her phone. There I was, Naked. I knew where this picture was taken. Angelica and I were on a mission trip to Africa, digging wells for children to have water. While in our hotel room, she snapped a pic of me while I was coming out of the shower. “This picture was a private moment between me and Angelica. Now, it feels pornographic. It looks like I’m using sex to get people into the church. I didn’t approve of this,” I said, my voice tight. “And neither did Angelica.”

“Deny Deny Deny. I don’t care whose idea it was, but it was a good one. Look at all the people here. Your wife is so blessed,” she added, running her manicured fingers down my suit jacket sleeve as she brushed away lint, “to have such a... scholarly man. One who understands the deeper meanings of religious text, that can give her pointers on her sermons, and that is Superman handsome.” I kindly removed her hand from my suit and took two steps back away from her.

“Angelica’s sermons are all her work,” I said firmly, stepping back. “She has a master of divinity from Yalington.”

“Oh, Dr. Myers, you’re so humble to give your wife all the credit. I know you two are one in God’s eyes. Don’t worry; I will keep this little secret between us.” Just as I was about to counter her argument, Deacon Williams rushed toward us, his face flushed with excitement.

“Sean, this is incredible! We haven’t seen a crowd like this since two Easters ago. If I knew a naked pic would bring in this many people, I would have posed naked in the weekly newsletter years ago.”

“Deacon Williams, we want to draw people to God, not dispel them into the charcoal gates of hell,” Priscilla replied. I watched them snipe at each other, and I felt a rush of sudden empathy for Angelica washing over me. How did she navigate these personalities every week?

Deacon Williams gestured to the ushers, his enthusiasm too much for his short, bubbly frame to contain. “We’re setting up overflow seating in the fellowship hall. The sanctuary won’t hold today’s crowd.”

I loosened my Windsor knot slightly, fighting the urge to flee to my car. Instead, I retreated to Angelica’s office, which had always been a sanctuary for me. The smell of scholarly religious books was usually comforting, but today, that familiar scent mixed with my anxiety made my stomach churn. I looked at the pictures that hung on her wall of her mother, father, and me and of the one she had commissioned of her being pregnant as part of her vision board. She said that we had to write the vision and make it plain. It was one of her favorite scriptures.

It made me smile because she was the forever optimist. She always believed in the impossible. I immediately thought of Angelica being sick at home and how she trusted me to lead her flock. The guilt of my success was already weighing on me - how could I tell her when they never showed this kind of enthusiasm for her?

The sanctuary overflowed with parishioners. I recognized faces from campus, academic conferences, and Princeton’s elite social circles. Women who usually attended the 11:00 am service with me had shown up early. They stared at me like I was the newest addition to the TV show, The Bachelor, and while it was awkward, it felt good to be looked at as a piece of meat that women wanted to tear into. It made me wonder why women complained about being seen as objects. I hate to admit it, but it felt good to be praised, worshiped, and objectified. It made me think. Did Jesus’s ego get stroked by the flocks of people that followed him? These were thoughts that would linger in the comfort of my mind because I knew voicing such problematic and blasphemous statements would lead to nothing but backlash from feminist and religious zealots. Deacon Williams appeared in the office doorway, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

“The counter in the foyer shows 9,000 people. We might have to turn people away.” His tablet displayed streaming statistics climbing like a stock ticker. “And the online viewing numbers are astronomical.”

“All this because of a leaked naked picture,” I asked.

“May I have your permission to speak freely?”

“Absolutely.” The question sounded like a trap even before I answered it. Deacon Williams stepped fully inside and closed the door.

“Angelica has done a fine job building one of the biggest mega-churches in the nation. We’re number two among women-led churches.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But the data shows we’ve stalled. While she can draw 3,500-5,000 people, male-led churches can reach up to 50,000 weekly. We’ve been trying to get her to add a male co-pastor but after the incident with the last pastor...”

“She refuses to interview popular assistant pastors,” I finished.

“Yes, she won’t bring in anyone who might dim her light.”

“Do you blame her after how you all treated her?”

“I’m not in that mix,” he protested. “I always voted in her favor.”

“So, this is strictly about numbers? Because she insists Priscilla is out to get her.”

“Priscilla is a handful, but we can vote her out if you can get Angelica to agree to add a popular male co-pastor or assistant pastor. Someone good-looking and well built.”

“I’ll talk to her but can’t make promises.”

“If anyone can persuade her, it’s you.” I watched as Deacon Williams answered his phone and then excused himself from my office, leaving me alone to ponder all the information I had collected.

I straightened my charcoal suit, adjusted my blue tie, and ran my fingers through my dark hair, now silvering at the temples. Behind me, I heard the door lock click. My heart rate spiked. I knew who it was. “We can’t do this here,” I said, backing away. “It’s wrong and disrespectful to do this in her office.”

“Shut up, Sean. What Angelica doesn’t know won’t hurt her. We have thirty minutes before service starts, and that’s more than enough time for me to help you orgasm.”

“I made a mistake. We were drunk. This isn’t who I am.”

“Sean, there is more than enough of you to go around, and I mean that literally.” I couldn’t stop the smile that formed on my lips, betraying my internal struggle. Those beautiful brown eyes sparkled with triumph. “See, does Angelica make you smile like I do?”  

I sat in the office chair. “Get on your knees, bitch,” I said. I usually didn’t talk like this, but illicit sex brought out the aggression in me. My heart hammered against my ribcage. A war between lust and loyalty raged inside me. I opened my legs. “Now crawl in between my legs.”

“Yes, Sean.”

“Call me Dr. Myers.”

“Yes, Dr. Myers.”

There was something spellbinding in how we held each other’s gaze, never breaking contact as my shoes were removed from my feet and my belt was unbuckled. Each touch was electric against my sensitive skin. Next, my pants were removed and then folded. The care that was taken was kind. Not a single wrinkle would betray what had happened here. It was considerate yet calculated. The next thing I knew, I was getting a show. First came the shirt, then the slacks, revealing those beautiful, long legs, and then the pink lace panties made their way down those legs and onto the floor. My cock got so hard when I saw that bubble butt ass and beautiful tight hole.

I watched those beautiful eyes widen as the length and girth of my manhood were examined. The next thing I knew, I felt a wet mouth on my cock. Vulnerability and power shifted between us like an electric current. Manicured hands rested on my thick and muscled thighs. They were warm and steady, a stark contrast to the trembling that took place inside me. This head was so good it sent a shudder through my entire body. It was an avalanche of pleasure that mingled with the bitter taste of betrayal.

Time lost meaning as I surrendered to sensation, my fingers forcibly guiding those pretty pink lips over my cock. Each movement was both heaven and hell. The physical ecstasy warring with the knowledge of what I could throw away. When release finally came, a hollow emptiness that no bodily pleasure could fill accompanied it.

The guilt descended immediately upon me like a majestic dove coming in for a landing. Reality pulled me back as the guilt suffocated me. With a fake satisfied smile, I looked down at the evidence of my weakness frosted on those perfectly plump lips. I wanted this. God help me.

I wanted and needed it, but the image of Angelica’s trusting face flooded my mind, drowning the lingering pleasure. I was two people now: the faithful husband I always prided myself on being and the weak man who had just betrayed everything he claimed to value. And at that moment, I wasn’t sure which one would become the real me.

“See? There is plenty of time to clean up before delivering the word. Can’t wait to hear what message you’ll be sharing today.”

I watched my door close, awash in conflicting emotions. I’d betrayed my wife in her own office and violated her trust when she’d given me this opportunity. My sexual addiction was destroying me.

In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognized myself. I put my clothes back on and felt like crying, but I didn’t have time for that. I had betrayed my wife again in our marriage, but I wouldn’t betray her when it came to her dream.

The procession began, and I stepped into the sanctuary, channeling my classroom confidence to mask my shame. Every pew was packed. People stood along the walls with their faces turned to me with hungry expectation for something I wasn’t sure I could - or should - provide.

“Good morning,” I began, my voice steadier than I felt. “As many of you know, Pastor Angelica is home sick. She sends her love and gratitude for your prayers.” A murmur of concern rippled through the congregation, though I noticed several satisfied smiles among the women in the front rows, one of them being Clare’s. “I also want to apologize for that picture in today’s newsletter. It was a complete accident made by someone on our staff and is totally unacceptable as a spiritual leader. I take full responsibility and hope that this image hasn’t sullied your image of me.”

“It's okay pastor; we all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” yelled a young woman in the back with her bible raised. Multiple Amen’s and applause followed the outburst which was just the boost I needed to continue. I nodded at the young lady in the back of the church and continued my sermon.

My sermon on Ruth flowed smoothly. My years of lecturing helped me modulate my voice for maximum impact. I wove in literary analogies, drawing parallels between Ruth’s loyalty and Naomi’s redemption. The congregation leaned forward, enraptured. Even the teenagers put away their phones.

The offering plates came back overflowing. Large checks paper-clipped to pledge cards.

After service, I watched and listened to Deacon Williams dance down the center aisle, whispering, “Double for our trouble.”

The receiving line stretched out the door and down the steps after the benediction. Women who normally rushed to Sunday brunch now waited patiently to shake my hand, touch my arm, and suggest coffee meetings and prayer partnerships. Their husbands discussed golf outings and sports tickets. The air was thick with expensive perfume and possibility.

“You have such a different perspective. It’s so masculine and authoritative,” said a woman I didn’t recognize. She pressed her card into my hand with a practiced smile. “In case you ever want to discuss your vision for the church’s future.”

“I’ll talk it over with my wife, Angelica.” Her smile disappeared, and she walked away. I took in her curves and imagined my hands cascading through her long red tresses. I shook my head, attempting to break free of the arousal that was springing up. Nearly two hours passed before I could leave, my hand sore from handshakes, my tie constricting like a leash. The parking lot remained half-full, with people lingering in small groups to discuss the service.

The drive home blurred past. Our house rose before me, and guilt ate at me. The wind scattered autumn leaves across our perfectly manicured lawn. I took several deep breaths before heading inside, knowing I couldn’t let her sense how well it went. The conversation with Deacon Williams about adding a male assistant pastor or co-pastor would have to wait until she was stronger.

I found Angelica propped up in bed. “How did it go?” she asked, her voice rough but stronger. I sat on the edge of the bed, loosening my tie. “Perfect. They missed you terribly.” My lie was as smooth as silk, but her smile made it worth it. She reached for my hand, her diamond wedding ring sparkling just as bright as the day I bought it. It reminded me how I had failed her as a husband today.

“I knew you’d do wonderfully,” she murmured, drifting back to sleep. “My perfect husband.”

“My perfect wife.” I waited until her breathing evened out before retreating to my study. I poured two fingers of whiskey, needing something to steady my nerves after the day’s performance. I drained my glass, the whiskey burning less than my guilt.

My phone buzzed. It was an unknown number, but it was a Princeton area code.

“Dr. Myers speaking.”

“Your wife is hiding something from you.” The male voice was unfamiliar, threatening. “There are things about your wife you need to know.” The line went dead.

Concern crippled me. Who was that on the phone, and what secret could my beautiful, perfect wife be keeping? Part of me wanted to know to ease my guilt, but another part dreaded what I might discover. Shame coursed through me, reminding me of my infidelity.

I poured another drink, wondering which of us would destroy this perfect life first - me with my weakness or Angelica with whatever secret warranted anonymous phone calls.

5

Angelica: Viral

The smell of breakfast seduced my nostrils and pulled me from unconscious to conscious. Fifteen hours of oblivion had done little to quiet yesterday’s thoughts, which immediately bombarded my mind like an unwelcome spam email on a new account. But the insistent rumble in my belly and the delicious aroma of coffee, bacon, chicken, and waffles overpowered them. My body had priorities that my troubled mind couldn’t override. I pulled off my eye mask and allowed my eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight that infiltrated my room. The pounding in my head subsided to a dull ache, and my throat didn’t feel like I’d swallowed a handful of nails anymore.

Reality crashed in as my eyes found the bedside clock, its brass hands pointing accusingly at 11:00 a.m. Of course, Sean wasn’t here; he would be at school, standing in front of his classroom, probably making his students laugh with one of his charming stories. Did I really sleep for fifteen hours? The thought sent a jolt of anxiety through me, making my already aching muscles tense.

I reached over to grab my phone, my hand patting the empty space where it usually sat on the polished cherry wood nightstand. I was always afraid that Sean might find pictures of my past on my phone, even though I hid them inside a special password-protected folder. I searched frantically for it, and for a moment, panic fluttered in my chest before memory kicked in. Sean and I had decided we wouldn’t bring our phones into the bedroom anymore. It was supposed to be our sanctuary, free from the constant demands of the outside world. I couldn’t remember exactly when we’d made that rule, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

Pushing myself up from my soft silk pillows, I wrapped my cashmere robe around my body, the soft pink fabric a comfort against my skin. My fingers fumbled with the silk tie as I slipped my feet into my slippers. The plush interior warmed my cold toes. I headed to my office to retrieve my phone and was thankful I’d decided to install thick carpet throughout most of the house.

As I passed the kitchen, my heart sang a different tune. The sight that greeted me stopped me in my tracks. On the granite island stood a stunning bouquet of orchids and roses in a crystal vase, their petals a symphony of whites and pinks against the morning light streaming through our big bay windows. Their aroma filled the air, mixing with another aroma that made my stomach growl. My favorite breakfast was laid out like a picture in a magazine: Golden-brown chicken and waffles, with a tall glass of 100% tangerine orange juice. It was my favorite.

A folded note sat propped against the vase; Sean’s distinctive handwriting was visible through the paper.

Morning Angelica,

You may have to heat the food up, but I just couldn’t find it in my heart to wake you. Make sure you drink the tea with honey and have a few cough drops before you eat the waffles and chicken. I made them myself.

~ Sean

“Aww, I have the sweetest and most thoughtful husband,” I whispered to myself, running my finger along his familiar handwriting. The moment of warmth lasted precisely as long as it took me to walk to my office. My phone was ringing. I grabbed my phone from its charging station on my desk.

The screen lit up with notifications. There were over two hundred text messages, their previews flooded my display like a digital tidal wave. As a pastor, I was used to receiving maybe twenty messages from parishioners the Monday after a moving sermon, but this? This many messages could only mean something was terribly wrong. My fingers trembled as I opened the first one, preparing myself for a crisis. What I found instead knocked the wind out of me, each message hitting like a physical blow:

Omg, Angelica, your husband is a natural.

Sean tore the house down.

This is the word we needed.

I stopped reading, my hand clenching around the phone’s slim case as anger simmered beneath my skin, a slow-building heat that started in my chest and spread outward like wildfire. With jerky movements, I pulled up YouTube, my perfectly manicured nails clicking against the keys as I typed, needing to see for myself what Sean had preached that was causing such a response.

I didn’t expect the sermon to be posted yet, but I hoped it would. My assistant usually took until Tuesday to get everything uploaded and properly tagged. But there it was, time-stamped Sunday at 5:00 p.m., the thumbnail showing Sean at my pulpit, his smile radiant under the stage lights. My jaw clenched, the muscle twitching. She tells me it takes forty-eight hours to upload my sermons, and suddenly, she can do it in less than six? The betrayal stung like a slap.

The numbers I saw next made my head spin, the figures seeming to pulse on the screen: 500,000 views. Over thirty thousand comments. In less than twelve hours. My fingers went numb as I stared at the screen, unable to understand what I saw. On my best days, after a decade of ministry, I might get 10,000 views and 100 comments. I’d been told my numbers were impressive for a non-televangelist preacher.

The comments scrolled endlessly, each one a fresh wound carved into my professional pride:

“Girl, I’ll attend church every Sunday if he’s preaching.”

“Did you see his naked pic?”

“Naked pic? Where?”

“In the weekly church newsletter!”

My heart wasn’t just pounding anymore; it was trying to break free from my chest, and each beat echoed in my ears. With shaking hands, I pulled up the newsletter on my laptop, the screen’s blue light harsh in my dimly lit office. I found myself praying, actually praying, that I’d misread the comment and that this was all some fever dream brought on by my illness. But there it was, in high-resolution glory. My husband, Sean, posed like some erotic romance book cover model, his perfectly sculpted chest, vanilla skin, and man parts for all my congregation to see. His sculpted abs and dark tasseled hair further enhanced his Superman characteristics.

The questions crashed through my mind like waves: Is he trying to take my church? Why would he do this? What game is he playing? The phone’s sharp ring cut through my spiral of thoughts, the sound making me jump in my leather office chair. I picked up the phone, recognizing Deacon Williams’s number on the display.

“Angelica, turn on channel four.”

“It’s Pastor Angelica,” I corrected automatically, my voice tight with barely controlled rage. The leather armrests creaked under my grip.

“Pastor Angelica, turn on the news. We are trending on CNZ.”

The remote nearly slipped from my sweaty palm as I turned on the TV mounted on my office wall. The scene that filled the screen made my stomach turn–my church, my sanctuary, looked like the venue for a damn Taylor Swift concert. A crowd of women, many clearly not regular churchgoers based on their attire, crowded the steps of the building I’d spent years making into a house of worship. A young anchor, her makeup perfect and microphone extended, moved through the crowd like a shark through water.

“Why are you here two hours before church?” she asked, though she had to know the answer. The response came in an enthusiastic chorus that made my ears ring.

 “We are here to see Pastor Bae!”

“Pastor Bae?” The words tasted like I was sucking on Sour Patch Kids. I stabbed the power button, plunging the room into blessed silence as I hung up the phone with trembling fingers.

My gaze fell on the tea Sean had so thoughtfully prepared, steam still rising from the delicate crystal cup from my reheating it. In one fluid motion, I grabbed it and hurled it across the room, finding a moment of savage satisfaction in the sound of shattering glass. The shards glittered on the floor like diamonds, beautiful and dangerous–just like betrayal.

The breakfast he’d made with such care was next. I flipped the plate, watching as chicken and waffles scattered across the pristine countertop and syrup dripped onto the floor. Those perfect, beautiful flowers met their end in the garbage disposal, their petals mangled as I fed them one by one into it.

As I climbed the stairs, my feet left sticky syrup prints on each step. My mind was clear for the first time since waking. Someone was going to pay for this, and it wasn’t just going to be my husband. I had spent over a decade building the second-biggest female-run church in North America through hard work, dedication, and genuine ministry. Now, in less than 24 hours, we’d gotten more attention than in ten years of faithful service because my husband decided to play celebrity pastor with a side of sex appeal.

My hands curled into fists as I reached the top of the stairs, my nails digging crescents into my palms. The fury coursing through my veins had burned away the last traces of illness. I had built this ministry from nothing and poured my heart and soul into every sermon, every counseling session, and every late-night hospital visit. I refused to allow it to become a spiritual soap opera for swooning congregants.

This was my church, my calling, my ministry. And I was going to make damn sure everyone remembered that, starting with my dear, sweet, apparently publicity-hungry husband. I picked up the phone and called, my mother’s number appearing at the top of my favorite list.

“How is my favorite daughter doing?” Her voice was warm honey over the line, familiar and soothing despite my rage.

“I’m headed over, mom. I need to talk before I do something I regret.” I hung up the phone before I could hear her reply. My voice cracked with emotion as I grabbed my car keys from the crystal bowl by the door.

The scattered breakfast remains crunched under my feet as I strode toward the garage, each step filled with purpose. A thought overtook me; I wasn’t going to my mother’s house first. I was going to my church, and I was going to make everyone in that building feel just as uncomfortable as I was. I took a deep breath, turned around, and went back upstairs and got dressed. Ladies didn’t scream or act ratcheted in public. They were the picture of composed perfection. That’s what my mother, Carolyn Webster, taught me. Ladies used their brains and sharp tongues to cut mighty whores down to size. I was going to look my best and remain composed while I read these bitches for filth. I would not let another man take my church, even if that man was my perfect husband, Sean.

6

Angelica: When The Saints Go Marching In

I marched into the sanctuary in a pink bikini with a chinchilla fur coat on. Its length was millimeters from touching the floor. My wig of choice was my jet-black one. My hair flowed majestically behind me like Beyonce, in that Crazy In Love video. I adorned resting bitch face. That meant don’t speak until you are spoken to. The custodial staff quickly moved out of my path and snapped a few pictures with their camera phone. This is exactly what I wanted, and I had a point to prove. I wanted to see how my staff and parishioners would respond to my wardrobe, given the excitement my husband received.

I remember the first morning I stepped into my first church over a decade ago when it was a rented space above an ice cream shop. Now, walking through these gothic double doors after a couple of days of being ill, I breathed in the familiar scent of furniture polish and old hymnals, letting it settle my nerves. The warm sun streamed through the cathedral glass windows, casting jewel-toned shadows across the marble floors I’d chosen during the renovation. Every detail of this sanctuary had been my vision, my dream, my answered prayer. But now it was stained with the scent of a man, Sean.

Excited chatter broke the usual morning quiet from the church office. People’s conversation stopped mid-sentence as I approached, but not before I caught the beginning of a few lingering conversations.

 “The attendance doubled.” 

  “I hope #PastorBae is here to stay.”

Two administrative assistants and one deacon stopped talking and looked at me with flushed faces. One of them asked, “What does she have on?” Another said, “This is just ridiculous. She’s attention-hungry and just wants to upstage her husband.” Clare, my personal assistant for the past five years, hurried forward with a stack of messages and a forced smile.

“Pastor Angelica! We're so glad you’re here but the staff and I want to know if you are okay.” She gestured to my office.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“Umm, you’re in a bikini?”

“So, my husband’s naked body can be on display in front of 10,000 people in our newsletter, and it’s a success, but I show up in a bikini and you question my mental stability?” Clare paused. She understood the hypocrisy.

“You are right. We all got excited about the numbers and didn’t realize how embarrassing this could be for you or him.”

“And you all failed to see how misogynistic it is.”

“We did. I apologize,” Claire said.

“Now, please bring me one of my spare outfits from my closet and tell me what has you all so excited. It’s freezing outside.”

“The network executives called twice this morning. They’re very excited about moving forward with the television ministry.”

My heart leaped. After months of negotiations, countless proposals, and endless prayers, it was finally happening. God was opening doors I’d only dreamed of walking through. I hurried into my office, and Clare followed close behind.

“They want to meet this afternoon,” she continued. I watched as she closed my door. “But...” Her hesitation made me pause as I settled behind my desk.

“But what?”

Clare shifted uncomfortably. “They have some... suggestions.” She placed a folder in front of me. “They were very impressed with last Sunday’s numbers. Very impressed.”

I opened the folder. Attendance figures jumped off the page. There was a 100 percent increase from our usual crowd. The offering total made me blink twice to ensure I was reading it correctly. But the note at the bottom made my blood run cold: “We recommend a dual pastoral format for optimal viewer engagement.”

“They want Sean as co-pastor,” I said flatly. Clare nodded. “They think having both of you would attract a broader audience. A husband-wife team, sharing the pulpit...” she trailed off as I stood and walked to the window. Below, church members were arriving for our morning Bible study. 

“Show me his sermon,” I demanded, turning back to Clare. I watched it through to completion this time and did not let the hysteria and my anger take over. She hesitated only briefly before pulling up the video on my office computer. I watched as Sean stepped into my pulpit. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and he wore an impeccable charcoal suit. He looked like he belonged there, and that thought terrified me. His sermon on Ruth was masterful, weaving together scripture and literary references with a confidence I hadn’t expected. The camera panned throughout the entire congregation. It showed mesmerizing faces. There was an equal mix of males, females, and children. There was standing room only.

“The response was overwhelming,” Clare whispered.

I closed my eyes, remembering how hard I’d fought to start this church. How many charity events I’d attended, how many careful conversations I’d navigated, how many subtle prejudices I’d overcome.

“The network thinks this could be revolutionary,” Clare continued. “A power couple sharing God’s word. She says it could open up entirely new demographics. The contract they’re proposing, it’s beyond anything we imagined.”

I forced myself to watch more of the video. Sean was talking about loyalty now, about the cost of devotion. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The congregation hung on his every word. Even the teenagers who usually spent my sermons staring at their phones listened to his every word. When had my husband become so pastoral?

“The deacons are enthusiastic about the idea,” Clare added. “They think it would be good for the church, especially with you wanting to have a child and the IVF treatments. And this way, you’d still be the senior pastor. You’d still be in control.” IVF treatments. Sometimes, I hated I had shared so many personal things with my congregation. Those words echoed in my head as I watched Sean deliver the benediction. The receiving line afterward seemed endless. He had a hungry look in his eyes. It was as if he was enjoying his newfound fame. I’d recognized this look with the last pastor who had stolen my church.

“I need to think about this,” I said, closing the video. “And I need to talk to the deacons. Where are they?”

“Sean gave them the day off.”

“He did what?”

“I tried to tell him not to do it but he didn’t listen. He also gave me the day off, but I decided to come in anyway.” I knew she wanted me to acknowledge her sacrifice, but I would not give her a compliment for doing what she was required to do. 

“Clare, how did Sean’s naked picture make it into the newsletter? Are you and my husband exchanging naked pictures?”

“No, Angelica, I would never do that. Sean accidentally sent me that picture when I asked him to send me one for the newsletter. I must have accidentally uploaded the wrong picture, and take full responsibility for that. I promise it was an accident.”

“You’re fired.” She looked like she wanted to protest. She’d been there during the previous crisis and had seen what ambition and charm could do to a congregation, so she should have been more careful. I retreated to my office and called all of my deacons.

“Get in here now. This is my church, and no one gives you the day off but me. If you are not here in exactly 45 minutes, you’re fired!” I slammed the receiver down, and just as I did, Clare opened the door.

“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “I think this is different. Sean loves you. He doesn’t want your position. This could be God opening a door for both of you.”

“We can’t afford mistakes like this at Unconditional Love Ministries. This was a costly lesson for you. But don’t worry. I’ll gladly give you a glowing recommendation.”

“You’ve never liked me, and I’ve done nothing but admire you. I do my best, and then the first mistake I make, you get rid of me. I looked up to you because I wanted to be like you. I guess that’s why you should never meet your idols. I’m the one who had your back. I was putting out fires you didn’t know existed. Good luck fighting these vultures that are attempting to take you down without me.” She removed the earrings I gave her for Christmas and placed them on my desk. “I will be out within the next hour, and my desk will be empty.”

“Goodbye, Clare. I’ll have payroll overnight your check. Remember, idol worship is something God isn’t fond of.”

After Clare left, I let my head fall onto my desk, tears breaking free. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my mother:

I thought you were on your way. Is everything okay? Dad’s grilling.

I typed back a quick yes, knowing I needed their wisdom now more than ever. They’d seen me through every crisis, every victory, every setback. They’d understand this tangle of pride, fear, and ambition churning in my stomach. The video was still open on my computer. I clicked play again, watching my husband command my pulpit with a grace I couldn’t deny. The network was right. We would make a compelling team. Our numbers would soar. Hearts would be touched. Our ministry would change lives. But at what cost?

I thought of all the nights I’d spent on my knees in this office, praying for God to expand our ministry. Was this the answer? Or was it a test? The only answer was the distant sound of women’s voices, still discussing Sunday’s service, still praising my husband’s gift for ministry.

My dream was finally within reach, but the price was sharing the one thing I’d sworn I’d never share again: my pulpit. A memory surfaced. It was Sean’s face when I’d asked him to preach; He had reluctance in his eyes. He hadn’t wanted this. He’d done it for me. Hadn’t he? Or did he just decline because he didn’t want to seem too eager?

No matter the decision, I knew one thing for sure: I needed to be in charge and in control, and I knew how to control Sean.

7

Angelica: Jealousy

The V8 engine of my Mercedes roared as I blasted past the city streets and rolled through stop signs. My fingers left deep indentations in the leather steering wheel as anger flowed through me and into the accelerator like electricity through a conduit. I rolled up the windows and released a primal scream as I sped right past Sean’s university. Every Monday for the past ten years, I picked him up for dinner at my parents'—but not today. I needed to vent about him, and I couldn’t do that with him sitting next to me, rubbing his muscular arm against my thigh. 

I pulled into my parents’ circular driveway as my headlights swept across their restored colonial home. The house stood proud against the Princeton sky, much like it had throughout my childhood—a perfect facade hiding complicated truths. The kitchen windows glowed warm and inviting, and I could see my dad, Clark, grilling on the back patio. The smoke from grilling steaks tugged at my nostrils. I hadn’t eaten anything this morning because I had destroyed my breakfast. Mom opened the door before I could ring the bell, already wearing her concerned expression. “You look tired, sweetheart.” She pulled me into a hug.

 “Come in. Your father’s just finishing up the steaks and pork chops.” The house smelled like my childhood. I could smell grilled meat, fresh orchids, and roses from Mom’s greenhouse garden, and the lingering scent of furniture polish. Everything was in its place, every surface gleaming and spotless. I’d learned early in life how important appearances were. Things needed to look perfect outside, even if they were broken within.

“How are you feeling dear?” Mom asked as she giggled. Leading me through to the kitchen. I cut her an exasperated glance.

“I was really sick this time.” My mom, Carolyn Webster, released a light chuckle. I rolled my eyes at her and then allowed them to roam until I saw my favorite red wine breathing on the island.

“Were you all at church on Sunday?”

“Upon learning of your absence, we also played hooky. It gave me time to get through the latest Steve Bevil novel. His books are addictive, especially this new one called, My Perfect Valentine.” Dad came in from the patio, carrying a platter of perfectly grilled ribeyes. He’d lost more weight since the last time I’d seen him. His golf clothes hung looser, but his eyes were still sharp as ever. 

“Something’s wrong,” he said, not a question.

“Of course, something’s wrong. Don’t you see her mascara running?” Mom went to the bathroom and grabbed her compact, matching the colors perfectly against my skin.

“You shouldn’t let people see you when you look tired and like a mess. What do I always say?”

“Hide your flaws until you are in the privacy of your own bathroom,” I repeated.

 “Not even your husband should see you falling apart. It’s unattractive and causes them to look elsewhere.” Mom cut her eyes toward Dad, but he didn’t return her gaze.

“What’s wrong, dumpling? Does daddy need to take out his pistol?”

“Maybe,” I replied.

“I saw CMZ, and I got both newsletters. Sean looks good.”

“Mom!”

“Girl, hush. You’re the one who picked that Caucasian God who looks like he could be Superman’s little brother. You can’t be mad when people think he’s attractive.”

“I don’t care about people thinking he’s attractive, Mom. What do you mean you got both newsletters?”

“There were two. One with a picture of Sean clothed, and another with a picture of Sean unclothed.”

“Which one came first?” I watched as my mother picked up her phone and scrolled through her email.

“Hmm, I can only see the unclothed one now. Maybe I deleted it. Why are you asking?” Did Clare send two? Or was old age catching up with my mother?

“Angelica, tell us what’s going on, dear. Don’t leave us in the dark.”

Over dinner, I told them everything. We discussed the network deal, Sean’s successful sermon, the doubled offerings, the women’s attention, and the ultimatum disguised as an opportunity. Mom’s fork stilled halfway to her mouth, and Dad’s jaw tightened as always when he sensed a threat to my happiness.

“The numbers don’t lie,” I finished, pushing my barely touched steak around my plate. Even though I was hungry a few minutes ago, it appeared my appetite had abandoned me. “The congregation loved him. The network wants him. It’s everything we’ve been praying for, but...”

“But it feels like history repeating itself,” Mom finished softly. She reached for Dad’s hand, a gesture I’d seen thousands of times. They’d been married for over thirty years, and sometimes, I wondered if they shared a single soul. Dad set down his wine glass carefully.

“Increased attention may be a bad thing.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t take the television deal? You know this is what I have always wanted. This is my dream, Dad.”

“I’m just saying that more attention could mean more people watching us, increasing the risk of our secrets being revealed.” 

“You don’t think someone would discover our secrets, do you?”

“We’ve covered our tracks very well, darling,” Mom says, but in this social media age, all it takes is one crack in this perfectly created facade for this glass house to shatter. My mother exchanged a look with Dad, one of those married-people glances. I could never quite decode. 

“Have you told him?” Mom asked, though she already knew the answer. “About Andrew?”

I stared at my reflection in the dark window. “No. But I will. Soon. When the time is right.”

“The time was right years ago,” Dad said, his voice gentle but firm. “Before you married him. Before you built this life together. Now, it’s just getting harder to find the right moment. I accepted your mother when she told me her deepest and darkest secret, and she accepted mine. I think Sean would understand. Honestly, he doesn’t really have an option,” Dad replied.

Mom reached across the table to take my hand. “Sweetheart, some things are hard to understand even when you love someone and have the whole story. And Sean only has the pieces you’ve given him.”

“The decision about the co-pastor position is yours,” Dad added. “You’re the one who built that church, who sacrificed for it. But having Sean involved more deeply could be a blessing in disguise. It could be a safety net. If the truth comes out, the congregation would still have a pastor they can trust.”

My chest tightened, the old familiar panic rising. “You think it’s going to come out? After all this time?”

They shared another look. Mom squeezed my hand harder. “I don’t think so, but I promise we will do everything possible to keep the family secret hidden. We covered our bases, but truth has a way of leaving clues, and if someone does find out about what we did to Andrew, the church won’t be forgiving. That’s why we left San Diego and moved across the country to Princeton, New Jersey. Especially now, with your ministry growing and the possibility of national exposure...”

“I was protecting everyone,” I shouted. “You know that. We all agreed it was for the best. We made a vow!”

“We did,” Dad acknowledged, his voice heavy with memory. “We made choices we thought were right. But time has a way of changing things. Of changing people. Of changing what feels right.”

“Dad, you regret me killing him, don’t you? Is that why you get more emotional every year we visit the cemetery?” The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine times, its deep tones echoing through the house like judgment. Outside, crickets sang their melancholy song, oblivious to the weight of decades of secrets pressing down on us.

“Whatever you decide about the co-pastor position,” Dad said, “you need to tell Sean the truth. All of it. About Andrew, about that night, about the choices we made. He deserves to hear it from you, not from someone else.”

“Dad, you didn’t answer my question.” He reached over and squeezed my hand.

“Secrets have a way of eating you up inside,” Dad countered. “Slowly, invisibly, but just as completely. Look at what keeping this one has cost you already. The constant fear, the inability to fully trust, the walls you’ve built around your heart.” I hated when my dad ignored me and didn’t answer my questions directly. It was his passive-aggressive way of saying he didn’t want to discuss that topic.

Mom stood and started cutting my steak. “Eat something, child, before you wither away.”

I took a few bites of my steak and allowed their words to marinate in my mind. I watched as my dad stood up. He kissed me on the forehead. “The decision is yours, sweetheart. About Sean, about the church, about the truth. But remember, some decisions get made for us if we wait too long to make them ourselves.” I watched as he walked away.

I helped my mother load the dishwasher. Dad disappeared into his study and returned with a folder. Inside were yellowed newspaper clippings, photographs, and documents we’d all agreed to keep safe.

“Just in case,” he said, pressing it into my hands. “Better to have the whole story ready than to be caught unprepared.”

“Thank you,” I said. Once Dad was out of sight and out of earshot, my mother turned to me. Her face was stern and serious. She snatched the folder from my hand.

“I don’t care what your father says. Don’t tell Sean anything. It’s not his business. This is family business. We agreed we would take this secret to our graves. That was the agreement. This is our vow, the perfect vow we made with each other.”

“But Mom, you just told me I should tell Sean.”

“Darling, haven’t I taught you anything about being a woman and wife? You never emasculate your man. No matter how strong the desire is. The biggest secret to having a successful marriage is letting a man be a man, and sometimes that means letting them say and do stupid things and being there to support them when it all comes crashing down. They are very fragile creatures, my dear. You should know this by now. Now let’s plan a mother and daughter day, and let’s get all dolled up because mommy’s little girl is going to be on television.” My mother pulled me close into her embrace and stroked my hair as I allowed her words to sink deep into my subconscious because if I knew nothing, I knew Mama always knew best.

The drive home was a blur of streetlights and memories. Sean would be in his study when I got home, probably preparing for his classes tomorrow, unaware that his successful sermon had set the wheels in motion that couldn’t be stopped. Mom’s words echoed in my head: Don’t tell Sean anything. Tears filled my eyes. This was the first time I’d seen my mother and father disagree, and I was torn. Do I follow my dad’s advice and come clean to Sean, or do I shut up and carry this secret to my grave like my mother said? Only time will tell.

 I pulled up to my home, and my heart stopped. A glass vase of orchids sat in the center of my driveway. I turned off my engine, walked over, and picked up the glass vase. The orchids were sitting in a dark liquid. I smelled the liquid, and my heart almost stopped. It was chocolate milk. I dropped the glass vase, and it shattered all over the driveway. Someone knew my secret and knew where I lived.

8

Sean: The Encounter

The rhythmic hum of radiators echoed through the darkened academic corridors of Billington Hall at Pennington University. The sound faded into the background during class time, but at this hour, it felt like a warning counting down to something I didn’t want to face: Angelica.

I watched as Clinton’s mop sloshed against the tile. He cleaned up all the filth and dirt we brought in for the day so that everything could be fresh, clean, and new for the next day. It reminded me of baptism, frequently referenced in biblical text. I waited until Clinton was out of view and then motioned for my student to leave my office.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Myers. I can’t wait to be intimate with you again.” I watched that juicy booty bounce in those tight jeans and smiled when I heard those heels click down the hallway.

Guilt cloaked me as my fingers fumbled with my cashmere trench coat and hat. The coat’s familiar softness should be comforting, but tonight, it felt like armor I was donning for the domestic battle I would incur at home. I had fucked up again, but Angelica and I hadn’t had sex in a month, and masturbation was getting old, so this wasn’t entirely my fault. I smelled myself. I smelled like sex. I planned to stop by the gym and take a quick shower if I didn’t want to get caught. I grabbed my gym bag and left my office. I locked my door; the click echoed unnaturally in the empty hallway.

Yellow caution signs spotted the freshly mopped floor in a single file line; their reflective surfaces caught and distorted what little light remained. I found myself tiptoeing between them, each careful step accompanied by the whisper of water shifting beneath my feet. The signs that warned people about slipping felt like omens now. Their simple message took on a darker meaning today, more than others. Every few steps I took, the radiators shuddered and groaned as if the building was trying to tell me something I was not ready to hear.

Monday night was the night we dined at her parent’s home. I always Ubered to work so she could pick me up and we carpool there together. In our ten-plus years of being married, we’ve always ridden over there together. Angelica would text me around 5:30 p.m. that she would be there at 6:00 p.m. Technically, I wouldn't have cheated today if she had been here and not been angry at me. I always drove while we listened and tried to guess the twist of our favorite psychological thriller book. Our current read was one by Franklin Christopher. We were halfway into The Perfect Stepdaughter, but I couldn’t figure it out yet.

Angelica didn’t text or respond to me today. I knew she was okay because I installed a tracker on her car for emergency purposes only. I knew the only places she visited today were church and her parents’ house. Did she know about my minor indiscretions that took place yesterday or today? I prayed she didn’t because that would end us if she found out. I was concerned because she didn’t even think to turn her read messages off. It was like she wanted me to know she was getting the messages and ignoring me. I attempted to put myself in her shoes, but when I did, I still couldn’t see it from her perspective. If she was upset or pissed, she should just tell me and not play these games.

Once I finished my quick shower at the gym, I did a ten-minute sprint on the treadmill and didn’t put on any deodorant. I read an article about how men got caught cheating—it said they came home smelling too fresh or used a different soap than the one at home. The article said the key was not to smell like pussy but not to smell too clean, either. I hadn’t gotten caught for the past five years—mostly because I followed that advice and kept a bottle of the same body wash I used at home in my office.

I stepped out of my Uber and walked up the stairs to my home. I noticed that Angelica’s car was not in the driveway. I opened the door and stepped into my house, ready to relax after a long day of standing, talking, and educating some of the finest minds in higher education. 

 I had one thing on my mind: jazz music and a tall glass of red wine. But when I stepped into the kitchen and took in the domestic destruction around me, I knew there would be no relaxing tonight. I dropped my briefcase on the ground and contemplated how I was going to handle this while I fought the anger that was building in my belly and spreading like cancer to every area of my body. As a man, I didn’t have the luxury of having a temper tantrum when I didn’t get my way. People were uncomfortable when 6’4 men who weighed over 240 pounds of pure muscle lost their temper.

Either Angelica had seen the numbers and heard about the Pastor Bae fiasco, or she found out about my minor indiscretions. I needed to be prepared for both. I also needed to know what my wife was hiding so I had ammunition to fight back with. The only reason I was aware of the severity of the Pastor Bae situation was because that sweet young girl, Clare, called me crying. She informed me Angelica had fired her because she sent the wrong picture in the newsletter. I knew she would be furious and that we would probably have a heated discussion, but I did not expect her to destroy our kitchen and fire Clare. Angelica wasn’t a violent woman, and while she could be cutthroat and ruthless when it came to her dreams and aspirations, this behavior was not the behavior of the woman I married. 

Like a good husband, I swallowed my anger and picked up the broken glass from the floor. I hated cleaning up glass because no matter how well you swept, a few weeks later, you would be walking in your house barefoot only to cut the bottom of your foot on a missed glass shard.

I knew Angelica well enough to know that she wanted me to see this. This was her attempt at trying to anger me. I would not give her the satisfaction. I would channel this anger into cleaning, and then I wouldn’t even mention it. As I walked toward the sink to wash the remaining unbroken dishes, I saw orchids, her favorite flower, in the garbage disposal. I was heartbroken. I had done her a favor, which garnered her the most attention she’d had in her entire career. Not only had I gone against my feelings and helped her out, I cooked her breakfast and waited on her hand and foot while she was sick. I’d saved her failing ministry, and she repaid me by destroying my kindness. I took multiple deep breaths and then screamed at the top of my lungs. Once I finished crying, I accessed my feelings. To my surprise, I felt better. 

“Hey Alexa, play Marvin Gaye; Gotta Give It Up.” When the melody hit, I started dancing around the kitchen, and my anger subsided. Music was the easiest way to change the vibration of my being. Once that song ended and others I loved started playing, I realized that a few broken dishes weren’t serious. If there was one thing I knew about relationships, it was that we both couldn’t be mad at the same time. We would make no progress and find no solution. I looked around the kitchen, and it looked like no temper tantrum had occurred.

I sat at the island in the kitchen, removed my MacBook Pro, took off my wedding ring and pulled up a file called Sandra Newman.

Journal entry #3326 

My Darling Sandra Newman,  

Today made me think of you again. I found myself in a difficult situation with Angelica - she asked for help with her struggling ministry, and despite my reservations, I agreed. When things didn’t go well, she reacted by destroying the breakfast I’d made and damaging our kitchen. It made me wonder how differently you would have handled such a disagreement—probably with the grace and maturity to simply converse.

I often think about the path not taken - about not listening to my parents, about choosing you instead. Sometimes, I imagine the life we might have had together, even the children we might have shared - one with your features and one with mine.

I need you to know how deeply sorry I am for the harm I caused you, both physical and psychological. I was young, but that’s no excuse for my fragile insecurity. I see now that I married Angelica because she reminds me of you, and that wasn’t fair to anyone.

Forever carrying the weight of my regret, 

~Sean

When I heard Angelica pull up in the driveway, I quickly closed my laptop, returned to my study, put on my wedding ring, and took out a few papers to grade. It wasn’t even five minutes when she appeared in the doorway, still wearing her church attire. There was something about her posture. She held her shoulders tightly and folded her arms across her chest. This wasn’t a casual visit. After decades of reading novels and teaching, I’d learned to spot foreshadowing as easily as in fiction.

“Sean, I’m sorry,” she said. My surprise and relief initially silenced me. She didn’t know about my tiny indiscretion. Now that I was in the clear, I wanted her to beg. I didn’t want to give in to her so quickly.

“About?”

“Sean, let’s not play like everything is okay. Can we really talk?” She plopped herself on the leather armchair across from my desk. She tucked a few loose strands of her brown hair behind her ears. Her hair was swept into a ponytail atop her head, my favorite style. I put down my papers and pen and gave her my undivided attention.

 “Okay, let’s talk.” Angelica took a deep breath and bit the bottom of her lips. Whenever she bit the bottom of her lip, I knew she was rearranging the words in her mind so they were delivered with exact precision. 

  “I apologize about how I’ve been acting today.”

“Continue.”

“When I saw how the people responded to you, I got jealous and overreacted.”

“This was more than an overreaction, Angelica. You destroyed the breakfast I made for you and then ignored me the whole day, and I did nothing wrong. I don’t even care about this Pastor Bae thing.”

“I know, Sean, but I do. When I saw how effortlessly you drew the attention of thousands with just a naked picture, it reminded me of the misogyny that still exists in the world today. Heaven forbid I pose in a bikini. Do you know how many times I would have been called a Jezebel or whore? But you take off your clothes, and you’re #PastorBae. It’s just not fair. Had I been born male, my life would have been significantly easier.”

“You never have to fight when you have me by your side.”

“Oh, so you my god now and gonna fight all my battles?”

“He can fight the spiritual ones, and I’ll fight the earthly ones. How does that sound, my delicious mocha frappé ?”

“Ok, Mr. White Chocolate Mocha.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear. So, are you finally over, #PastorBae?”

“I can be.”

“Oh, geez, what is it going to cost me this time?”

 “The network called today. They want to move forward with the television ministry.”

“Angel, that’s wonderful!” I kissed her to celebrate, but her expression stopped me. “Isn’t this a good thing?”

“They have conditions.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “They want us to be co-pastors.”

The words hung in the air like a lingering fart.

My throat tightened. “Co-pastors? But I’m not—I don’t—” I ran a hand through my dark black hair and attempted to organize my thoughts. “Angelica, I’m a professor. I filled in for you because you were sick. That’s all.”

“Sean, the numbers don’t lie. Attendance doubled. The offering more than doubled. The network thinks having both of us would attract a broader audience.” She finally looked at me, her brown eyes pleading. “It would be a husband-wife power team, sharing the pulpit.”

“No.” The word came out harder than I intended. I softened my tone. “This is your dream, Angelica—your ministry. I have no desire to pastor. My life is in the classroom, teaching students about literature and the Bible, not preaching from a pulpit.”

“I know this isn’t ideal for either of us,” she said quickly. “But could you at least think about it? What the network’s offering is beyond anything we imagined. National exposure, resources for our community programs, everything I’ve—we’ve—prayed for. We could do so much good in the world, Sean.”

I paused before speaking. I needed to think. I walked over to the window in my study and stared at our expansive backyard, where we’d talked about building a playground someday when our prayers for a child were finally answered. I saw her greenhouse, where she went religiously every morning at 5:00 a.m. to check on her flowers. It was a hobby she inherited from her mother. I knew it doubled as her prayer room because, in the mornings, I often saw her praying in there as she tended to her flowers. I turned toward her.

“Angelica, we could barely handle #PastorBae. Are you seriously ready for the comparisons of sermons? The excessive compliments from women? The jealousy from both men and women? Are we strong enough to survive this if it gets as big as you want it to be?”

“Sean, I can’t handle it alone, but we can do it together. This will be good for your career as well. With national exposure, you may be able to guest lecture at all the Ivies. It could even open opportunities for you to be Dean. Or Chancellor. With popularity comes increased opportunity.”

“All of that sounds great, but have you considered what this might mean for starting our family?” I turned back to face her. “The stress of a national ministry, the travel, the constant scrutiny. It could affect our chances of conceiving.”

Her hand went instinctively to her stomach, a gesture that broke my heart every time. Three failed IVF attempts had left their marks on both of us, invisible scars that still ached.

“Sean, I’m trusting God for a child. He’s going to heal my womb. We won’t need any of that,” she said softly. “But having you as co-pastor would make things easier. We’d share the workload. When I need to rest, or if we decide to try treatments again...” she trailed off, blinking back tears.

I knelt beside her chair, taking her hands in mine. “Angel, look at me. You know this isn’t just about the workload. This is about the politics of church leadership and the responsibility for people’s spiritual lives. This is your calling, not mine. I support your ministry, but that doesn’t mean I’m equipped to share it.”

“You are prepared. Last Sunday proved that. The congregation connected with you in ways they never have with me.” A shadow crossed her face. “Especially the women.”

“Those women aren’t interested in my theology, Angel. They’re novelty-seeking socialites who’ll move on to the next shiny thing that catches their attention.”

“Maybe you’re right, but the network isn’t wrong about the broader appeal,” she persisted. “Your academic background and the way you relate scripture to literature reaches people I can’t reach. Together, we could build something extraordinary.”

“What about my classes? My research? The book I’m working on?”

“You could take a sabbatical, just for a year or six months. See how it goes. Sean, please. Just think about it.” I didn’t respond. I brushed my hands through my hair and stared at the ceiling.

The desperation in her eyes was too much. I watched her leave the study from the mirror's reflection and sank into my chair. The weight of her request pressed down on me like heavy bricks securing a tarp. Hours passed in my darkened study. The house creaked and settled around me, and somewhere upstairs, I heard her moving around our bedroom, getting ready for bed alone. The sound of that solitude felt wrong, like an off-pitch note in a cover song.

My eyes fell on a photograph of her church ribbon-cutting ceremony. She’d been so free then, so full of dreams about her ministry and our future family. The fertility treatments had taken their toll on both of us, but especially on her. Each failure felt like a personal rejection, as if God questioned her worthiness. She never said it out loud, but I saw it in her eyes every time another pregnancy test came back negative. Now, she had a chance at one of her dreams, national ministry—the opportunity to potentially reach millions with her message. And instead of supporting her unconditionally, I was letting my own fears and preferences stand in her way.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through some old photos until I found one from last Thanksgiving. Angelica was holding our friends’ new baby, her smile radiant, but her eyes shadowed with longing. The network deal could mean better doctors and more treatment options. Maybe this was God’s way of opening multiple doors at once.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said aloud to my reflection in the mirror. “You can barely handle speaking in front of your Victorian Literature class some days.”

But then I thought about last Sunday, about how people reacted to my sermon, about Ruth’s loyalty. Sure, it differed from teaching, but it was not entirely unfamiliar territory. I walked upstairs before I’d fully decided. Her bathroom door was closed, but I could see light underneath it. I knocked softly.

“Angel?”

She opened the door. I instantly smiled when I saw her wearing my T-shirt. It looked good on her. I loved when she put on my clothes.

“You’re wearing my T-shirt.”

“I feel so comfortable in your clothes.”

“It turns me on,” I said.

“Sean, I’m not in the mood. I thought you were still working.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, following her into our room. “About the co-pastor position.”

She stilled her expression a mix of hope and fear. I sat on the edge of our bed, patting the space beside me. When she joined me, I took her hand.

“Do you remember what you said at our engagement party? About how God brings people together for love and purpose?” She nodded, her fingers tightening around mine.

“I’ve been sitting downstairs thinking about purpose, calling, and what it means to truly support someone you love.” I turned to face her fully. “I don’t want to be a pastor, Angel. That hasn’t changed. But I want to support your dream. I want to help make this television ministry everything it can be. And if that means stepping into a role I never imagined for myself. Well, isn’t that what marriage is about? Growing in unexpected ways?” Tears pour down her caramel cheeks. “Sean, are you saying...”

“I’m saying yes. To interim co-pastor, to sharing your ministry, to whatever comes next.” I wiped a tear from her cheek. “But I have stipulations.”

She gave a watery laugh. “Of course you do, Dr. Meyers. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“I want to keep teaching, even if it’s just one class. My students matter to me, and honestly, I think maintaining that connection to the academic world could benefit the ministry.”

“Done.”

I continued, more seriously. “I want us to prioritize our family plans. If the treatments take a toll, if the stress becomes too much, we reevaluate everything. No ministry is worth sacrificing our dream of having a child—even if it means turning to surrogacy or adoption. There are so many children that deserve love, and while I still know that God is a healer, sometimes he gives us what we want through other means.”

“I am still trusting God for a natural baby, but I will remain open, Sean.” She threw her arms around me, burying her face in my neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“There is one more thing.”

“This sounds like this might be the most challenging one of all,” she said.

“No firing anyone without my approval. We must both agree. Which means…”

“I have to rehire that bitch, Clare.”

“Language, darling.”

“Fine. How did you find out?”

“She called me crying, so I told her I would talk to you.” 

“Sean, there is something about that girl I don’t trust.”

“Do you trust me?” 

“Yes, but you should have told me you accidentally sent her a naked picture.”

“You’re right, but I didn’t want to cause any more division between you two.”

“I think she has a crush on you.”

“Let her have her little crush on me. We will use what the women love about me and what the men love about you to manipulate them into getting what you want. We need allies, and we can get more bees with honey than we can with vinegar.” As I held her, I caught our reflection in our full-length mirror. I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw a flash of something like triumph in her expression. It was gone so quickly I might have imagined it. I pushed the thought away. This was Angelica, my wife, my heart—the woman who’d captured my soul with her passion for ministry and her dreams of family. Whatever doubts I had about becoming co-pastor, they couldn’t match my certainty about her.

Still, as we lay in bed that night, her breathing evening out into sleep beside me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just stepped into one of the novels I taught. It is a story where every choice, no matter how well-intentioned, sets in motion events that can’t be undone. I pulled her closer, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender shampoo, and tried to convince myself that sometimes a win is just a win. But in the darkness of our bedroom, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it.

9

Angelica: The Announcement

I listened to the harmonies being sung by the choir’s voices. They sounded like a plethora of angels. Their collective voices mimicked an orchestra of instruments, each person playing their note perfectly to achieve a cohesive and melodious sound that was pleasant to everyone in attendance. This was clear by the nodding heads, clapping hands, and singing along with today’s selection.

Polly, the young lady leading today’s selection, was a testament to holding to your dreams. Her simple white dress complemented her modest appearance. A bun held her neatly arranged hair and a light touch of makeup adorned her face. I’d witnessed this lady dreaming of leading a song and watched as she had been improving her voice with vocal lessons for months.

Every Saturday morning, rain or shine, she would arrive at choir rehearsal early to take vocal lessons from our choir director, Lydia Jenkins. She was determined to overcome the slight tremor that had always plagued her higher notes. When the perfect song for her voice was finally found, Polly had been ready. Now she stood before us, eyes closed in concentration, her voice soaring through the verses of, Amazing Grace with a clarity and confidence I’d never heard from her before. The congregation sat transfixed. Some wiped away tears, while others nodded in approval.

As the last note lingered in the air, there was a moment of reverent silence before the congregation rose as one, their applause thundering through the sanctuary. Polly’s cheeks flushed with joy as she accepted their praise with a humble nod. She turned toward me and gave me the signal we agreed upon. She was my reminder to keep hope alive. If this young woman could hold on to her dream, I could hold on to mine.

I stood from my seat and straightened my suit jacket. The weight of the announcement I was about to make pressed against my chest. The thought of it was both exciting and terrifying. As I approached the pulpit, the congregation gradually settled back into their seats.

I cleared my throat and took a sip of water as I gripped the edges of the metallic and glass podium. Today’s news would change everything.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus,” I began, my voice steady despite my racing heart,

“God has blessed us abundantly today through Sister Polly’s gift of song. Let’s give her another round of applause.” I smiled and allowed Polly to take in the accolades before I proceeded. “I have some wonderful news to share.”

“God… speaks to us in seasons. Sometimes, in the quiet places of our minds. Other times, He speaks while we are amid a storm.” I paused, letting my hand rest briefly on my non-pregnant belly, a gesture I’d carefully practiced in the mirror hundreds of times. “Sometimes in the quiet of our deepest disappointments.”

Some members of the congregation leaned forward slightly and lingered on my every word. They were familiar with our struggle, but I’d been careful to share just enough over the years to build sympathy for myself without revealing too much. I saw one of our members wipe the tears from their eyes, and it felt good to know that they empathized with my struggle.

“Sean and I have been on an arduous journey that some of you know too well. It’s a path of hoping, believing, and praying for an outrageous miracle from God. After numerous rounds of IVF and countless prayers, we still await God’s perfect and divine timing.”

I saw several women nodding, their own battles with infertility creating an invisible bond between us. Even Deacon Williams, usually stoic, looked moved. I locked eyes with my parents, who sat in the front row to my left for validation. Both nodded and gave me the go-ahead to continue.

“But God’s timing isn’t just about endings; it’s about beginnings too. As many of you know, we’ve been given the opportunity to expand our ministry nationally through television broadcasts. What you don’t know is that while I was sick last week, lying in bed questioning God’s timing, He gave me a clear vision.”

The sanctuary was so still you could hear a pin drop. Thousands of people held their breath. I sensed Sean’s presence, waiting for his cue—my perfect, reluctant husband, who’d agreed to this for the love of me. The thought nearly broke my composure.

“God showed me that to bring new life into this world, I needed to trust him completely and create space for it. Space in my broken heart, in my home, and yes, even in my ministry.” I gestured toward the side door. “Sean, would you join me on stage?”

My handsome husband emerged into the light, looking scholarly and debonair in his navy blue suit that matched my crème and navy blue ensemble. As he crossed the stage to join me, I heard the appreciative sighs from certain women in the congregation. My stomach clenched, but I kept smiling.

“Many of you experienced my husband’s incredible gift for biblical text last week,” I continued as he reached my side. “What you witnessed wasn’t just a guest preacher or speaker; it was God’s plan being revealed to all of us. Today, I’m overjoyed to announce that Sean has agreed to become co-pastor of Unconditional Love Ministries.”

The applause was immediate and thunderous. I saw the network executives in the back row exchanging pleased looks through my peripheral vision. Deacon Priscilla Preston sat in the back with her legs crossed, determined not to show that she approved, even though she was more than happy with the increase in attendance and offering.

“This divine partnership will allow us to focus on our upcoming television ministry while also creating space in my life for what we pray will be our greatest blessing.” I reached for Sean’s hand, squeezing it perhaps a bit too tightly. “Together, we’ll shepherd this congregation into a new season of growth, both in numbers and in faith.” Sean stepped forward, and I took a sideways step. The applause increased in volume, and people stood to their feet. The clapping didn’t stop.

“We ask for your prayers as we begin this new chapter,” Sean added, his professor’s voice carrying beautifully throughout the church auditorium. “And we thank you for your continued support of this ministry.”

The standing ovation lasted for what seemed like an eternity. I saw phones recording, tears flowing, people feeling the spirit, and dancing as the music began. The spirit of the Lord rained down in our church. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced as a female pastor. It made me think. Was this all because Sean was a man? Did male leadership really matter? For a split second, I regretted my decision and wondered if I had made the wrong choice. I pushed the thought out of my head and took in this rare moment that I hoped was a precursor of more to come.

Once church service concluded, we continued to mingle with the parishioners. Everything should have been perfect, but something was wrong. I felt it in the way Sean’s hand tensed in mine as he checked his phone during a brief lull in the congratulations. His face remained pleasant and professional, but I’d spent years learning to read the microscopic shifts in his expression. Something in that message had disturbed him.

“Darling,” I murmured as we moved toward the lobby, “everything okay?”

“Perfect,” he said, but he was already typing a response, his fingers moving too quickly for casual correspondence. When he slipped the phone back into his pocket, I noticed his hand trembling slightly.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of hugs, tears, and promises to pray for our future child. The deacons couldn’t stop talking about the possibilities ahead. Even my usual critics seemed won over by the combination of personal vulnerability and professional strategy.

But I couldn’t shake the image of Sean’s face when he read that message.

After the final well-wishers departed, I retreated to my office and closed the door behind me.

I sank into my leather chair, letting the mask of certainty slip away. The morning’s performance had been perfect. Sean had played his part flawlessly, every inch the supportive husband stepping up to help his wife’s dreams of motherhood come true. But when Sean read that text message, I recognized the look—I’d seen it before, in the mirror, when my own secrets threatened to surface.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. “Pastor Angelica?” Clare entered with a stack of messages. “The network executives want to schedule a photo shoot for next week, and the Princeton Daily News is requesting an interview about the ‘modern power couple changing the face of ministry’. Also, Mrs. Henderson called twice about hosting a fertility prayer circle.”

I waved the messages away. “Later. How did it really go, Clare? You always tell me the truth.” I was still agitated about bringing Clare back, but this was a calculated surrender. The game of chess has always demanded strategic sacrifices to protect the Queen.

She stood by the door and folded her hands in front of her.

“The announcement was brilliant. Linking the co-pastor position to your fertility journey was inspiring. It made any potential criticism seem heartless.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “But...”

“But?”

“Sean seemed distracted afterward. He kept checking his phone when he thought no one was watching. I noticed this while you all were shaking hands with the parishioners after service. Then, when he said he was going to the bathroom, I saw him outside the men’s room on a call.” My stomach tightened. Sean rarely made calls at church. It was one of his pet peeves.

“Did you hear any of it?” Clare shook her head.  

“No, but when he came back, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.” Or was he told my secret? As soon as the thought came, I pushed it away. Through my office window, I saw Sean in the courtyard. He held his phone to his ear while his free hand gestured agitatedly. As I watched, he ran his hand through his hair. That was one of the telltale signs of his stress. Oh my god, has he found out about Andrew? Does he know what our family has done?

“But the deacons are thrilled,” Clare continued, following my gaze. “Even Priscilla is excited, although she is very keen on not showing it. They’re already talking about expanding the sanctuary to accommodate expected growth. And did you see the initial social media response? The clip of you talking about fertility struggles while announcing a professional partnership has gone viral in Christian circles.”

“Already? It hasn’t even been an hour?” I acted surprised, but I’d done my homework. I’d calculated every word and every gesture, knowing it would resonate with women across the country. The network executives had been right. A husband-wife team was social media platinum, especially with the added drama of our personal struggles. But watching Sean pace, I wondered if the price of this victory would be higher than I’d calculated. Clare’s phone buzzed.

“Do you mind if I take this? It’s my mother.”

“Sure, but when you are done, can we have a conversation?”

“I’ll call her back. What do you want to talk about?” Clare silenced her phone and put it in her purse.

“Clare, I’m sorry about letting you go. That was brash of me, and I should not have acted that way. I should have just given you a verbal warning because you have been nothing but a brilliant assistant. I was just upset at how many people showed up to ogle my husband and how he brought more attention to our church in one day than I have in years after everything I've done. I apologize.”

“It’s okay, Pastor Angelica. It’s hard being a woman in this male-dominated industry.” She stepped forward and touched my hand. “Thank you. I needed that. I’m sorry about calling Sean about it. I should have come and talked to you woman to woman.”

“Well, I didn’t leave you much of an option.”

“Thank you again,” she said.

“Stop it before you make me cry and mess up my make-up. Now go call your mother.” I took a tissue and dabbed the fake tears from my eyes because that was exactly what my mother would do: worry about my appearance. Once Clare exited my office, I took my iced coffee off the coaster and took a sip. I almost cursed when the top broke, and the cold beverage spilled all over my white blouse. I quickly stood up and looked for a towel but could not find one. I searched my office bathroom for one, but there was none there. Sean had probably used the last one while showering before services this morning. We were temporarily sharing an office until one of the empty rooms was converted into one for him.

Across the office, next to the couch, was his gym bag. There is probably one inside there. I opened his gym bag, and while fishing around for a towel, my hand touched something that felt like lace. I froze. Every negative thought that ever existed came into my mind. No, Sean wouldn’t do this to me. I removed my hand from the bag and quickly closed it. Part of me wanted to know, while the other part didn’t. Today had been too perfect. I returned to my desk. This was too much to deal with.

First, it was the orchid and chocolate milk in the driveway, then Sean sneaking on the phone, and now something that felt like a woman’s garment in his gym bag. This couldn’t be happening to me. I went to the bathroom, threw water on my face, and then smacked myself. Pull yourself together, Angelica. I took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom.

I stared at the gym bag and debated whether I should open it. Did I want to know? Of course, I did. I rushed toward his gym bag and opened it before I talked myself out of it.

I fished my hand inside the bag until I pulled out the lacy item. My suspicions were correct. Inside were a pair of women’s pink panties, which were not my size. Anger bubbled beneath my lace front wig. I took the stapler from my desk and threw it at my full-length mirror, shattering it into several pieces. Each shard mirrored the pieces of my shattered heart. Sean was fucking another woman, and deep inside my gut, I knew it was that conniving bitch, Clare.

10

Angelica: The Incident

It’s been three weeks since I named Sean as co-pastor at my church and found the pink lace panties in his gym bag. I just don’t understand why I couldn’t have found the panties before I announced to my congregation that Sean was my co-pastor. Now, contracts have been signed, and people worldwide have seen the announcement. In addition to that, the marquee has been changed, and the website has been updated. Even if I wanted to reverse my decision, I couldn’t. The ink was officially dry.

I thought about divorcing him, but that would make me look like a weak victim. Besides, I don’t think people would tune in to see me preach on Sunday as a divorced and barren woman to talk about the word of God.

There wasn’t any way to spin this in my favor. So, I had another idea. One that most women always criticize other women for doing. I was going to find the broad sleeping with my husband and destroy her, and my genius idea was to host a party celebrating Sean joining Unconditional Love Ministries. I was going to bring the skank out. She wouldn’t miss the opportunity to peek inside the mansion of the man she was fucking, especially since they had probably been sneaking around in low-budget hotels, gyms, or maybe at his university. Was Sean fucking one of his students? I took a deep breath. One thing at a time, Angelica. One thing at a time.

Clare was at the top of my list because Sean had been so insistent on rehiring her, and she was making it obvious by trying not to be in the same room with him. The intentional social distancing five years after COVID-19 was becoming blatantly obvious.

 I watched from my bedroom window as the decorated whores arrived. Their expensive cars lined up like vultures waiting for a kill. The party was barely starting, and my fingers itched to wrap around the neck of the woman who was breaking one of God’s most sacred unions: marriage.

I had instructed the valet, one of my private investigator’s henchmen, to park each vehicle while ladies in cocktail dresses tottered up our curved driveway. I’d had my private investigator follow Sean previously, but he’d found nothing so far.

 This was my idea because I needed the valet to check the vehicles that had GPS to see if any of their cars had been to my home, the church, or his university. I would figure this out if it were the last thing I did. It was Sean’s idea to hire security because he said we should ensure all the vehicles were properly looked after, and I agreed. He also wanted to give one of his students the opportunity to earn some cash because tuition at Pennington was expensive.

Downstairs, I could hear Sean’s voice carrying through the foyer. The rich baritone that had once weakened me in the knees was now being used to serenade other women. It made me want to scream. He greeted everyone, playing the perfect pastor’s role like he was born for it. And maybe he was. My husband had always known how to work a crowd, especially when that crowd wore perfume and 4-inch heels.

“Mrs. Myers? The first round of hors d’oeuvres is ready to be distributed.”

I smoothed my emerald—green dress. It was a Tom Ford creation that cost more than most of these church ladies made in a month. I also checked my new wig one final time. Tonight’s choice was one where the hair hung to the middle of my waist. It screamed corporate dominance. Perfect for a woman about to hunt down her husband’s mistress.

“Tell them to start with the lobster, and it’s Pastor Angelica Myers. Always include my name when merging it with my husband’s name. My identity mustn’t be engulfed by his. I’m a whole person,” I said, my voice steady despite the rage burning through my veins.

“Yes, Pastor Angelica Myers.” Just as I was about to descend the stairs, I heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, Angie.”

I turned to my left, and there he was, Sean’s brother, James. He looked exactly like Sean but was a few years older and blond. His hair was cut short on the sides and longer on top, styled carelessly with his fingers. I rolled my eyes. James stood six-foot-two with broad shoulders and muscular arms visible beneath his fitted black t-shirt. His jawline was sharp and defined, with three days of stubble covering it. A small scar cut through his left eyebrow, the result of a bar fight he’d gotten into years ago.

Tattoos decorated his body. Both of his muscled arms sported them from his wrist to his shoulders. His blue eyes held a different kind of intensity. He was unafraid and often amused at others’ discomfort. He had a habit of maintaining eye contact for uncomfortably long periods.

James was the definition of a bad boy. He rode a motorcycle, smoked weed, and had been arrested twice for disorderly conduct. He worked as a lawyer and made a very comfortable living so he could always bail himself out of legal situations unscathed. He was an atheist who took pleasure in debating believers, and he drank whiskey straight from the bottle.

“Look what the devil dragged in,” I replied. James was the type of guy that knew he was attractive. He moved with confidence, taking up space in every room he entered.

“You know I don’t believe in no devil, but legend says he was the most beautiful angel.”

“An angel condemned to hell because of his arrogance.”

“Or maybe God doesn’t like competition.”

“James, why are you at a party with a room full of church people?”

“I’m here shopping for Christian pussy.”

“Why are you so vulgar? None of these women would give you the time of day.”

“Every woman here would give me the time of day. Even you, if you would stop being so uptight. Besides, Christian women need their backs blown out sometimes. Don’t they, Angie?” He brushed his hand against my cheek and sent shivers down my body. His fingers were rough and calloused, leaving a trail of warmth on my skin. “Is my brother blowing your back out?” He leaned forward and breathed in my ear; his breath was hot against my neck. “I think you chose the wrong brother. You wouldn’t have to hide who you really are from me because I’d love every part of you. The scandalous parts, the freaky parts, and the crazy and rageful parts. You could let your hair down around me.” He kissed me on my neck, his lips lingering longer than they should have, and then whispered in my ear. “Call me if you need me to blow your back out. “

“I’ve been waiting to have a taste since the first day I saw you.”

“I’m going to tell Sean. You’re being inappropriate.”

“After ten years, you’ve never told him, and you won’t because I’m all the family he has. You couldn’t bear to see how it would hurt him. Besides, I think you like the idea of me. I think that when my brother is fucking you, you sometimes think of me.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

“See, that’s the Angie I like, the raw, unadulterated Angie. The one that won’t mince her words for her perfect cover model husband.”

“Enjoy the party, James. I have guests I need to mingle with.” I left James upstairs and descended our curved staircase. I knew he was watching. Although I would never admit it to him, I liked how he flirted with me, but it was wrong on so many levels to have any positive feelings for this beast of a man. We had unresolved issues that I had every intention of handling in due time. But right now, I didn’t have time to play games.

I had a mission for tonight’s party and wouldn’t lose focus. Sean and a cluster of ladies from our congregation stood directly under our crystal chandelier in the center of our foyer. For a brief moment, I imagined an earthquake happening and the chandelier crashing on top of them all. I knew earthquakes were rare in Jersey, but a girl could dream. These skanks hung on his every word. My husband, with his perfectly fitted pink sweater and Kenneth Cole glasses and that stubble he knew drove women crazy, was giving them his full attention. That same attention he’d once reserved only for me. Was he wearing pink to match his mistress’s pink panties? I cast that thought out like Pentecostal preachers cast out demons.

“There she is!” Deacon Priscilla called out, her voice carrying over the quiet hum of light conversation and soft jazz. “The woman behind the man.” She raised her glass of wine in my direction, but her eyes held that same calculating look they always did when reviewing the church finances. She was a numbers woman indeed. I hid my anger under my imaginary veil. Did she say woman behind the man? Sean immediately stepped forward, probably reading my facial expression. “I think you mean the woman in front of the man.”

“No, I meant what I said. Men lead, and women follow.”

“Then why don’t you follow the butler into the kitchen and help with the hors d’oeuvres, Deacon?” I leaned in toward her. “Don’t forget I can end you with two flicks of an Atlanta gay man’s wrist.” I watched as she downed the last of her wine and followed the butler into the kitchen. Her overweight ass needed to stop eating and go on a 40-day fast like Jesus did. Maybe then she could find a man with her burly ass. I turned my attention to my favorite deacon.

“Deacon Williams, I’m so glad you could make it.” My gaze swept the room, taking in every detail like a psychological thriller reader with a personal vendetta against self-published authors. “The church’s support means everything to us during this transition.”

“Speaking of support, I noticed the newsletter went out late this week. Everything alright with the communications team?” My fingers tightened around my clutch. Clare hadn’t arrived yet, but the mention of the newsletter made my blood simmer. How many late nights had she and Sean spent “working” on it?

“Just a small technical glitch,” I replied smoothly. I moved through the crowd like the serpent in the garden of Eden, playing hostess while watching Sean's interaction with the female guests. The way Sister Matthews touched his arm while laughing. How the soloist, Polly, kept laughing at his jokes. But when Clare finally arrived, my careful composure threatened to crack.

She wore a navy- blue dress that hugged her curves without being inappropriate for a church function. Tasteful. Professional. It was something I would wear. It was exactly the kind of thing a woman would wear when trying to hide that she was sleeping with her boss’s husband.

I watched as Sean’s eyes found her across the room. It was subtle. He was too smart to be obvious, but I caught how his expression softened momentarily. The same way it used to soften when he looked at me. I felt a tug on my arm. I turned around, and it was my mother.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Angelica. There are millions of eyes on you now. You can’t afford to be careless.” My mother must have recognized the fury in my eyes, even if she didn’t know exactly what was causing it. I hoped she assumed it was because of all the female attention he was getting tonight.

“I’m not doing anything you wouldn’t do.”

“But I don’t have a multi-million-dollar empire that could all come crashing down with the wrong headline.”

“You worry too much, Mother. Have a little faith.” I downed the rest of my drink and then made my way over to Sean and his harem.

“Beautiful home,” Clare said when she reached me, her voice carrying that sugary saccharine sweetness. “Thank you for having us all over to celebrate. This party was a great idea. It’s a fantastic opportunity for the church to see you and Sean outside the pulpit. Everything is so calculated with you, Pastor Angelica.”

“Of course,” I replied, noting how she kept glancing in Sean’s direction. “Actually, could I borrow you for a moment? There’s something in my office I need your opinion on.”

“Sure.” She followed me upstairs without hesitation. Trusting and stupid. I led her into the master bathroom instead of the office and stood between her and the door before she could question the location change. I pulled the lace panties from my clutch and put them in front of her face so she could get a good look.

“Clare, I’m going to ask you this question one time, and if you lie, what follows will not be nice.” I could see the fear building in her eyes.

“Are these yours?” The words came out surprisingly calm, considering the inferno raging inside me. “I found them in Sean’s gym bag in my office.” Clare’s face paled.

“What? No, Angelica, I would never.”

“Clare, are you fucking my husband?” My voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“Of course not! This is crazy.”

“Prove it. Take off your panties. I want to see what type of panties you have on. I want to see the size.” She backed away, her professional demeanor cracking.

“This is harassment. You could get sued for this.” Clare dashed for the door; I slammed it shut with such force the walls seemed to shake. My hand gripped her arm, fingers digging into her flesh.

“PULL OFF YOUR FUCKING PANTIES OR I WILL RIP THEM OFF YOU MYSELF!” The scream tore from my throat, echoing off the marble surfaces. My composure had finally shattered, revealing the rage beneath. Clare’s body trembled, and tears welled in her eyes as she realized how dangerous this situation had become.

“Please, Angelica...”

“NOW, AND IT’S PASTOR ANGELICA.” I released her arm but continued to block the door, my breath coming in heavy pants. Sensing there was no escape, Clare’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Tears streamed down her face as she reached under her dress with shaking hands. She dragged down her silk panties, stepping out of them before holding them out to me like a child who had taken too many sweets from the candy bowl.

I snatched them from her trembling fingers, frantically comparing them to the silk ones from my office. Hers were at least two sizes smaller. The evidence that had seemed so damning moments ago now mocked me. I crumpled both pairs in my fist and stepped closer to Clare, who pressed herself against the wall. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you won’t just lose your job. I will make sure your life is destroyed. Do you understand me?” She nodded rapidly, mascara running down her cheeks.

“Put yourself back together,” I spat, throwing her underwear at her. “And fix your face. You look pathetic.”

Seconds later, Clare pushed past me and fled through the door, her heels echoing down the hallway, leaving me standing in the bathroom holding a pair of underwear and the remaining remnants of my dignity. I found my composure in the mirror, adjusted my wig, and descended the stairs again. The crowd parted slightly as I approached, whispers already circulating.

“Everything’s fine,” I announced with a smile. “Poor thing just got some bad news. I’ll check on her again shortly.”

Sean appeared at my side, his voice low and urgent. “What did you do?”

I turned to him, maintaining my perfect hostess smile. “I did nothing wrong. Now, let’s continue mingling with our guests. We can’t be anti-social at our own party.”

As I rejoined the celebration, I caught Deacon Priscilla Preston watching me with knowing eyes. Not too far away, I saw my mother standing with my father as they both shook their heads in disapproval. Let her watch. Let them all watch. I hadn’t found my husband’s mistress yet, but I’d proven one thing: I was willing to do whatever it took to protect what was mine. And this was just the beginning. I had GPS records to examine. I would find her, and when I did, she would be destroyed.

11

Sean: Confrontation

Darkness greeted me as I stirred awake in our master suite. For a moment, I forgot where I was in this sprawling six thousand-square-foot house. Then I remembered the eye mask Angelica insisted we wear to get eight hours of quality sleep. She’d read an article that stated any light while sleeping reduced our sleep quality, and even though I didn’t want to wear it, I knew that if I didn’t do it, I’d hear about it.

I peeled off the mask, the silk catching slightly on my four-day stubble. Part of me knew I had a workout and needed to get up, while the other part desired my comfortable mattress to cradle me like a mother does her newborn child. I wanted to sink deeper into its expensive embrace and push away the memory of last night’s co-pastor celebratory party. I tried to eradicate the image of Clare’s tear-streaked face as she fled past our carefully curated crowd of Princeton’s finest. My hand absently traced the smooth edges of my abs—the result of private sessions with Princeton’s most exclusive trainer, another necessity of our public life. “A pastor’s body is a temple,” Angelica always said, though lately, her eyes lingered on mine in a way that felt more possessive than proud.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. I knew I wasn’t supposed to have my phone in the bedroom, but I was paranoid about the cryptic text messages I’d been receiving. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the harsh blue light. It was 5:47 AM, and three messages waited for me.

Clare’s voicemail appeared first. I took a deep breath and then played it, wondering what her side of the story was since Angelica had been mute on the issue.

Sean, we need to talk about last night. Your wife cornered me in the bathroom and demanded I remove my fucking panties to see if they matched the pink ones she had in her hand. Then, she threatened to ruin my professional career if I didn’t stay silent. I’m getting a lawyer, Sean, because I can’t take any more of this.

My stomach tightened. Fuck, how did she know about the pink panties? We’d been the perfect pastoral couple just twelve hours ago, greeting guests in our cathedral-ceilinged foyer. The power couple of Princeton’s fastest-growing ministry. Here I was, in grey Calvin Klein sweats, reading messages that threatened to shatter it all. I knew I would have to approach Angelica about this, but how do I do it without sounding like I’m sticking up for Clare and not supporting my wife? Ten years of marriage had taught me that choosing sides, any side, was dangerous territory. Especially when your wife is super pastor Angelica Myers, the woman who could move a congregation to tears one moment and destroy someone’s life the next; now that I’m co-pastor, the politics were even more complicated.

One wrong move, and I’d be seen as undermining her authority, challenging the woman who built this ministry from the ground up. The congregation watched our every move, waiting to see how this power dynamic would play out. Last night’s party was supposed to celebrate our partnership, not expose its fault lines. The second message made my blood run cold, the unknown number like a digital ghost:

You’ve ignored my messages. If you don’t meet me. I’ll go to the national news with this secret, and it will destroy everything you’ve built.

I switched off the screen, my thumb hovering over the power button as guilt, anger, and fear warred in my chest. I had good intentions for becoming co-pastor, but it’s starting to feel like I am placing the final card on an unstable tower of cards. One breath could see it all come crashing down. The memory of Clare’s face last night, tear-streaked and terrified as she fled past our guests, had haunted my dreams. Had Angelica really said and did what Clare was accusing her of? The questions I’d rehearsed all night pressed against my teeth, demanding release. As co-pastors, we were supposed to be a united front. But how could I unite with something that felt so wrong?

The sound of barking and screaming from downstairs made me jump. My bare feet landed heavily against the hardwood floors, each step echoing through our bedroom as I sprinted downstairs. In the backyard was Angelica with a shovel, trying to protect herself against the neighbor’s bloodhound. I walked out, crouched down, and called for the dog to come to me. I was a dog whisperer, and dogs liked me. He came straight toward me and licked my face. This was the neighbor’s dog that always found itself in Angelica’s flower garden. It’s the reason she had a greenhouse built. But despite closing the door, he somehow always found a way inside.

“Get that bitch out of my garden. You know I hate those filthy animals. It tried to kill me.” The dog growled at Angelica. I grabbed it by the collar, stroked it, and calmed it down.

“Angelica, go into the house.” She looked like she wanted to combat me, but she knew when to test me and when not to. Once she was in the house, I took the dog around the front and knocked on the neighbor’s door. I knew it was early, but this had happened too many times, and I was afraid that if this dog showed up in our yard again without me being here, Angelica might kidnap it or do something worse. That thought troubled me. After about three minutes of knocking and ringing the doorbell, Peter came to the door.

“Hey Peter, I just wanted to bring Coal back over here. He was in Angelica’s flower garden again, and she wasn’t too happy.”

“I’m so sorry, Sean. My handyman is on vacation, and I’ve been swamped with work. I promise I will get our fence fixed as soon as I can. Please send me the bill for the damage he caused and tell Angelica I’m sorry. I don’t know why, but he loves being over in your yard. He’s been doing this since your in-laws lived here.”

 “It’s fine. Can you keep him on a chain or leash until your fence is fixed?”

“Sean, you want me to chain my dog up at his own house? I don’t see you asking the neighbors to chain up their cat when she’s prancing on top of your fence.”

“Peter, no one puts a cat on a leash.”

“And I don’t put Coal on a leash when he’s in his own yard.”

“Fine, I’ll repair it myself.”

“Sean, I don’t mean to be rude. I just don’t believe in chaining animals while they are at their home. Please send me the bill if you can get it repaired before me.”

“Sure, just try to keep Coal out of our yard. The last thing a man wants to hear is his wife screaming first thing in the morning.”

“I understand.” Peter’s voice lowered. “I used to have a wife… before she went and disappeared on me. We had a perfect life, then poof—gone. Everyone keeps saying she left, but I know someone took her. Judy wouldn’t just leave like that. And the police? Useless. That damn Judy…” I glanced at my watch. Late again.

“Thanks, Peter. See you later.” I hated cutting him off, but I didn’t have time to relive Judy’s disappearance for the thousandth time. I was all Judyed out. Peter was in his early fifties, stuck in the past like it was still warm and breathing. He never moved on. I don’t think he could.

When I got home, I found Angelica in the greenhouse, on her knees in the dirt, her hands wrist-deep in the soil. She didn’t look up when I walked in.

“Angelica?” I knelt beside her. “What’s wrong? You haven’t been yourself these last few weeks.”

“Sean,” she said while she watered her plants. She didn’t make eye contact with me.

“Did you leave an orchid in a vase filled with chocolate milk in the driveway? I’m missing an orchid. I count them every morning, and I’m missing one.”

“An orchid in chocolate milk? Why in the world would I do that? Angelica, I don’t come in here because it’s your private place. And why would anyone put an orchid in chocolate milk?” She locked eyes with me for the first time since I came into her greenhouse this morning, searching for a hint of deception, but I’m sure she could only see bewilderment in my eyes.

“Hmm, next question.” She lifted her skirt and snapped the elastic band on her pink panties. “Whose panties are these? I found them in your gym bag when looking for a towel to wipe myself off.” Fuck.

“Angelica, I have no idea whose those are,” I lied.

“Sean, don’t lie. They were in your gym bag.”

“Angelica, just think for a minute. I have a PhD in Theology. I don’t mean to brag, but smart men like me wouldn’t leave pink panties in a gym bag in their wife’s office. That’s amateur and sophomoric. If I were going to cheat, I’d do it in a place where you wouldn’t find out. Not at church in my wife’s office.”

“So, how did they get there?”

“I’m not sure, but did you at least consider that someone is trying to pit us against each other?” I let that thought sink in momentarily before adding, “Like one of your deacons?” I knew this could cause unnecessary drama and possibly blow up in my face, but I needed the heat off me.

“You think they hate me that much that they would try to destroy my ministry?”

“Well, you know I love you, so they are more likely guilty of this than me, don’t you think?” Her eyes squinted at me as she considered this, and then her glare softened just enough to give me hope that I could get myself out of this. Not wanting to lose this opportunity, I said, “We will get to the bottom of this, and I’m guessing, based on what happened last night and the fact that Clare walked out on her own two feet, that you confronted her and learned she’s not the culprit.”

Her lip turned up in a snarl, but I could tell my suspicion was correct. “I despise her.”

“You hate her because you feel threatened.”

“I’m not threatened by her.”

“You are. She’s young, beautiful, and she has an incredible work ethic. She’s a mini you. As your co-pastor, I’m telling you to get over yourself and make it right. The last thing we need is a lawsuit.”

“She threatened to sue?”

“Yes, so put on your fake smile and invite her to one of you and your mom’s makeover weekends and fix this.”

“Fine.”

 “Now apologize to me and give me some sugar.” I puckered my lips, and she placed her soft, full lips against mine. I had disarmed a grenade, and I needed a drink to celebrate.

“So, I saw you bought a pregnancy test.”

“The pregnancy test was negative.” I watched the hope drain from her face as she stared at the single line.

“We should see Dr. Templeton,” I suggested, keeping my voice gentle. “Get a blood test, something more accurate.”

“Sarah waited until she was ninety,” she snapped, that familiar wall of faith slamming down between us. “Hannah prayed until God opened her womb. Elizabeth was barren until God sent John the Baptist. They didn’t need fertility treatments or blood tests.”

“God works through medicine, too.” The words were worn smooth from repetition. As if right on cue, my phone vibrated. Another message from Clare.

Sean, please. I need to talk to you. What she did wasn’t right. I’m scared.

Angelica must have seen something in my face. Who keeps texting you?

“Work,” I lied. “Department stuff. We’re still discussing how to balance my being co-pastor and professor.”

Her glare once again softened. I’m getting better at this lying thing. Maybe too good at it.

She studied me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ll go see Dr. Templeton,” she said finally. “I’ll ask Mom to come with me this time. Do you mind staying home?”

The words hit like a slap. “Your mother? Angel. Why does she always have to go with us? She’s at every appointment and every treatment, and now you don’t want me to go at all.”

“Sean, she knows what it’s like to struggle to have children. I was her miracle baby. I need her there. Can you please let me have this, and let’s not argue about it?” She wouldn’t meet my eyes, her fingers twisting in her lap. “Please, Sean. Try to understand.”

“What’s to understand?” The bitterness in my voice surprised us both. “You always run to them. Every decision, every crisis. It’s like they’re the ones you’re married to sometimes.”

“That’s not fair.” She stood, swaying slightly. She reached for me, but I stepped away. “They’re my parents.”

“And I don’t have parents.” The words escaped before I could stop them. Angelica went very still, her face hardening into that mask I was seeing more and more lately.

“Sean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--” My phone buzzed again. 

“Forget about it,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “Forget it. Go with your mother.”

I disappeared into our walk-in closet to get dressed in workout gear. I had missed my training session, but I needed to get some air, and the best way to do that was to go for a run. The bathroom still smelled faintly of her perfume, mixed with the sharp scent of vomit. On the counter sat a negative pregnancy test, mocking me. It was one more disappointment in a marriage that suddenly felt like it was built on shifting sand. One more card in the tottering tower. If only I had chosen a different deck of cards all those years ago.

I deleted all the messages on my phone, but their weight remained heavy as stones in my pocket. If I had chosen Sandra Newman instead of committing my life to Angelica, I’d probably have a happier life. But the deeper I got tied into the web of Angelica the more I realized I wasn’t the spider. I was the prey.

12

Angelica: Mommy’s New Girl

The restaurant we chose was Clare’s favorite, Captain’s Cove Seafood Emporium. It stood between a discount tire shop and a vape store. It was in the strip mall we used to frequent before my ministry took off. A giant plastic swordfish hung above the entrance, its faded blue paint chipping around the edges. Inside, fishing nets draped the ceiling, interspersed with plastic seashells and miniature buoys. The walls featured poorly framed photographs of customers holding up fish alongside laminated “facts” about ocean life that no reputable marine biologist would endorse.

Red vinyl squeaked beneath us as I shifted uncomfortably in the booth. The establishment reeked of fried food and discount air fresheners. Poor people ate here regularly, congregating around all-you-can-eat specials advertised on laminated menus.

 A family with three screaming children occupied the booth behind us, the parents too exhausted to intervene as their youngest smeared ketchup on the wall. The waitstaff wore matching blue polo shirts with embroidered anchors, their forced smiles barely concealed their misery. I hated it viscerally because it reminded me of poverty, a life I experienced with my parents during my early childhood years. I knew my worth now. I normally refused to eat at places that reduced me to something less than the powerful woman I had become. My mother and I waited tensely at the booth, sipping lukewarm water from smudged glasses until she walked in.

When Clare appeared, my mother straightened her posture and enthusiastically waved her over. “Clare, we’re over here, darling,” she called, her voice dripping with manufactured warmth.

“Ugh, you’re so fake,” I muttered through clenched teeth, feeling my heartbeat quicken with each step Clare took toward us. My mother leaned in, her expensive perfume clouding the space between us.

“It’s called getting what you want, my dear. Now take off your shades and prepare to apologize before you let this hussy destroy everything you’ve built.” Her eyes narrowed, a warning in them I recognized from childhood. Then she added in a whisper, “Trust me.”

Clare approached our table with deliberate steps; her chin tilted upward. Her cream blouse and tailored pants looked too expensive for her salary. The confidence in her walk was new, replacing the eager-to-please assistant who once brought me coffee and hung on my every word. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Webster. Thank you for inviting me.” My mother put her hand on my thigh, her manicured nails digging slightly into my skin. I obeyed the signal and removed my designer sunglasses, revealing eyes that hadn’t slept properly in days. I plastered on a fake smile that appeared genuine and felt like concrete hardening in the pit of my stomach.

“We’re so glad you agreed to come and have introduced us to this fun restaurant. What appetizer do you recommend?” Mother was playing her role perfectly, setting me up for a layup of feigned sincerity. “Mother, before we order, I need to say something.”

Mother showed a beautifully curated mix of concern and approval on her face as she sat back, not quite touching the disgusting vinyl. At the same time, I leaned forward and let my eyes portray utter regret and sincerity before I spoke. “Clare…” I began, my words rehearsed to perfection. My mother nodded encouragingly, her fingers still pressing into my flesh. I swallowed so much pride I was amazed that I didn’t gain ten pounds in one sitting. The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

“What I did to you in that bathroom was horrible, unprofessional, and completely unacceptable. I found some female underwear in my husband’s gym bag, and the thought of Sean cheating with someone younger, prettier, and more fertile than I made me act out in such a regretful manner. I’ve also been very unfair to Sean, but he has forgiven me. We’ve discovered that a disgruntled parishioner put it in his bag. I should have trusted you and Sean, but my insecurities overtook me. I know that is not a sufficient excuse for my abhorrent behavior, so please accept this offering as a token of my apology and appreciation.”

I placed a check for $25,000 in front of her, sliding it across the sticky tabletop with my fingertips. The paper made a soft scraping sound against the laminate. Clare stared at the check for several long seconds. The restaurant buzzed with conversation, but our table remained an island of tense silence. “Angelica,” she finally said, her voice flat, her finger tapping the edge of the check. I could see the hurt in her eyes, a wound deeper than anger. She had once looked up to me and called me her spiritual mentor.

“It’s Pastor Angelica.” The correction escaped my lips before I could stop it, my title the last shred of dignity I clung to. I felt my mother’s fingernails dig further into my knee beneath the table.

Clare smiled thinly, revealing teeth too white to be natural. “Pastor is a title that’s earned, so, going forward, I will call you by your first name until I feel you are worthy of the title.” Her words hung in the air between us. Did this bitch just question my worthiness? The woman who answered phones and organized potlucks? The woman I mentored, promoted, and trusted?

“I agree completely,” my mother interjected, raising her eyebrows and pressing her lips together with a tilt of her head. She was a master of body language, effortlessly portraying empathy. “She’s been acting very bitchy lately, even to me, and I’m her mother.” The betrayal stung, but I caught the briefest flicker in my mother’s eyes, the same look she’d given me when teaching me to play spades. I remained silent, counting breaths to control my anger, trying to understand her strategy.

Clare nodded, leaning forward. “It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one.” She picked up her water glass, took a sip, and placed it down with calculated precision. “To accuse me of sleeping with Sean when I’ve been nothing but an excellent assistant. To corner me in the bathroom, screaming about panties I’ve never even seen, let alone worn.”

“Girl, I have stories,” my mother said, her voice lowering to a gossipy whisper. She touched Clare’s wrist, an intimacy that made my stomach turn. “What she put you through was inexcusable.”

I slammed my palm against the table, causing our water glasses to jump and several nearby diners to turn their heads. “Are you all really going to just sit in my face and talk about me?” My voice came out louder than intended, and I immediately regretted the outburst. My weakness was exposed. Clare folded her hands calmly atop the check. “Angelica, I know this little payment is hush money, so I don’t file a lawsuit. I know I could walk away with a million plus settlement, but that’s not what I want.” Her confidence seemed to grow with each word.

“What do you want?” I asked. A bead of sweat trickled down my back despite the restaurant’s aggressive air conditioning. Clare counted off on her fingers, her nails freshly manicured in a shade of red that matched our church logo. “I want to be a deacon with voting rights. I want a fifty-thousand-dollar bump in salary. I want my title changed to an Executive Administrative Assistant. And I want to be allowed to preach once a quarter.” Each demand landed like a blow.

“I can’t add another deacon. It’s against the bylaws,” I said, my words coming out in a hiss. The leather of my purse creaked as I gripped it. “And I’m not sharing my pulpit with a non-credentialed kid.” The last word was meant to wound, to remind her of our age difference, our status gap.

“We can’t add another Deacon, but we can replace one,” my mother interjected. “You’ve wanted to get rid of Priscilla for years, so this looks like a win-win for everyone.” Her eyes gleamed with calculation. Neither of us had liked Priscilla. The woman had been a thorn in my side since I took over the church. My mother tapped her wedding ring against the table three times, our childhood signal for “I have a plan.” Clare smiled victoriously, tucking the check into her purse. “Have your lawyer draw up all the details, and I will make sure Angelica signs this along with your NDA agreement.”

The waiter appeared with a tray balanced on his palm. “Ladies, I have the grilled salmon with asparagus, the lobster mac and cheese, and the fried shrimp platter with extra hush puppies.” He distributed our plates with practiced efficiency. “Can I get you anything else? Perhaps some wine to go with your meals?”

“What a wonderful idea,” my mother said before I could decline. “A bottle of your house white, please.” The waiter nodded and retreated. I stared at my salmon; the fish arranged artfully atop a bed of rice that couldn’t disguise its frozen origins. Clare immediately dug into her mac and cheese, the strings of yellow pulling upward with her fork. My mother delicately separated a shrimp from its breaded companions. I said nothing, watching as my carefully constructed world crumbled between the plastic lobster decorations and the all-you-can-eat shrimp special advertised on a chalkboard nearby.

The wine arrived, poured into stemware that bore water spots and the faint lipstick traces of previous patrons. My mother raised her glass. “To new beginnings and productive partnerships.”

Clare lifted hers eagerly. “To my new position.” I raised my glass mechanically, the cheap wine sour on my tongue as we clinked glasses. Clare’s eyes sparkled with victory, unaware that my mother was playing a longer game. My mother turned to Clare, her smile warm and inviting in a way it hadn’t been toward me in years.

“Clare, darling, I think this calls for a celebration. What do you say we go shopping? There’s a boutique at Waterside I think would suit you perfectly.” Waterside was where she had taken me after every major victory in my life, from college acceptance to my first sermon.

Clare’s expression brightened. The hurt girl who had once worshipped me was now basking in my mother’s approval. “I would love that, Mrs. Webster.”

“Call me Carolyn, please. I think we’re beyond formalities now.” My mother gathered her purse and then glanced at me. “You’ll take care of the bill, won’t you, Angelica? We have things to discuss, plans to make.” Her eyes held mine for a meaningful second, the slightest nod communicating what her words could not.

I nodded stiffly, understanding intellectually what she was doing but still feeling the knife twist in my heart. “Of course, Mother.”

Clare stood, smoothing her pants. “This was productive, Angelica. I look forward to my new position.” She walked ahead toward the exit. My mother leaned down, ostensibly to kiss my cheek goodbye. “Let her think she’s won,” she whispered in my ear. “I’ll find out what else she knows about Sean. Trust me.”

I watched them leave, my mother’s arm linked with Clare’s, their heads tilted together in conversation. The rational part of me understood my mother’s tactics and her lifetime of manipulating situations to my benefit. But sitting alone in that tacky booth, staring at the remnants of our meal and the lipstick-stained water glasses, I had never felt more abandoned.

The waitress approached with the check. “Will there be anything else?”

I shook my head, reaching for my wallet. Even knowing my mother was playing Clare, the sight of them walking away together reopened wounds from childhood, times when her schemes had protected me but left me feeling hollow. For the first time, I wondered if victory at any cost was truly victory at all.

13

Angelica: Deacon Clare

I was getting ready to do something I would probably regret. I was trading one devil for another. After that dinner with Mom and Clare, I had no choice but to make Clare a deacon. We couldn’t take another scandal, and after the incident I caused at the party, my options had dwindled to nothing. On the bright side, we would eliminate Priscilla, which would be a relief. I stood up from behind the table and began my speech.

“I’ve called you here because it has come to my attention that one of our deacons was a co-conspirator in the embezzlement of church funds.” I gestured toward the front. “If you look at the PowerPoint slide, you’ll see emails and text messages linking this deacon to the embezzlement. I also recently discovered that our last pastor was her brother-in-law—information she never disclosed.” I paused for effect. “That deacon is Priscilla Preston, and I intend to vote her out today. Her actions go against our bylaws and the word of God.”

“I’ve done no such thing!” Priscilla shot to her feet. “This is libel, slander, and defamation of character.”

“Was our last pastor your brother-in-law?” I asked calmly.

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Then why didn’t you disclose it?” She was speechless. I could see anger boiling beneath her skin, her composure cracking.

“There is no need to vote me out,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “I resign effective immediately. I should have disclosed that information, but I did not steal any money. Angelica fabricated these numbers.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked around the room. “She’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Beware.” She grabbed her things and marched out the door, leaving a heavy silence behind.

“That leaves one position open and no one to break the tie,” one of the remaining deacons pointed out.

“I’m glad you mentioned that,” I said, forcing a smile. “I present to you the perfect candidate, Clare Wellington, who we all know well.” Clare stepped forward, beaming.

“I’m so excited about this opportunity.” The deacons smiled and welcomed her, but I sensed hesitation in their expressions. Just as I was about to speak again, Clare continued.

“I know some of you may be concerned about my qualifications, but here’s a list of my accomplishments.” I watched as she passed out her résumé to the other deacons. She continued, her voice warm and earnest. “More so, this proven track record was achieved in this church. I have been here through the good, the bad, the ugly, and I’m still here. I believe in this church and all the good this board has achieved and will achieve. I want to be a part of it and learn from all of you as a fellow deacon while maintaining my role as Angelica’s assistant, which after my recent promotion, is now Executive Administrative Assistant.”

 Her strategy of stroking their egos appeared to be working, though some didn’t seem convinced. She glanced at me briefly before addressing the group again. “Just so you know, I am not asking for a salary for being a deacon, and the title change is a formality with no pay bump.”

I saw them come around one by one, their doubts melting away as Clare’s transparency won them over. This girl was good. Too good. She was Angelica Myers, good. Capitalizing on the moment, I jumped right into the vote. “All those in favor of Clare as the new deacon say ‘aye.’” A chorus of ayes rang out.

“Thank you, Clare, and welcome,” I said, hiding my unease behind a practiced smile. “If you all have no other questions, the meeting is adjourned.” After all the deacons left, I pulled Clare aside.

“Why would you tell them there was no increase in pay? All pay increases have to be approved by the board.”

Clare smiled a hint of steel beneath her pleasant expression. “The board isn’t paying for the fifty-thousand-dollar increase—you are. That would be the ethical and Christian thing to do since you are the one who caused this mess, not the church.” Her eyes gleamed with something that looked uncomfortably like triumph. “Besides, you can afford it. I saw the new contract for your television ministry, and I’ve seen your closet. It’s just the price of one of your many Birkins. Good day, Angelica,” she added sweetly, turning to leave before I could respond.

I watched her walk away, my smile fading as I clenched my fists at my sides. “It’s Pastor Angelica,” I growled beneath my breath.

14

Angelica: Mommy and Daughter Time

My mother always insisted on the 6:30 a.m. appointments. Before the regular office hours, when Dr. Templeton’s other patients filled his waiting room with their hopeful faces and swollen bellies. She said she did it to protect my privacy as a pastor, but I knew better. Even now, watching her write another check with too many zeros, I could see what she really thought. Her broken daughter needed protection from the sight of all those other women. The ones whose bodies didn’t betray them.

“It’s just routine bloodwork,” I said, fingering the gold cross at my neck. “You didn’t have to come, and you don’t have to keep writing these checks. I can cover the expenses myself.”

Mom tucked her checkbook into her Chanel bag the same way she tucked away secrets–smoothly, efficiently, without a crease to show what lay beneath. “You aren’t still mad about the Clare thing, are you, dear?” I folded my arms and turned my back to her like a four-year-old child.

“You took her to our favorite store. That was a family tradition.”

“Trust me, darling; I know what I’m doing. My loyalty remains with you.”

On the receptionist’s desk, a fertility statue caught my eye. It was a large, rounded bronze goddess with a plump, fertile belly. It looked like it was the size of an Oscar or Grammy. I’d preached against idol worship, the danger of putting anything before God’s promises. Now, I wondered if the statue was bronze or gold and what it might cost to have one at home, just as an art piece, of course. There's nothing desperate about that. Mom caught me looking, and something flickered across her face. She started to speak but stopped. She’d been doing that more lately.

“Mrs. Myers?” The nurse appeared in her crisp white uniform. “Dr. Templeton will see you now.”

“I’ll just have a quick word with him first,” Mom said, standing before I could protest. “About the payment arrangements.” She always insisted on these private conversations and careful arrangements. I watched her follow the nurse down the hallway until she met up with Dr. Templeton. Their voices dropped to whispers as soon as they thought I was out of earshot. But I caught fragments:

“—She needs to tell her husband— I can’t keep doing this.”

“You can and you will—” my mother said, her lips still moving between snippets.

I gripped my Bible tighter, my French-manicured nails leaving imprints in the leather.

Even the doctor believed I was without hope. He was wrong. They all were. God had promised me this miracle, and God didn’t lie. I just needed more faith. More prayer. More time.

“Angelica?” Mom was back, but her smile was too bright. “He’s ready for us.” As I stood, I pretended not to notice how she watched me. Like I was a crystal vase about to shatter, I couldn’t quite place the doctor’s expression. He almost reminded me of a trapped animal, but it was more like the fear of failure etched on his face. But I was right. I was whole. Soon, I would have my miracle, even if I had to destroy anyone who tried to stand in God’s way.

Dr. Templeton's office smelled of criticism. The same snobby certificates lined his walls, along with the same medical diagrams that I’d memorized over the past fifteen-plus years. I could recite them in my sleep now. They discussed the phases of conception. The miracle of life. A miracle he kept telling me was impossible as if he knew God better than I did.

“How are you feeling, Angelica?” He didn’t look up from my chart, his pen scratching against the paper like a mouse trying to escape a trap. I noticed he’d lost more hair since our last visit, and his wedding ring was missing. Divorce has a way of aging people. I’d seen it enough in my congregation to recognize the signs.

“Blessed,” I replied. “The prayer circle at church has been claiming my miracle. Sister Jenkins had three miscarriages before God blessed her with twins.” Mom shifted in her chair beside me, that same unreadable expression crossing her face.

“Angelica,” Dr. Templeton set down his pen, finally meeting my eyes. “We need to discuss your options realistically. I think you should start looking at other options.”

“I will carry a child,” I cut him off. “I’ve been fasting. Praying. God gave Sarah a child at ninety. Sarah!” I could hear my voice rising and feel that familiar heat in my chest. “God specializes in impossible situations.”

“Baby,” Mom reached for my hand, but I pulled away. I didn’t need her comfort. I needed her faith.

“Mrs. Myers...” Dr. Templeton glanced at my mother, some unspoken communication passing between them. My skin prickled. “Given your medical history…”

“My medical history is not my destiny,” I said the words like I was behind my pulpit, commanding faith into existence. “The women in my church are standing with me. We’re believing for a supernatural conception.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but I wasn’t finished. “Did you know there’s a woman who got pregnant after the same surgery I had? It’s documented. The doctors couldn’t explain it, but God. There are so many stories on Reddit that talk about this.”

“Angelica, you can’t even verify if the Reddit stories are accurate, and taking extreme cases and applying them to your situation is not a good way to judge your odds. Your situation is completely different.” His voice was firmer now. “You need to consider telling Sean the truth about⁠—”

“The truth?” I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor. “The truth is God doesn’t give you a desire without fulfilling it. The truth is that my husband and I will have our baby. And the truth, Dr. Templeton, is that your practice depends heavily on referrals from my congregation.” Mom was on her feet now, too. “Angelica, please⁠—”

“No.” I turned to her, years of suspicion suddenly crystallizing. “What did you say to him before my appointment? What are these private conversations you two keep having?”

The silence in the room was thick enough to choke on. Dr. Templeton’s eyes darted between us like a trapped animal. But it was my mother’s face that caught me. There was pain there, an understanding that ran deeper than I could fathom.

“I’m claiming my miracle,” I said, softer now but no less certain. “And I won’t let anyone stand in the way of God’s promise to me. He told me I would carry a baby when I was a little girl, and I will.”

I grabbed my purse and Bible, turning to leave. Behind me, I heard my mother whisper an apology to the doctor. She was always cleaning up after me, trying to fix what she thought was broken.

But I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t. God would prove them all wrong. I took the fertility statue from that office and put it inside my bag.

I didn’t speak as I walked to the hospital chapel. Mom followed silently, the way she had all my life. She was always present but sometimes distant, carrying secrets I could feel but never quite grasp.

The chapel was empty this early. I’d always loved how churches felt in the morning before people filled them with their doubts disguised as prayers. Dropping into the first pew, I patted the space beside me, a peace offering.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me I’m being unreasonable,” I said, eyes fixed on the cross ahead. Mom sat close enough that our shoulders touched. “No, baby. I’m going to tell you that I understand.”

“Do you?” I turned to her sharply. “Do you understand what it’s like to feel incomplete? To have your own body betray you? To want something so badly that—” I stopped, catching the look in her eyes. There was something there I’d never seen before; it was like she was seeing straight through to my soul.

“You know, I know,” she whispered. “You were my miracle baby.”

“Then why don’t you believe with me? Why all these secret conversations with Dr. Templeton? Why can’t you just stand in faith with your daughter?”

She reached for my hand, and this time, I let her take it. Her fingers were warm and steady. These hands had always wiped my tears, fixed my hair, and somehow always knew exactly what I needed.

“Angelica,” she said softly, “sometimes God’s biggest miracles look nothing like we expect.”

“Don’t give me platitudes, Mother. I get enough of those from the prayer circle.” But my voice cracked on the words. “I just... I need this. Sean needs this. The church needs this testimony.”

“The church needs you. Sean needs you. Not some miracle.”

I pulled my hand away, standing abruptly. “You don’t understand. A pastor who can’t have children? Do you know what they whisper? That it’s God’s judgment. That I’m cursed. That⁠—”

“Stop it.” Mom’s voice was sharp and shocking in the quiet chapel. “You are not cursed. You are exactly who you’re meant to be.” Something in her tone made me look at her. For a moment, I saw past my mother’s perfect exterior to something underneath, something that mirrored my pain so perfectly it took my breath away.

“Mom?” She touched my cheek gently.

“Pray, baby. But pray for acceptance, not just for miracles.”

I watched her leave, her steps as graceful as ever. Turning back to the cross, I pressed my hand to my flat stomach.

“They just don’t understand,” I whispered to the empty chapel. “But you do, don’t you, God? You understand I must be complete. I must be whole. Must be...” I stopped the word ‘whole’ dying on my lips.

“I’m claiming my miracle. God, if you truly love me, please bless my womb with a child,” I whispered one last time, but the words felt different now, heavy with something I couldn’t name. Standing, I gathered my purse and Bible. It was my armor against a world that kept trying to tell me who I was and what I could and could not do.

15

Sean: Lake Carnegie

I watched Carolyn’s Mercedes disappear around the corner. Angelica was in the passenger seat. They were headed to another “routine” appointment I couldn’t attend. Seconds after they were gone, a text came through.

Meet me at Lake Carnegie Marina in thirty minutes. I have the answers you want about your wife.

My first instinct was to delete it. My second was to call Angelica. I did neither.

Instead, I stared at the three dots appearing and disappearing on my screen, my coffee growing cold on the kitchen counter.

Your wife isn’t who you think she is. But then again, neither are you, Professor.

The reference to my own secrets made my throat tighten. I glanced at my laptop, thinking of the Sandra Newman letters hidden behind my password. Who was this person? What did they know? A final message appeared:

Tick tock, Professor. Some truths don’t wait politely.

Twenty minutes later, I was pulling into Lake Carnegie Marina parking lot. The fog rolled off the lake in thick waves as the nippy air flowed through my open window. The place was deserted this early. I’d passed this spot countless times on my morning runs but had never noticed how isolated it felt. I never realized how removed it was from the manicured perfection of Pennington’s campus.

“Turn back,” I muttered to myself, hands tight on the steering wheel. “Just turn around and go back home.” That’s when I smelled it, cigar smoke. I could see the orange glow of a cigar tip peeking outside a cracked window. A black SUV sat idle five yards away, its windows tinted beyond legal limits with no license plate. As I watched, the driver’s window lowered just enough to release a perfect smoke ring into the heavy air. I got out of my car and headed toward the parked vehicle.

“Dr. Myers.” The voice was deliberately pitched low, almost theatrical. “Right on time.”

“Who are you?”

“Just the messenger.” He released another batch of smoke into the atmosphere. I waved my hand to keep from ingesting his secondhand smoke.

“Check your wife’s medicine cabinet when you get home. You’re an educated man, Professor. Check behind the Ambien.”

“How do you know my wife takes Ambien?”

“It’s my job to know.”

“Why should I trust you?” A low chuckle. “Trust your own eyes. That’s all we are asking you to do.”

“We?” The word hung in the air like the cigar smoke.

“Who sent you?”

“Someone who cares enough about your future to risk everything.” The cigar tip brightened as its owner took one last drag before flicking it out the window. “The truth’s a funny thing, Professor. No matter how deep you try to bury it, it keeps rising to the surface.”

The window rolled up, and the SUV pulled away. It disappeared into the fog like a ghost. I stood there momentarily, watching the cigar smolder on the wet pavement.

My hands shook slightly as I got back into my car. The drive home felt too short. Each traffic light was a chance not to pursue this and forget this meeting. It was a chance to choose trust over truth. I parked in the garage.

“Trust your own eyes,” the man had said. Upstairs, our master bathroom waited. It was a medicine cabinet full of either answers or questions I wasn’t ready to face.

16

Sean: The Search

The cigar smoke from the marina still clung to my clothes. Its smell competed with the expensive soap fragrances that permeated our master bathroom. I stood before the medicine cabinet. I saw my fractured reflection in the three mirrored panels; each version of me looked equally guilty. “Look behind the Ambien. Your wife’s secrets are hidden where she thinks you’ll never look.” That’s the line the looped in my brain like a skipped vinyl record.

My hands shook as I opened the cabinet. How many times had I stood here, watching Angelica arrange these shelves with perfect precision? Prescriptions were on the right, while vitamins and supplements were on the left. Even her hair products followed a strict organizational system. Her styling products were on the top shelf, treatments were in the middle, and her daily care belonged on the bottom. The woman I married had a place for everything.

I started methodically. My fingers traced each bottle, noting dates, doctors, and dosages. Everything appeared exactly as it should. The Ambien sat on the third shelf to the right, exactly where it belonged. But when I reached behind it, my fingers found something they shouldn’t have. I found two off-white prescription bottles and a small vial of red liquid tucked into the shadowy recess where the cabinet met the wall. My heart hammered as I pulled them out. I laid them on the marble counter in precise order, just as I’d found them.

The professor in me took over. I opened the bottle to examine each pill, hoping that an online search would tell me what they were, but they were just white round pills. One bottle had a label partly scratched off as if someone had tried to remove identifying information.

Other shelves waited. I moved faster now, less carefully. Bottles clinked against each other. A box of Band-Aids fell, spilling its contents across the counter. In the bottom drawer, beneath perfectly folded washcloths, I found a small leather case containing syringes still in their sterile packaging.

None of it made sense based on what Angelica had told me about her IVF journey.

A small notebook fell open underneath the small leather case, revealing carefully tracked dates and medication schedules in Angelica’s precise handwriting. I photographed each page, hands trembling so badly that some shots came out blurred.

Using a medicine dropper from her precision-arranged drawer, I carefully extracted a small amount of the red liquid into a clean vitamin bottle I’d grabbed and emptied from my drawer. What was she using this for? Why hide it behind other medications? I then took a pill from each bottle and put it into a Ziplock bag.

The sudden sound of the garage door caused panic to shoot through me like electricity. It was Carolyn’s Mercedes. She was back early. I moved quickly and returned everything exactly as I’d found it. Band-Aids back in their box. Washcloths refolded—prescription bottles aligned with military precision. The small vitamin bottle went into my pocket just as I heard the door open downstairs.

“Sean! Look what I picked up.” Angelica’s voice carried up the stairs. I stepped out of our bathroom, jumped on the bed, and opened the Bible beside my bed to look as inconspicuous as possible. Angelica reached the top of the stairs, practically glowing, clutching what looked like baby catalogs to her chest. Just as I opened my mouth to question why she had baby catalogs, her mother came up from behind and gave me a look that seemed to say. Let her have this moment.

“That’s wonderful, Angel,” I managed, the bottle weighing heavy in my pocket.

“Mom and I are going to work in the greenhouse,” Angelica said, already heading toward the door. “I want to show her where the nursery window will look out over the orchids.”

“Have fun, baby,” I said. Angela practically floated out of the room and down the hall, with Carolyn slowly following behind. She stopped at the door, ensured Angelica was out of earshot, and turned back to me.

“Angelica will probably never have a child, Sean. I can’t tell you why because it’s not my place to tell, but just because she can’t, doesn’t make her less of a woman. I’m not asking you to feed into her hysteria. I’m just asking you to let her come to this conclusion herself. This is a tough pill for a woman to swallow.”

“Have you been the one texting me?” Confusion marred her face.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said as she disappeared down the hall.

Through my study window, I watched them emerge into the garden. The designer created the garden with a future in mind. There were spaces for children to play, benches for watching them, and raised beds perfect for little hands learning to plant seeds.

My chest tightened. On her last three IVF attempts, she’d done this–planning nurseries, buying tiny clothes, talking about names. Each time, watching her dreams shatter had nearly broken me. But this time felt different. More desperate. More detached from reality.

I opened the window to say something, anything to temper her hopes before they soared too high, but Carolyn looked up as if sensing my intention. She pressed a finger to her lips, her eyes soft but determined. Let her have this, that gentle gesture said. Let hope live a little longer this one last time.

“Mom, feel this!” Angelica pressed her mother’s hand to her flat stomach. “I swear I felt something this morning.”

“That’s wonderful, baby,” Carolyn said softly, her voice full of nothing but love. She turned back to the orchids, helping Angelica plan where each new bloom would be visible from the nursery window. They moved through the greenhouse together, discussing paint colors and crib placement, while the fertility goddess watched with her eternal, enigmatic smile.

I closed the window, unable to watch as Angelica flitted around the greenhouse.

The sample of red liquid seemed to burn in my pocket. I headed towards my office, passing a fertility statue on the piano on the way. This was worse than I thought. My Christian wife had lost faith and had turned to an idol. I went into my office, closed the door, took off my wedding ring, turned on my laptop, and watched it hum to life. I pulled up my files. The cursor blinked at me as I opened a new letter.

Dear Sandra Newman,

Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. I found something in Angelica’s medicine cabinet today that I can’t explain. She’s down in the garden right now, planning a nursery for a baby, and we are not even pregnant yet. I’m concerned about her. I miss the simplicity of what we had. The honesty. Even in its pain, at least it was real.

~Sean

I stared at the words on my screen, truth and betrayal flowing from my fingers even as I committed my own form of deception. I could still see them through the window–my wife and her mother tending to flowers. Now tucked into my desk drawer, a vial of red liquid held secrets I wasn’t sure I was ready to understand.

I closed my laptop, the weight of too many questions pressing down on me like hands around my throat. What else was my wife hiding? And more importantly, what would it cost us both when the truth finally emerged? The questions had been gnawing at me for weeks, growing from a whisper to a scream I couldn’t silence.

Tonight, as her chest rose and fell into the peaceful rhythm of deep sleep, I made a decision. My trembling fingers took her phone. I knew this invasion of privacy crossed a line I never thought I’d cross, but my wife was hiding something, and I’d never be able to rest until I found out what was so dark and disturbing that she could not share it with me.

17

Angelica: Chocolate Milk

The room was pitch black; the silence was suffocating. It was so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs, a distant, mocking sound of normalcy. I lay motionless on my back, my eyes darting through the darkness, searching for even the tiniest sliver of light. But there was none. Not from under the door. Not from an alarm clock. Not from anywhere.

This was intentional. I tried to move, but cold metal bit into my wrists and ankles. I was cuffed. I writhed against the restraints. My breath quickened as panic settled deep in my bones. Desperation took hold. I opened my mouth to scream.

A hand clamped over my nose, and a sudden rush of liquid flooded my throat. It was coming too fast to swallow, and there was too much to stop. I choked, but the taste hit me instantly. Chocolate milk. A dark figure emerged from the abyss, stepping into the faintest hint of light. My lungs burned as I gasped for air, my mind scrambling to make sense of the nightmare.

“Drink, you manufactured bitch.” The voice sliced through me. Cold. Detached. But his eyes told a different story. It was not a story of anger or rage. It was a story of pain and sadness.

Andrew!

I woke up screaming.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I gasped, drenched in sweat, the name still tearing from my throat. I’m sorry, Andrew. The secret I had buried so deep was clawing its way out. It was spilling over, just like the chocolate milk.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer because Andrew wouldn’t stop until he had taken my perfectly crafted life like I had taken his. I had awoken to an empty bed and the smell of breakfast. Sean’s side was cold; he must have been up for hours. I slid my legs over the side of our king-sized bed and reached for my silk robe. The breakfast tray on my nightstand was a perfect picture of thoughtfulness. He had prepared golden-brown waffles, crispy bacon arranged in neat rows, and fresh strawberries.

Then I saw the milk.

Regular chocolate milk, not my oat milk. My hand froze halfway to the glass. Sean knew I didn’t drink dairy ever since we read an article about dairy potentially affecting fertility. He was the one who’d suggested switching to non-dairy, the one who specially ordered my favorite drinks with oat milk. Hell, when we had run out of oat milk last week, he was the one who’d lectured me about a splash of cream in my coffee potentially disrupting our fertility treatment.

His note leaned against the glass:

Dear Angelica,

Don’t destroy the house like last time. Running errands. Back this evening. Love you. I heard you moaning the words chocolate milk in your dreams, so I got up and got you some.

~Sean

Was I screaming chocolate milk in my dream? If I screamed that, what else had I screamed? Did Sean hear me screaming about Andrew?

I stood, letting my robe fall around me in soft waves, and made my way to our curved staircase. The doorbell rang just as I reached the bottom step. It was probably another package. I’d been ordering things for the nursery, preparing everything piece by piece. I read a book recently that discussed preparing yourself for the things you wanted by acting as if you already had them. I opened the door, and my heart stopped.

On our front step sat another vase of chocolate milk with a single orchid inside it. Not just any orchid. A pink Cattleya. Andrew’s favorite.

My knees gave out. The world tilted sideways as memories crashed through the carefully constructed walls in my mind. It was that last glass of chocolate milk. He’d smiled at me and trusted me, even as I did the unthinkable.

“No,” I whispered, stumbling backward into the foyer. “No, no, no.” 

Someone knew, and they were getting bolder. They left this in broad daylight on my front porch. I burst out the front door, my bare feet stomping against cold concrete. My eyes scanned our perfect suburban street. Out of the side of my eyes, I saw a man walking his dog about twenty feet away. Without thinking, I ran toward him, my silk robe flying behind me like wings.

“Did you leave that?” I grabbed his arm, spun him around, and pointed at my front porch. “The milk? The flower? Was it you?” He stared at me, his golden retriever whining at the tension. “I’m sorry, what⁠—”

“Don’t lie to me!” My voice rose, edging toward hysteria. “Who told you? Who knows?” I was drawing attention, and eyes were turning toward me. Just like that, my pastor training kicked in. I released his arm, smoothing my robe, forcing my face into the serene mask I’d perfected over years of ministry.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice honey-sweet. “Pregnancy hormones, you know how it is. Have a blessed day.” I walked back to my house. I held my spine straight and my head high. I could feel his eyes on me. Once inside, I leaned against the closed door, heart hammering. I needed to call Mom. Where was my phone?

My hands shook as I searched my robe pockets. Empty. I went back upstairs to check the nightstand. I checked the breakfast tray and the bathroom counter, where I sometimes left it while doing my morning routine. Nothing.

Room by room, I moved through our perfect home. First, I checked the kitchen counters. Then I checked the living room sofa and the prayer room. I even checked the nursery, though I hadn’t been in there since yesterday’s shopping spree.

I emptied my designer purse onto the marble foyer floor. Out came my makeup, wallet, and church keys, but it wasn’t in there. I tossed the couch cushions. I pulled out drawers but found nothing. The house that had been immaculate an hour ago now looked ransacked.

“Think,” I whispered to myself. “Think.” I went and grabbed my work phone.

Walking through the house one last time, I dialed my personal number from my work phone, listening for the ring. The sound led me down the hallway until I stopped dead in front of Sean’s study.

There it was again. My ringtone was muffled but clear. It came from behind his locked door. I couldn’t believe it. Sean had stolen my phone. Omg, did he know my secret? Did he know what I had done?

18

Angelica: Unraveling

I stood outside of Sean’s office door and leaned my ear against it while I called my phone again. Maybe it’s a coincidence; he left his phone in the office, and I had just called it at the exact time it rang. I knew that thought was illogical, but I wasn’t ready to accept that Sean might find out that I had killed Andrew. My phone’s shrill ring pierced the calmness of the house.

Immediately, I panicked. Had he guessed my passcode? Had he seen those pictures? I turned the doorknob, and it was locked like always. My phone was in his office, and I needed to know why. This was the only room I didn’t have a key to because it was his private space. We believed in privacy.

My sanctuary was the greenhouse, and his was his office/library. But since he had taken my personal property into his private place, I felt like I had every right to pry his door open. I quickly went downstairs and rummaged through one of our junk drawers until I found a flathead screwdriver. I attempted to pry the lock by wedging it through the small keyhole, but it wouldn’t budge. I only had one other option. Break the smokey double glass doors. I grabbed a hammer and broke the glass until I could reach in and unlock the door.

I moved toward his desk with deliberate, predatory steps. The computer hummed softly, its screen dark except for a faint standby light. I grabbed my phone lying next to his computer. It was still locked. I checked my sent text messages and emails to see if he had forwarded anything to himself, but no messages had been sent. I could only pray he hadn't taken pictures of my photos with his own device. My husband's desk was meticulously organized, but today something was different. His platinum and gold wedding ring lay beside the keyboard.

I stared at the simple platinum and gold band, my breath catching in my throat. He never took off his ring. Never. Not when he showered, not when he worked, not even when he slept. It was a point of pride for him—a constant symbol of our commitment.

My fingers trembled as I moved the mouse. The screen flickered to life, but it was password-protected. I was confused because he always kept his computer unlocked. I examined the computer more thoroughly and realized this wasn’t his main computer. This one was the color of midnight, and the one I knew of was space gray. Why did my husband have a second computer that was password-protected? My mind was immediately trampled with doubt and fearful thoughts.

I entered my first password attempt; one we used for our joint accounts: Sean&Angelica

It was incorrect. I tried my second attempt, his deceased parents’ names: Sheila&Donald

It was also incorrect. I thought long and hard about my third attempt and tried to think like a man and not like a woman. A divine thought came into my mind, and I knew this was the password before I even entered it. I typed in my third password: #PastorBae

Bingo, I had access. I used the mouse to roam the screen until a name on a folder caught my eye.

“Sandra Newman.” It was in plain text against the blue background of the desktop. My hand hovered, then clicked.

Thousands of letters, small and short, were in this file. Not dozens. Not hundreds. Thousands. The first letter I read made my vision blur. “I want to build a life with you and have a child,” it read. The words burned into my retinas, searing away years of memories, trust, and love.

My husband had been writing to some strange woman named Sandra Newman about having a child. While I had been struggling and waiting for God to fill my belly, he had been crafting intimate emails to another woman about building a family. The ring beside the keyboard mocked me now. Did he take off this ring as a sign of respect for this virtual mistress? My hands shook, not with sadness or grief, but with rage.

I scrolled. Letter after letter. Thousands of digital confessions that stripped away everything I thought I knew. The dates stretched back ten years. I did some math in my head—there were over 3700. That meant he had written a letter to this woman every day of our marriage. When I thought he was crafting lectures, he wrote love letters to a mystery woman, telling her everything about our marriage. These letters discussed our struggles with fertility, our sex life, and his anger towards me. It reminisced about a love they shared in the past.

He was sharing the things he should have been sharing with me, with another woman. My hands moved quickly. I began printing all the letters off, and I didn’t stop. The printer made his intangible thoughts tangible.

A scream formed in my throat. Something primal. It came from a place deeper than pain. I opened my mouth, fell to my knees, and let it out of my body. Once I was done, I stood up and yanked out his desk drawer. Papers from his research scattered like roaches at the sight of light. My mother’s voice echoed in my head. “Calm down, Angelica. Stay calm.” I ignored her. I grabbed my phone to take pictures, not to call or text. I needed documentation and evidence.

When we divorced, I was getting everything, and I was going to leave him broke and penniless. My hand swept across his desk, sending the laptop crashing to the floor.

“Why am I not enough?” I shouted. I grabbed the crystal paperweight he used for grading papers and hurled it at his degrees hanging on the wall. The glass shattered spectacularly, raining down like hail.

His bookshelves were next. I pulled volumes of Victorian literature down by the handful, ripping pages from bindings, shredding his careful annotations. Shakespeare, Dickens, and his Lexicons. All the authors he’d quoted during our courtship, using their romantic words to weave a web of lies around me.

“You preppy bastard! No woman would even want you if it weren’t for me making you into the man you are!” The words echoed off the walls as I overturned his desk chair, kicked over the wastebasket, and pulled books from shelves with such force that one of the built-in bookcases partially detached from the wall.

My ring suddenly burned against my finger. In minutes, I was at the fireplace, both rings in my trembling hands. I threw them in the fireplace and then headed to the kitchen to grab my butane torch that Sean used to make me Crème Brulé. I pointed that torch at the rings until they started to melt. The flames caught the engraving - faith, hope, love turning them into darken gold blobs. I grabbed the poker, stirring the molten metal, watching our promises melt into nothing. The heat from the fire dried the tears on my face before they could fall. But it wasn’t enough.

I moved to our master bathroom. I grabbed his expensive aftershave I’d bought him for Christmas, his monogrammed towels, and the watch collection displayed in its leather case. I gathered them all, dumping everything into the massive walk-in shower.

The flame reflected in the bathroom mirror as I set it all ablaze. The fire spread quickly, feeding on lotions and oils. Black smoke curled toward the ceiling as designer bottles melted and warped. The sprinklers kicked on, so the house didn’t burn down, but it continued to do enough damage to matter.

His closet was next. The suits hung in perfect order. Everything was color-coordinated and organized by season. I watched as each one caught fire, expensive wool igniting with a satisfying whoosh.

The smoke alarm screamed its warning, but I was already moving toward the garage. Paint cans lined the shelves from our recent renovation. Blue. Yellow. Red. I grabbed them all, stumbling back to his study where his broken laptop lay. The blue paint went first, flooding the keyboard, seeping into every crevice where his lies to his precious Sandra Newman had lived.

Yellow followed, then red, creating a toxic rainbow of destruction.

His precious Porsche convertible sat in the driveway, gleaming in the morning sun. How many times had he driven to meet her in this car? The key’s edge made a perfect tool for carving. I dipped my keys in the paint and spelled:

YOUR BROTHER across the driver's side.

HAS A on the back window.

BIGGER DICK across the trunk.

The paint cans came next, emptying their contents across the pristine silver finish. Blue paint dripped like tears. Yellow splattered like sin. Red streaked like blood across the hood.

My legs gave out, and I collapsed beside the ruined car, my fingers clawing at my hair, pulling until pain shot through my scalp. The lies, betrayal, and years of deception were too much.

“Why?” The scream tore from my throat, echoing off the manicured houses of our perfect Princeton Street. “Why wasn’t I enough!!!!” Paint and blood mixed on my hands as I knelt in our driveway, surrounded by the wreckage of my marriage. The sprinklers were still screaming their warning, water pooling around my knees. Smoke from the burning suits wafted from the bedroom windows.

I threw my head back and screamed one final time, a sound of pure anguish that shattered the peaceful morning quiet of our prestigious neighborhood. Let them hear. Let them all hear. Let them whisper and gossip and judge. I was done pretending to be perfect. I was done trying to be enough. I was just done.

Paint dripped from my hands like blood dripped from Jesus’s hands. Soon, the neighbors would call the police. Soon, Sean would return home. There would be consequences, questions, and judgments. But for now, I knelt in the wreckage of my carefully constructed life, covered in paint and blood and truth, surrounded by the embers of my broken marriage. My broken vow.

19

Sean: Exposure

After realizing that my wife had been keeping a huge secret from me, I felt ambivalent toward her. One part of me wanted to hug her and show her extreme empathy and tell her everything was going to be okay, but another part of me wanted to curse her ass out and file for separation. I didn’t even react when my friend at the university lab told me what the red liquid and pills were. I simply nodded and left. This secret was too big. She didn’t even consider my feelings.

It was like I was living with a stranger. Had my wife been sick this whole time and hiding it from me? What kind of person hides this diagnosis from their husband? Is this why she didn’t want me to go to the doctor with her and why she always took her mother? Was it to keep me in the dark?

 I pulled into our driveway. The first thing I saw was my Porsche, and I was immediately sick to my stomach. Various paint colors dripped down its sides like blood; words carved deep into the metal. My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I pulled into the driveway, the headlights illuminating the destruction. YOUR BROTHER HAS A BIGGER DICK. Those words would have hurt a lesser man, but I’d seen my brother naked plenty of times while showering after workouts, and it wasn’t bigger. I was more upset about my car.

I’d spent the day wrestling with what I’d found in her medicine cabinet, trying to understand why my wife would hide something so significant—now, staring at my ruined car, a different kind of dread settled in my stomach. She knew about my tiny indiscretions. I didn’t know how much or what she knew exactly, but the day I had dreaded had now arrived, and I had no choice but to deal with the consequences ahead. I stepped into the house.

It was pitch black when I entered. My hand instinctively reached for the light switch. Nothing. Just empty clicks in the darkness. My other hand went to my pocket, fingering for my pocketknife. Was someone waiting in this darkness for me? “Angel?” My voice sounded hollow.

That’s when I smelled it, smoke. “Is something burning?”

“Where is your fucking ring?”

“Huh?” I asked. At that moment, I realized I had left my ring in my office. Fuck. I was so in a hurry to discover her secret that I had forgotten to cover my tracks. What had been a gesture of love for Sandra Newman would now shatter my marriage.

“Your wedding ring, Sean. Where is it?”

“I left it upstairs in my office while putting on lotion.”

“Wow, you must really love her because you are lying to protect her.”

“Angelica, I smell smoke. Is everything okay?”

“Don’t worry, the firemen extinguished the fire and just left.”

“What happened?” A point of orange light glowed in the darkness near her chair by the fireplace. The ember brightened as she took a drag, briefly illuminating her face before returning to a muted glow. The only other light came from dying embers in the fireplace, casting sinister shadows across our living room.

“In our prenup,” she said, smoke curling around her words, “didn’t I promise to give you the world if you’d just be faithful?” My throat tightened. “Where is this coming from?”

“Motherfucker, don’t lie to me.” Her voice was deadly calm. Another drag from the cigar, another flash of her face in the darkness. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

I stepped forward, my shin connecting with what felt like an overturned table. “Find out what?”

“Everything.” She stood, the ember of her cigar tracing an arc through the darkness. “The cars? The clothes? The lifestyle? Do you think you could afford any of this on your tiny professor’s salary? I gave you everything.”

“I couldn't care less about the money, Angelica.” 

“No?” She moved through the darkness with practiced ease while I stood frozen, blind.

“Then what about the lies?” Light flooded the room with brutal suddenness. I blinked against the assault, and then I saw them. Hundreds of pages covered our walls. My words. My private thoughts. My letters to Sandra Newman were arranged in neat rows, held up by red tape that looked like streaks of blood against our cream walls. “Who is this bitch, Sean?” My heart stopped as my eyes caught fragments scattered across the walls.

I dream of watching our child take their first steps...

Sometimes, at night, I imagine a life where I choose differently...

The fertility treatments are taking their toll on her, but I can’t tell her about you...

“These are private!” I lunged for the nearest pages, tearing them from the wall. Red tape stuck to my fingers as I ripped down letter after letter. “You had no right⁠—”

“No, right?” She was in my face now, cigar forgotten, but smoke still curling between us.

“I had every right! Listen to this one.” She grabbed a page I hadn’t reached yet. “While my wife builds nurseries for babies that don’t exist, I dream of building a real family with you. A real family?” Her voice cracked on the words. I tore more pages down, my hands shaking, the edges slicing into my palms.

“You don’t understand⁠—”

“Then explain it to me!” She grabbed my arm, forcing me to look at her. “Explain why my husband, my co-pastor, is writing fucking love letters to another woman while I’m going through fertility treatments!”

“Fertility treatments, my ass.” The words escaped before I could stop them. “Want to explain the cancer medication in your cabinet? The vial of synthetic blood?”

She dropped my arm like it burned her and took a step backward. For the first time, her composure cracked.

“The Megestrol?” I pressed, following her retreat. “I had it tested, Angelica. Why wouldn’t you tell me you’re sick?”

“You know I’ve been having trouble getting pregnant,” she said softly, but her eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

“Don’t.” I moved closer, forcing her to look at me. “Don’t use that to hide this. Why the blood? Why the secrecy? How long have you been hiding this?” She stayed silent, but I saw something flash across her face - fear maybe, or shame. But it was gone before I could be sure.

“I’ve spent all day thinking you were dying,” my voice broke. “Wondering how long you’ve known, why you wouldn’t trust me with this. And you’ve been going through my private letters all this time, planning this elaborate and theatrical confrontation.”

“Private letters?” Her voice rose again. “Is that what we’re calling love letters now? Tell me about Sandra Newman. Tell me why you’re planning a life with her while I’m building one here!”

I looked around at the walls plastered with my secrets, at ten years of private thoughts exposed like evidence at a trial. Letters about loneliness, dreams deferred, and a love I’d left behind for duty. And suddenly, I was tired. I was tired of secrets, pretending, and building careful facades.

“Call your mom,” I said, turning toward the door. “I’m sure she will have no problem cleaning up after your shit because, frankly, I’m tired of doing so, Angelica.”

The door slammed behind me with enough force to rattle the windows. As I walked to my paint-streaked car, I heard something shatter inside the house. Then another thing. Then another.

I drove away from our once-perfect home. I left the evidence of our mutual betrayals - my private thoughts plastered on the walls and her secrets hidden in medicine cabinets. Behind me, our life together was destroyed by the things we couldn’t tell each other. And somewhere in that ruined house, my perfect wife was finally falling apart.

20

Sean: Brothers

James opened his door, took one look at my paint-stained hands, and reached for the whiskey instead of asking questions. That was my brother. Find solutions first; feelings never. At 37, he still had our father’s build, all muscle, and menace, but tonight his eyes held something softer. Concern, or maybe it was pity. I washed the paint off my hands until they were clean.

“She found my electronic journals,” I said, accepting the glass he thrust at me.

“Goddammit, Sean.”

“What did I tell you about writing shit down? Did you learn nothing from living with Dad?”

“Technically, I did stop writing things down. All my letters were in a separate password-protected computer, but she guessed the password.”

“What was your password?”

“#Pastor Bae.”

“You used the name that had been trending on Twitter after you stole her church? Classic.”

“I didn’t steal her church. I saved it. Besides, it felt good to be the object of other people’s attention. Do you know it stopped my colleagues from calling me Mr. Angelica Webster? They think I’m a simp and that she’s the man of the relationship, and I hate it.”

“Well, Bro, she does wear the pants in the relationship.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you let her run all over you.”

“I don’t.”

“When’s the last time she made you breakfast? Fucked you when you wanted to fuck and not on her schedule? When was the last time she came and just sat in one of your classes and listened to you lecture? But you’re in church faithfully every Sunday, listening to her. You even put your dream on hold for her. I mean, I get it. She’s the baddest black bitch I’ve ever seen, but you can’t let her run over you.”

“Language, brother.”

“I’m not Angelica, and if I wanna say bitch, I’m going to say bitch. But my point is that you need to stop selling yourself short. You have a degree from one of the best schools in the world, earn a six-figure salary without her, and are kinda good-looking.”

“Kinda? I’m Pastor Bae.”

“What happened? It’s not just about the journal, is it? Are you getting some action from this Pastor Bae thing?” I didn’t want to admit it since Angelica still didn’t know the truth, but he could see it written on my face.

“I never thought you would be the type to cheat.”

“I’ve just never had someone perform fellatio on me that well.”

“Fellatio?”

“Oh, brother. It means the sucking of one’s penis.”

“I know what fellatio means Sean. I may not be a religious scholar, but I do have a law degree from Vandermont.”

“Sorry, I’m just use to teaching 22-year-olds all day.”

“It’s okay, so are you telling me you got your dick sucked by someone other than Angelica?” He looked me up and down. “Maybe you’re not a simp after all.” I took another sip of whiskey.

It burned, but not enough to erase the image of my private thoughts plastered across our living room walls. “What do I do, James? I love Angelica, but I’m craving the freedom I have with this other chick.”

“Just tell her you’re sorry and keep seeing the other chick,” James said as if it was that simple. “Just don’t write about your encounter in your journal, ok, genius?”

“You sound just like him. It’s healthy to express your feelings, you know.”

“Maybe Dad had a point. Look where all this writing got you. It got you kicked out of your house and your ass beat by Dad when he found your journal.”

“I left my house. I didn’t get kicked out.”

“Sure, Sean. She probably destroyed your car.”

 ”Dude, she nearly burned down the house.”

 ”She’s hot, but she’s crazy, bro.” He leaned forward, whiskey making him bold. “I just can’t believe you made the same mistake. Didn’t you learn anything when Dad beat your ass after reading your journal entry about you and Andrew kissing?”

“He… kissed… me.” My hands clenched into fists.

“That’s not what Dad said,” James continued, pushing like he always did.

“Stop, James.”

“Stop what talking about the truth? So, it’s okay if you write it down but it’s not okay to speak about your little middle school boy crush.”

“I said stop!” I stood abruptly, my whiskey glass hitting the floor.

“My point is some stories should stay buried. Some sins shouldn’t be confessed, even in journals.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? You have feelings. Fine. But some stuff you take to your grave. Some stuff you don’t talk about or write about. If you’re going to fuck another broad, don’t write about it in a journal at your house, Sean. If you had a boy crush or fucked a guy. You don’t write that shit down.” He watched me pace, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “Just be normal for once, Sean. Deny everything. Move on. Make up something that takes your life back to normal. Tell her it’s for a novel. But please don’t admit to your wife that you have been writing about your mistress. Just lie.”

“Normal?” I laughed; the sound was harsh in my throat. “Like you? Like Dad?”

“At least I’m not the one whose wife just found his secret love letters.” He finished his whiskey. “The writing, the feelings, the constant need to... to process everything. That’s what gets you in trouble. Always has.”

“You’ve never had a wife. You don’t understand.”

“But I’ve had plenty of women, and I know you don’t tell them the truth. You tell them what they want to hear.” I touched my ribs where Dad’s belt had left its lessons, phantom pain from decades ago. “I can’t be what you want me to be.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You never could, just like you couldn’t be what Andrew wanted. Or what Dad wanted. Now it sounds like you can’t be what Angelica wants.” He stood, collecting the fallen whiskey glass. “Sometimes I think that’s why you became a pastor. Trying to write a different story for yourself. Trying to be a different person.”

We sat in silence then, the weight of our different wounds filling the space between us—James, who dealt with trauma through denial and distance. I, who had to write everything down, had to make sense of it all on paper, even knowing the risk.

“You can stay here,” he finally said. “But Sean? Quit writing shit down.”

I nodded, but we both knew I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t. The words would come late at night, demanding to be written. Someday, someone would find them, just like Angelica had, just like Dad had. Just like they always did. I’m just glad she didn’t see the handwritten journals.

“Whatever happened to that kid? I never seen him at school after that day?”

“I don’t know,” I said, but I knew. James was right; no one needed to know that story. It needed to go to my grave.

Tonight, I’d sit in my brother’s spare room, surrounded by the ghosts of all my exposed secrets, and pretend that tomorrow I could be what everyone wanted - normal, respectable, safe.

Even though I knew that was the biggest lie of all.

21

Sean: Real Pastors of New Jersey

After spending the last few nights at my brother’s place, I decided it was time to return home and sort out everything with Angelica. I needed to come clean about Sandra Newman, and she needed to tell me why she had been hiding things if we were going to move forward in honesty and love. We had both done dishonest things. I hoped that some time apart would allow us to reflect on our problems so we could reconcile for our marriage and business’s sake.

As I pulled into my garage, I was surprised to see a line of women standing outside my house. In the front yard was a sign that said, Casting call for the role of Sandra Newman. If your name is Sandra Newman, please stand here. My blood boiled. Angelica was interviewing women to find the Sandra Newman I was writing about? I stepped out of my car and slammed the door. The sound echoed through the neighborhood. Neighbors had stepped out of their homes to see what all the fuss was about. After the fire trucks, my visibly damaged car, and now the line of women outside our home, I knew our neighbors thought either I was driving Angelica crazy or that she was crazy.

I walked into the house and saw Angelica sitting down in a chair, having tea with a beautiful woman. She had a picture of me displayed and had a buffet of refreshments. It looked like she was having a tea party. My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I tried to maintain my composure.

“Well, hello, Sean. Does this young lady look like she could play your mistress in our new reality series, Sean? Because lately, it seems like I’m an actress on the, Real Pastors of New Jersey and not an esteemed pastor with a master’s degree from an Ivy League institution.” Angelica’s voice dripped with sarcasm as she gestured to the woman beside her.

“Could you step outside and excuse us for a minute?” I said to the woman, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“Sure, I’d love to get this part. I think I was made for this role, and my actual name is Sandra Newman.” The woman stood up eagerly, smoothing her dress.

“We will be in touch,” Angelica replied. Once the door was closed, I turned to Angelica. The muscles in my jaw twitched as I fought to control my anger.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

“I’m trying to find the bitch you have been writing love letters to see just exactly what this bitch has that I don’t have.” Angelica stood up, knocking her teacup over. The liquid spread across the white tablecloth, staining it brown.

“Angelica, you are causing a scene.” I gestured toward the window where neighbors came out of their homes to witness the spectacle.

“And Sean, I no longer care because you didn’t care when you started fucking another woman.” She stepped closer to me, her eyes wild with fury.

“I’m not fucking another woman, Angelica.” I ran my hand through my hair, exasperated.

“Don’t fucking patronize me. I saw the panties, and I saw the letters.” She jabbed her finger into my chest. “You are going to tell me who this bitch is, or I promise I am going to destroy your reputation.” Her voice trembled with rage.

“Well, if we’re going to destroy reputations, we can start with yours. Let’s begin with how you lied about your cancer diagnosis and have been lying to your congregation about being on IVF when you really can’t have kids.” The words came out before I could stop them. I watched her face change as the blow landed.

“Sean, I can spin that story into a multi-million-dollar book deal and cause women all over the world to empathize with me.” Her voice grew quieter, more controlled. “Especially now that I have the letters, I can spin it to make you look like such an asshole that no university in the world will want to do business with a man that cheated on his wife while she was going through cancer treatments. I cause people to empathize with people who have been dead for centuries.

I’m well trained in the discipline of manipulation.” She smiled coldly.

“Wow, until now, I had defended you, but now I’m starting to understand exactly why they demoted you as pastor and why the deacon board hates you. You’re not just a bitch; you’re an insufferable, loquacious one.” I stared at her, seeing her truly for the first time. The woman I had married was a stranger to me now. Angelica’s face hardened.

“Get out! Get out now!” She took a plate and broke it over her head. “Before I call those women back in here and tell them all what you’ve done to me!” I watched as she went to the fridge, grabbed ketchup, and rubbed it on her hands and face.

“You crazy bitch! This is my house, too!”

“Technically it’s my parents’ house since it’s still in their name,” she said. Angelica grabbed a glass and threw it at me, and luckily, I dodged it. The glass shattered against the wall behind me.

“Get the fuck out, Sean!” Her voice rose to a shriek.

“Gladly.” I left my home and then yelled at the ladies waiting outside. “The reality show has been canceled. The creator is a deranged psychopath who needs medical help. If you all knew what’s best for you, you’d leave.” I watched as the ladies slowly dispersed, some of them looked disappointed, others concerned. I refused to be in another room with her without a trained professional there to mediate the situation. My wife was a train wreck, and I would not be alone with her as she crashed.

22

Angelica: The Therapy Session

Dr. Edwards’s home office was a carefully curated space. Soft leather chairs were positioned like they were in magazines. The color scheme was muted earth tones. Bookshelves were filled with clinical texts and worn family photographs that whispered of human complexity. Even the air felt curated, scented with subtle lavender that was probably used to bring an ambiance of peace to this place.

I sat at one end of a beige couch, Sean at the other—the distance between us a calculated eighteen inches that might as well have been miles. The fabric beneath my fingertips felt rough, almost accusatory. I did my best to maintain my composure, but inside I was seething.

Sean hadn’t been home or spoken to me since the night I cracked a plate over my head; he didn’t know it was a breakable plate I had purchased online from a prop shop. I wouldn’t dare harm this beautiful body. It cost me too much. My breast augmentation alone was over $15,000.

He wasn’t even answering my phone calls. He texted me once to say the only way he would talk to me was with a therapist. I was the one who should have been setting the terms because he had cheated on me, but I decided to play his game. I deliberately wore a tailored black dress and pulled my hair back tight into a ponytail like Sean liked. It was weird. I was mad at him, but I still wanted him to know what he was missing by staying with his brother and not with the gorgeous wife he had betrayed.

I studied Sean from the corner of my eye. He looked like a man wearing a suit of armor that was slowly rusting from the inside, his shoulders hunched, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. A vein pulsed at his temple—the same one that throbbed when we made love when we fought, when he lied. I knew every inch of his body, yet the man inside had become a stranger.

Dr. Edwards observed us with the careful neutrality of someone who knew that the most dangerous moments often disguised themselves in seemingly ordinary conversations. His analytical gaze reminded me of my father’s. It was searching for weakness. I’d spent a lifetime learning to guard against such scrutiny.

“What brings you here today?” he asked. The question was simple. The subtext was anything but. I caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his pen hovered above his notepad. He already had theories. They all did.

My response was immediate. I’d rehearsed this moment for days and practiced my expressions in the bathroom mirror until they seemed natural. I reached into my handbag. The leather felt cool against my fingertips, grounding me. I produced a stack of letters, edges worn from my repeated readings, each one memorized until the words seemed branded on my brain. My manicured fingers were adorned in my favorite color, “Petty Pink,” which I had applied just hours before.

“These,” I said, my voice a razor blade wrapped in silk, practiced to perfection in the acoustics of our marble bathroom, “are letters to a woman named Sandra Newman.”

I watched Sean’s reaction with the intensity of a predator. It was visceral. A muscle jumped in his jaw—the right side, always his tell. His eyes, for just a moment, looked like something fragile was shattering behind them.

“Dear Sandra Newman,” I read, emphasizing each syllable as if it were a small dagger, “The fertility treatments aren’t working. The doctors say our chances are slim. I don’t know how much longer she can hold on.” I paused, watching him, waiting and savoring the terrible power I held, yet feeling my stomach twist with each word. A part of me wanted him to have an explanation that would make this all disappear. Another part knew better. I reached into my bag again, feeling the silence stretch like an over-wound spring. Then, I produced the pink panties—delicate lace incongruous against the serious backdrop of the therapy session. The fabric dangled from my fingertips like evidence at a crime scene. “Found these in his gym bag,” I said, my voice lower now, threaded with ice. “Not mine.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

I watched a bead of sweat form at Sean’s hairline. Good. Let him squirm. Let him feel a fraction of the humiliation that had been burning through my veins since I found them tucked carelessly beneath his running shoes as if I wouldn’t see them. Sean’s explanation came quickly, defensively. “She wouldn’t understand.” The last words carried a warning, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You should ask her what she did after she found out. And about what she’s been keeping from me. And about her temper.”

I laughed, a brittle sound even to my own ears echoing unnaturally in the controlled atmosphere of Dr. Edwards’s office. “My temper?” The audacity of his deflection made something crack inside me, a fissure in the carefully constructed facade I’d maintained for years.

“I had surgery,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself with the abrupt change of subject. The words had been locked inside, growing heavier with each passing month. “I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer. They removed an ovary.” The words tumbled out like I was discarding something unpleasant, something shameful. My hand instinctively moved to my abdomen, feeling the ghost of pain from the healed incision.

“It took place in Switzerland at a private facility.” I remembered the sterile room and how I’d awoken alone.

Dr. Edward leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking softly. I noticed a tiny stain on his otherwise immaculate white shirt—coffee, perhaps. An imperfection that seemed suddenly significant. “Angelica, this is information you should share with your husband. Medical conditions and potential fertility issues are critical matters in a marriage.”

“Are you taking his side? I knew I should have switched to a female marriage therapist.” I felt my eyes flash with indignation, heat rising to my cheeks. The room suddenly felt too warm, too small, the lavender scent cloying.

“I’m offering professional guidance,” the therapist responded, his tone measured, infuriatingly reasonable. “Transparency is crucial.”

“Transparency?” My laugh was sharp enough to cut human flesh. “What about his secrets? His letters? His entire hidden life?” Each question felt like tearing bandages from wounds that hadn’t healed. I remembered the night I’d found the letters, the sickening lurch of my stomach as I scrolled through message after message. The wine glass I’d shattered against the wall. The silence that followed. Sean had been silent throughout my outburst. But something was building behind his eyes. A storm. A confession. I recognized the look. I’d seen it once before; it was the night he told me about his father’s gambling debts we’d have to pay.

“She’s dead,” he blurted. The words fell like stones into still water. “Sandra Newman is dead. And it’s my fault.” The room seemed to contract around those words. My carefully orchestrated confrontation crumbled. This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t what I had prepared for. Tears came to his eyes. Not gentle. Not the performative weeping of television dramas we binged on Sunday evenings, pretending to be a normal couple. This was the raw crying of a man carrying an unbearable weight. I’d never seen him cry like this—not at his mother’s funeral, not during our worst fights. It paralyzed me.

“I was writing those letters,” he continued, his voice breaking in places I didn’t recognize, “to appease the guilt I’ve been carrying about what I did to her.” His eyes blazed with intensity. “So go on, Angelica—be jealous of a dead woman because you’re not even half the woman she was.”

The words landed like a physical blow. I felt my breath catch, my ribs seeming to contract around my lungs. The perfect retort that I’d crafted dissolved on my tongue. It was useless now. Silence descended. I could hear the ticking of Dr. Edward’s desk clock.

Dr. Edward watched us.

Not judging.

Not intervening.

Simply observing. His pen remained motionless on his notepad.

I stared at my husband, seeing him as if for the first time. The lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when we met. The gray at his temples that he refused to dye. I'd attributed the slight tremor in his hands to too much coffee. My perfectly constructed narrative was crumbling. The victim script I’d rehearsed fell away, revealing something more complex, more terrifying.

Confusion.

Horror.

I realized that I knew nothing about the man I’d married, the man who shared my bed, my name, my life. Questions cascaded through my mind: Who was Sandra Newman? How had she died? What had Sean done? The ground beneath me seemed to shift, reality reconfiguring itself around this new, terrible truth.

Sean stood. Abruptly. “I can’t,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion I couldn’t decipher. And then he was gone.

Dr. Edward and I sat in silence. I felt naked and exposed in ways I hadn’t anticipated. The letters in my lap now seemed like artifacts from a foreign country. The full story of Sandra Newman hovered just beyond reach.

The confession I’d sought transformed into something darker, more complex than I had imagined. My planned victory crumbled as I realized this was the beginning of a truth I might not want to know.

23

Sean: Idols

I drove aimlessly around town after leaving the therapy session. My mind replayed Angelica’s composed accusations. Her perfectly rehearsed victim narrative shattered against my confession about Sandra Newman. I pulled into our driveway, and a sporadic human movement on the porch caught my eye. It was Clare. She paced back and forth. Her usual pristine appearance was now disorderly and unkempt. She clutched a stack of FedEx envelopes to her chest like a shield. When she saw me, she rushed forward, her eyes wide with something I’d never seen in her before: fear.

“Sean, thank God.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as I approached. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I don’t think you’re safe here.”

“Clare, we can’t discuss this here. If Angelica sees us together, she is going to lose her mind. Can we talk later? Please. This is not a good time.”

“Sean, someone contacted me.” She glanced over her shoulder, expecting Angelica to materialize from the growing shadows. “About your wife. About Andrew.” The name hit me like a physical blow.

“Come in before she sees you.” I unlocked the door and allowed Clare into our house. I quickly closed the door and turned toward her.

“What about Andrew?”

“He was her brother.” Clare thrust a photograph into my trembling hands. The image showed an old gravestone, weathered but legible: Andrew Webster, 1991-2004. “She’s not an only child like she claims. She had a brother, and now he doesn’t exist. Why is she keeping this a secret?” My mind raced through years of careful conversations, of topics Angelica smoothly deflected. “How did you find this?”

She patted the FedEx envelopes. “Someone’s been sending me information ever since we started planning to take the ministry national. Pictures, documents, newspaper clipping–all anonymous.” Her fingers tightened on the envelopes. “Look at these.”

She placed Andrew’s obituary on the counter. “It says he died of a freak accident. Sean, I think she killed her brother, and her parents are covering it up.” Each piece of evidence landed like a body blow. I froze when I heard the key turn in the lock, and my heart dropped. There wasn’t time to hide Clare. Angelica was now watching us from the doorway, still wearing her therapy session outfit.

But her eyes... her eyes were wrong. Empty. Dead. She grabbed the bronze fertility statue from off the piano and gripped it in her hand.

“Dead my ass! So, you are Sandra Newman,” she said, her voice eerily calm.

“What? Who is Sandra—” Clare began, turning.

“First, you fuck my husband in my office and leave your panties in his gym bag. Then you try to seduce him in my home.” Angelica stepped forward, the fertility statue raised in her hand, but she paused when she saw the picture of Andrew on the counter.

“Where did you get this?!”

“You’re a murderer. You killed your little brother, and you and your parents covered it up. What kind of Christians are you?” Clare asked. “Just wait till the deacons find out about this; wait till everyone finds out about this.”

“You better not speak a damn word of this to anyone.”

“Did you kill Andrew because you couldn’t stand that your parents loved him more than you?” Clare taunted.

“Quit… saying… his… name!”

“How did you do it, Angelica? How did you kill Andrew.”

“Clare, I’m warning you. Shut the fuck up.” I stepped closer toward Clare, tears forming in my eyes.

“Angelica, was Andrew your brother? Did you kill your brother?” I asked as my heartbeat raced and beads of sweat formed on my forehead.

“Yes, because she’s a murderer!” Clare yelled. Clare took out her phone and started to make a call. As soon as Angelica saw the phone, I saw a darkness in Angelica I had never seen.

“Angelica, stop!” I moved toward her, but it was like watching a scene in slow motion. Angelica swung the fertility statue until it collided with Clare’s skull. The sound it made connecting with her skull sounded wet and hollow. Final. Clare crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. Blood spread across our pristine marble floor tiles. The FedEx envelopes fell to the floor, spilling their contents into the blood.

“You see?” Angelica smiled, still holding the bloody statue. Her perfect makeup hadn’t smudged. Not a hair out of place. “Look what you and your little dick have done.”

The doorbell rang, its cheerful chime directly contrasting the situation before us. Clare lay motionless, blood pooling around her head like a dark halo. My wife stood over her victim while evidence of her past sins decorated our foyer. “Get the damn door while I clean up this mess.”

I had thought losing Sandra Newman was the worst thing I’d ever experienced. Seeing the woman I married transform into something monstrous, I realized how wrong I’d been. The perfectly composed pastor’s wife, the dedicated community leader, the woman who insisted on color-coordinated closets and alphabetized spice racks was standing over her assistant’s bloody body.

Behind her, Clare’s blood painted the floor. The doorbell chimed a third time, and I wondered if this was how Andrew’s last moments had been. Did she approach him with the same serene smile and absolute certainty that God approved of her actions?

I had believed my secret about Sandra Newman was the darkest thing in our marriage. Now, as dusk settled over our ruined home, I realized I’d married someone far more dangerous than the troubled woman who’d possibly killed her assistant. I’d married the monster who’d killed her brother and my friend, Andrew.

24

Sean: Pills

The doorbell chimed again, pulling me from my frozen horror. Behind me, Angelica knelt on the marble floor, carefully wiping the blood with the precision she usually reserved for polishing silver. Clare lay motionless on the floor while my wife cleaned around her as if erasing a coffee stain.

“Sean, snap out of it! I could use some help.” I woke up from my daze to Angelica snapping her fingers in my face. The doorbell chimed again, and fear drove me into action.

I quickly helped Angelica move the body into the den and watched as the blood smeared across our floor. My heart was beating through my chest. I checked her pulse, and she was still breathing! Thank God! Once the body was out of view. I just stood there and said nothing.

“Get the damn door, Sean.” I left Angelica with an unconscious Clare and went to answer the door.

Peter, our neighbor of many years, stood on our front steps, holding something in his palm. He looked uncomfortable in a way I’d never seen during our decade of sharing property lines. Usually, our interactions were limited to neighborhood barbecues and casual waves. When he did talk, it was about one of two things. His dogs were in our flower bushes, and his wife Judy who had been missing for over twenty years. Tonight, his usual confidence seemed shaken.

“Sean, sorry to bother you, but my dog’s been in your flowers again.” He shifted his weight, glancing past me into the darkness of our foyer. I stepped outside and closed the door. I couldn’t risk him seeing the mess that Angelica had made. “Coal found something strange in Angelica’s garden.”

“What do you mean Coal found something strange?” Peter opened his hand and inside was some aluminum foil. Inside the aluminum foil were more pills.

“Why is Angelica burying pills in the backyard?” Peter asked.

My mind raced even as I forced my face into casual concern. Ten feet away, my wife was cleaning up evidence of assault, and here was Peter, holding more evidence of her secrets.

“Pills?” I quickly made up an excuse on the fly. “Oh, that’s just a new fertilizer she’s trying. She keeps it in the yard. It’s a gardening tip she read about.”

Peter stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe this is none of my business, but do you know your wife takes pills every time she’s in her greenhouse? I installed cameras recording my backyard after my show dogs were stolen last year. I have her swallowing them on tape.” The words “on tape” sent ice through my veins. “On tape?”

“Want to see? I’ve been meaning to show you for a couple of days now. Ever since I noticed the pattern.” Peter pulled out his phone. “I can see all my footage through this little device. Technology ceases to amaze me.” I glanced back at our house. I knew I should help Angelica with Clare, but I needed to know what else my wife was hiding. Clare’s fate was still uncertain, but something in Peter’s expression compelled me forward. “I’ve compiled some relevant clips,” Peter said. I watched as he pulled up a video on his phone.

The video played on the screen, and I saw Angelica as she knelt in her greenhouse, exactly as I’d seen her countless mornings, but now I watched her dig small holes with practiced efficiency. In each one, she buried something wrapped in foil. The camera angle caught her constantly checking over her shoulder, her usual composure replaced by nervous energy.

“This is from six months ago,” Peter said quietly, switching to another clip. “She does this almost every morning, usually around 5 AM. While you’re sleeping, I’m guessing?”

My throat tightened. Those early morning gardening sessions she’d claimed were about catching the best light. The fresh soil under her manicured nails at breakfast. Her insistence on maintaining the garden herself, refusing even professional help. All while I slept, trusting and oblivious.

“Watch this pattern,” Peter continued, pulling up multiple timestamps. “Every morning, like clockwork. Sometimes, she seems panicked, rushing through it. Other times, she’s methodical. But it’s always the same spot, always the same routine.” “There’s more,” Peter continued. “Your mother-in-law visits regularly. First of every month, like clockwork.”

New footage filled the screens. Carolyn kneeled beside Angelica, their heads close together as they worked the soil. Something passed between them, too small to make out clearly. Even with the sophisticated cameras, their faces remained shadowed, but their movements spoke of secrecy and routine.

The cancer medication in her bathroom cabinet flashed through my mind. The vial of synthetic blood. And now, these morning rituals, these buried secrets in our perfect garden. What else was my wife hiding beneath our manicured facade?

“I’m showing you this because I’m concerned,” Peter said, his eyes moving between the screens where another clip played. “She’s been... different lately. What she did to your car? The smoke from your windows?” He paused, calling up footage of Angelica’s paint-and-key assault on my Porsche. “Are you okay, Sean? Is Angelica mentally unstable?”

The question hit harder than he could know. Behind it lay Clare, bleeding in our study, Angelica calmly cleaning evidence, and now these videos reveal months of early morning secrets. The carefully maintained reputation of Princeton's esteemed couple, the devoted pastor and her academic husband, was beginning to deteriorate, and I was making every effort to prevent its collapse.

“How much?” I heard myself ask. “For the footage. For keeping this quiet.”

Peter turned toward me. Surprise written on his face. “I don’t want your money, Sean. I’m showing you because I’m worried. The patterns, the secrecy, and the recent behavior changes concerned me. You’re my friends. Both of you.”

“I need you to sign an NDA. Have all this footage transferred to me.”

“Whatever you need,” he agreed easily. “I’ll have everything copied–the compilations, the raw footage, the timestamps, everything. But Sean, what’s going on?”

“Not copied. I need the originals.”

“No problem,” he replied.

 I couldn’t tell him about Clare, about the fertility statue now stained with blood, about my wife’s careful cleaning of evidence.

“It’s probably nothing,” I said as another clip showed Angelica burying something in our garden. “Just being cautious. You understand, given Angelica’s position and reputation.”

“Of course.” He began typing again, his fingers flying over the keys. “I’ll have the footage ready for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I’ll have our lawyer draft the NDA tomorrow.”

“But Sean...” He turned from the screens, his face serious in the blue glow. “Whatever’s going on, I’m here if you need help.”

“It’s fine. Angelica’s going through a minor health issue. We are working through it.”

Walking back to my house, the videos played in my mind like a twisted highlight reel. Angelica’s secret morning ritual.

Carolyn’s monthly visits.

Pills buried like evidence in our carefully maintained garden.

The cancer medication. Each frame added questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.

I opened our front door to darkness. The foyer gleamed, no trace of blood remaining on the floor. Somewhere in this perfect house, my wife had hidden an unconscious woman and erased all evidence of violence.

“Everything okay?” Angelica’s voice drifted from upstairs, casual and controlled.

“Fine,” I called back. “Just Peter asking about his dog and your flowers.”

“That mutt’s always in my greenhouse,” she replied.

“Where’s Clare?”

“She’s in the study.”

“Is she dead?”

 “No, she appears to be unconscious.”

“Thank God. Handcuff her to the chair until I get back, and if she wakes up and screams, tape her mouth closed.”

“Sean, where are you going?”

“To fix your mess, like I always do,” I lied.

25

Angelica: God’s Plan

My hands shook uncontrollably as I dialed my mother’s number for the third time. I attempted to act composed when Sean was around, but inside, I was falling apart. Each ring tortured me as it echoed through our now blood-tainted foyer while I waited impatiently for my mother to pick it up. Where was she? What had I done?

Clare lay motionless in the study, her breathing shallow but steady. The fertility statue connected with her skull now sat in the sink, waiting to be cleaned like any other household item. I’d already scrubbed the floor, erasing all evidence except the stained blood on my Gucci blouse.

“Mom,” I whispered when she finally answered. “I need you. Now.”

She didn’t ask questions. She never did. Twenty minutes later, her car purred into our circular driveway, its headlights sweeping across windows I’d already checked multiple times for witnesses and looky-loos.

“What happened?” She stepped into the foyer, elegant and not a hair out of place despite the late hour.

“Clare knows about Andrew and told Sean I murdered him. She kept saying it in front of Sean after I told her to stop. I told her to stop saying his name, but she wouldn’t, so I hit her with the fertility statue. Something just came over me. It was like the devil possessed me for a few moments, and I just knocked her upside her skull with it.” My words came out loud and frantic.

“I knew I should have never rehired this bitch, but I didn’t follow my feeling. I listened to you and Sean.”

“I know you’re not blaming me because you lost your temper. Because if this were me, I wouldn’t even be in this mess. I had my reasons for you rehiring her and it will all come together very soon.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just freaking out. First, it was the pink panties, then the letters to the other woman, and now Clare finding out about Andrew.”

“I know you’re sorry, but darling, you are going to have to get over this cheating thing. All men eventually cheat.”

“Daddy didn’t cheat.”

“Of course he did, but he always comes back home to me.”

“And you stayed with him?”

“Of course; I set him up with the woman he cheated with so I could ensure I stayed in control. I made sure she couldn’t get pregnant, didn’t have any STDs, and had her sign an NDA. Grown women think 30 steps in front of their husbands. That’s something you're going to have to learn.”

“I’m so disappointed in Dad.”

“Your father is a good-looking man. I expected it. Women who don’t expect it are delusional.”

“I’m not delusional.”

“You are, but it’ll all be okay if you listen to your mother. Now, where is Clare?”

I gestured toward the study. Mom moved with practiced efficiency, checking Clare’s pulse, breathing, and head wound.

“Help me take her to the basement.” We carried Clare down the curved stairs to our state-of-the-art home theater room. Sean had insisted on soundproofing during the renovation. Now, those padded walls would serve a different purpose.

“She’ll need water,” Mom said, securing the door. “Medical supplies. A way to handle waste.” She listed requirements like planning a church fundraiser. “How long was she unconscious before you called?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes?” I paced the foyer.

“Where’s Sean?”

“He said he was going to clean up my mess.”

“Angelica.” Mom grabbed my shoulders, stilling my nervous movement. “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. Now think. What exactly does she know?”

“She had pictures of Andrew’s grave and his obituary. She was going to expose everything.” Mom’s pacing took on a different rhythm–her thinking pace, which I remembered from childhood crises. Five steps, turn, five steps, turn. The same pattern from the night Andrew died, when she’d planned our perfect story. Suddenly, she stopped, her face transforming with an almost ecstatic revelation. “Don’t you see? This is divine intervention.”

“What?”

“Think about it, baby. You’ve been praying for a child. Begging God for a miracle.” Her eyes took on that familiar zealous gleam. “And now He’s delivered Clare right into our hands.”

Understanding dawned slowly, horror and hope mixing in my chest. “Mom, yes!”

“Yes, my dear.” She pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. “We draft her resignation letter tonight. Something about an incredible opportunity overseas. I’ll handle the movers, have her apartment packed up, and put everything in storage. All very official, very documented.”

“But Sean⁠—”

“Will either accept God’s mysterious way or learn what it feels like to have secrets exposed.” She smiled, sharp and certain. “Those letters to his dead girlfriend should convince him. He admitted to hurting her.”

“We can’t just keep her in our basement forever.”

“Not forever, baby. Just until God’s purpose is fulfilled.” She showed me her phone screen–Clare’s resignation letter was already taking shape. “Until you have all the children you deserve.”

“This is insane,” I whispered, but already I was seeing it. A baby. Multiple babies. The thing I wanted most in the world, the thing that would finally make me complete.

“Remember Abraham and Hagar?” Mom’s voice took on her sermon cadence. “God provided a handmaid when Sarah couldn’t conceive. Just like He’s providing for you now.”

I looked toward the basement door, remembering all the fake fertility treatments, all the failed attempts, all the nurseries I’d decorated and re-decorated. “His ways are not our ways,” I said softly.

“And His thoughts are not our thoughts.” Mom squeezed my hand. “This is your testimony, baby. Think of how many women you’ll inspire when you share how God finally blessed you with children.” The basement door stood solid and dark, holding our newest secret.

Behind it, Clare breathed steadily, unaware of her divine purpose. Mom’s smile widened. “I’ll handle everything. Just like always.” She returned to her phone, adding to her lists. “We’ll need to monitor her cycles, start fertility treatments⁠—”

“I have some experience with those,” I said dryly.

“God’s training, baby. He was preparing you for this moment.” Her fingers paused over the phone.” The fertility statue still waited in the sink, its bronze surface reflecting moonlight. I’d clean it tomorrow and return it to its place among my orchids. After all, it had served its purpose — delivering God’s mysterious blessing through violence, just like with Andrew. His ways are not our ways, I thought, touching my flat stomach. But His purpose would be fulfilled. In the basement, our miracle awaited.

26

Sean: Questions

The lights of Princeton’s Pharmacy cast everyone in a sickly pallor. I clutched the pills in my pocket, the foil warm from my grip as I approached the counter. Eric Swanson had been filling prescriptions here for over a decade. He’d attended our church’s Christmas services, knew Angelica’s charity work, and had even sent a condolence card when our last IVF failed.

“Dr. Myers.” He smiled, recognition softening his professional demeanor. “What can I help you with today?”

I placed the containers on the counter, trying to appear casual. “I was hoping you might identify these.” His mole-spotted hands picked up the pills wrapped in aluminum foil. His expression remained neutral as he examined the label, but something changed in his posture, which worried me.

“Where did you get these?” His tone shifted from friendly to cautious.

“I think they’re my wife’s.” I kept my voice steady. “I’m concerned about potential side effects.” Eric examined the pills a second and then a third time. With each one, his professional mask slipped further.

“Eric, please.” I leaned forward, abandoning pretense. “If something’s wrong with Angelica. I need to know.” His eyes held genuine concern. “You need to speak with your wife about this.” He lowered his voice. “And I strongly suggest not doing it alone.”

The warning in his voice triggered something primal in my gut. “What exactly are you implying?”

“I’ve said all I can.” He slid the medications back toward me. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. But...” He hesitated. “Be careful, Sean.” I snatched the pills off the counter and left with the pills burning a hole in my pocket, more questions than answers swirling through my mind. I knew who had the answers I needed, and I was on my way to find them.

***

Dr. Templeton’s office occupied the top floor of Princeton’s most exclusive medical building, all leather furniture and abstract art. The receptionist looked up as I entered, her practiced smile faltering at my expression.

“Dr. Myers, do you have an⁠—”

I moved past her toward the inner office, ignoring her protests. I saw Dr. Templeton reviewing charts at his desk through the partially open door. When he glanced up and saw me, his face drained of color.

“Sean.” He stood quickly, moving to close his door. “This isn’t a good time.”

I blocked the door with my foot. “Make time.”

“Sir, you can’t just—” The receptionist appeared behind me, phone in hand. “Should I call security, Dr. Templeton?”

Templeton studied my face for a long moment before responding. “No, Diane. It’s fine. Give us a few minutes.” The door closed behind us. For ten years, I’d trusted this man with our most intimate medical concerns—our fertility treatments and our hopes for a family. Now, I wondered if he’d been laughing at my ignorance all along.

“I think you know why I’m here.” I placed the medication containers on his desk individually, like evidence at a trial. Templeton remained standing, maintaining the distance between us. “I can’t discuss another patient’s medical information. You know that.”

“Another patient? She’s my wife!”

“HIPAA doesn’t make exceptions for spouses, Sean.” His eyes kept returning to the medications I’d arranged on his desk. “Whatever questions you have should be directed to Angelica.”

“Ten years.” My voice broke. “Ten years of marriage, and I find out my wife is taking pills without my knowledge. What is my wife hiding?” Templeton’s professional composure wavered. “Sean, please⁠—”

“Is she sick? Dying? Bipolar? Does she have multiple personalities? What aren’t you telling me?” I moved closer, desperation overriding decorum. “Is this why we can’t conceive?”

A flash of something—pity, perhaps—crossed his face before he masked it. “I’ve known Angelica for many years. Whatever conversations you need to have should be between the two of you.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” I said quietly.

“Get out,” he whispered, “before I call security.”

“Test me for everything. If my wife is sick and it could affect my health, I need to know now.”

“Sean.”

“Test me now, or I will call the State Medical Board, and I’m sure they will find some shady shit going on.”

“You’re perfectly healthy, Sean. She asked all those questions. She wanted to make sure this didn’t affect your health,” he said.

“Didn’t affect my health?” The question hung between us, unavoidable now.

“Tell me what the fuck my wife is taking before I beat it out of you!”

“Carolyn is going to kill me.”

“Tell me what’s going on?” I shouted.

“The IVF treatments are fake, and so is the synthetic blood. It was so that she could fake her cycle every month. That’s why they didn’t want you at the appointments. They paid me to manufacture fake IVF tests, for me to provide fake blood, and to get the cancer medication so that everything could be a secret. The fake blood was so she could fake her periods.”

“But why?”

“Angelica had ovarian cancer at a very young age and can’t have children.”

“I know about the cancer. I figured that out.”

“But you probably didn’t know that she doesn’t have a uterus. She had to have a hysterectomy and has been hoping to have a uterus transplant so that she can have children with you. She thought telling you would make you leave her. I told her that surgery is serious and that she should discuss it with you, but she didn’t want you to see her as defective. The pills she takes are for depression.”

I gathered the pills and placed them in my pocket. “Thank you for your honesty. What little of it you could provide.” I drove aimlessly, passing landmarks that now seemed like props on a stage—the church where Angelica preached about truth and transparency, the university where I taught stories about deception, and the restaurants where we’d celebrated anniversaries built on secrets.

The question wasn’t whether I could forgive the lies. The question was whether anything remained beneath them—anything true, anything real, anything worth salvaging from the wreckage of the life I thought we’d built. I needed answers but couldn’t trust Angelica to give them. There were only two people I could think of that could; her parents.

27

Sean: Truth

Rain threatened as I sped toward the Webster estate, dark clouds gathering like accusations on the horizon. This can’t be true. None of this can be true. Lightning brightened the mansion as I approached. In the front were white columns with perfect symmetry. It was old money wrapped in colonial dignity. How many Sunday dinners had I eaten here? How many prayers were offered, scriptures discussed, and plans made?

My breath came in shallow gasps, and the edges of my vision darkened as I mounted the marble steps. The heavy brass knocker was shaped like prayer hands. It was a symbol of courage and faith, and it haunted me. Something inside me snapped.

I didn’t knock. The heavy oak door splintered under my kick. The violence of my entrance set the crystal chandelier trembling, casting fractured rainbows across the marble floor.

“Carolyn! Clark!” I yelled. Angelica’s father appeared at the top of the curved staircase. He was unnervingly calm, almost expectant.

“I knew you were coming,” he said, descending with deliberate steps. “Dr. Templeton called. Said you were rather... aggressive with him.”

“Where’s Carolyn?” I demanded, eyes darting around the immaculate space, searching for the woman who’d orchestrated so much deception. My voice cracked despite myself.

“Out.” The older man gestured toward his study. “It’s just us. Which is for the best, given what we need to discuss.” I followed, my legs unsteady. How many lies were told here? How many plans were made to deceive me?

Mr. Clark Webster didn’t sit behind his desk as usual. Instead, he stood by the fireplace where flames had just caught on expensive hardwood. The gesture seemed deliberately staged.

“You’ve come about Angelica,” Clark said.

“Did you know?” The words exploded from me. Sweat beaded at my temples despite the room’s perfect climate control. My shirt clung to my back. It was damp with rain and sweat. “All this time, did you know what she was hiding from me?”

Clark didn’t flinch. His composure seemed inhuman as if this confrontation had played out in his mind a thousand times.

“Of course I knew.” He met my gaze with unsettling steadiness, then added words that stopped my breath entirely: “Who do you think has been sending you those text messages? And placing orchids in chocolate milk?”

The revelation hit me like a physical impact. The room tilted violently, the floor seeming to shift beneath me. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat. Her own father...

“I thought you needed to know,” Clark continued, turning to watch the flames, “before things went too far.”

“Too far?” I choked on bitter laughter. “We’ve been married ten years!”

“And how many of those years have you spent writing letters to a Sandra Newman?”

The counterattack landed with precision. My legs weakened, forcing me to grip the back of a leather chair. He knows about Sandra, too. Of course, he does.

 “No one understands about Sandra Newman. It’s not what everyone thinks.”

 “It’s still a secret that you have been keeping from your wife. We all have secrets, Sean.” Clark’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. “Some are more destructive than others.” The room contracted around me, walls closing in with each labored breath.

“She’s a liar.” My voice cracked, betraying the wound beneath my rage. “She’s been—” The words stuck in my throat like thorns. “She’s been lying throughout our entire marriage. She’s been giving me false hope for a child that we can never have.”

“And you haven’t?” Clark lifted a crystal decanter, pouring amber liquid into two glasses. “We all hide the parts of us we think no one will accept, Professor. You should know that better than anyone.”

He offered a glass to me. I nearly knocked it away before something in Clark’s expression stopped me. I took the glass but didn’t drink. “What are you talking about?”

“I understand your anger,” Clark said, swirling his bourbon. “I’d feel betrayed, too.” He straightened a pen on his desk. “But before you confront her, you need to understand something crucial.” The glass trembled in my grip as the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

“You were the catalyst for all of this. She can’t have children because of you.”

“That’s not possible.” Denial came automatically. My heart hammered against my ribs. The bourbon sloshed over, burning my fingers. “I didn’t even know her until after⁠—”

“But you did.” Mr. Clark Webster turned fully toward me now, something shifting in his carefully maintained facade. He moved to his desk with sudden weariness, his perfect composure slipping. The drawer opened with excruciating slowness. A folder emerged–older, weathered, its edges soft with handling. Clark held it a moment too long, as if weighing consequences one final time, before handing the folder to me.

My hand trembled visibly as I reached for it. The weight of it seemed impossible–as if it contained lead instead of paper. When I opened it, the room tilted again, more violently. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Tears fell from my eyes like raindrops fell from the sky. Clark reached out and rubbed my back like the loving father I never had. He sat in the chair beside me and let me lay my head on his shoulder. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay; Angelica forgives you, and we forgive you, too. Now you need to go wipe your eyes, and if you ever need to cry, do it in front of me and not in front of your wife. Women can’t stand to see men cry. They don’t know what to do.” Mr. Clark checked his watch.

“Angelica and Carolyn are on their way here with Clare. It would be unwise for her to remain in your basement.” My head snapped up. “You know about that too?” The feeling of dread coated my stomach.

“I know everything about my daughter.” Webster’s gaze hardened momentarily. “Everything she’s done, everything she’s capable of.”

“Go home, Sean. Prepare for a conversation long overdue. You both have pasts you’ve been hiding. It’s time for truth.” Mr. Clark started coughing, and when I looked at his handkerchief, I saw that it contained blood.

“Are you okay?”

“I bit my tongue a few minutes ago. I’m fine.” I gathered the folders with fingers that felt disconnected from my body. The weight of them seemed impossible. How could paper be so heavy? I rose unsteadily, the room still tilting beneath me.

“I can’t believe we’re connected by violence. By the worst moment of my life.”

“Or perhaps,” my father-in-law suggested. “you’re connected by the chance to heal what was broken. By forgiveness.” The word hung in the air between us.

“Remember, we all have secrets, Sean. I’m asking you to keep mine.” I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. I walked over and hugged him.

“I love you like the Dad I never had.”

“And I love you like the son I always wanted.”

The weight of revelation settled on my shoulders with each step—the understanding that Angelica and I were mirror images, both transformed by a single moment of violence, both hiding behind carefully constructed identities, both seeking redemption without understanding why we felt so inexplicably drawn together.

The rain had stopped, leaving the world washed clean and bright. I started my car and prepared for my drive home. As I pulled away from the Webster estate, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror–a stranger’s eyes looking back, filled with the terrible clarity of truth.

28

Angelica: The _ Reveal

The neighborhood held its breath as I turned onto our street. Putting Clare in my parent’s basement was a genius idea my father had devised. No one would think to check for her there if anyone started looking. I pulled up to my home, and all the lights were out.

Something was wrong.

Our house—our perfect showcase of Princeton success—loomed against the purple-gray sky, windows dark and watchful. The porch light I always left on remained conspicuously dark.

Ten years of marriage, and I’d never once forgotten that light. Sean knew this.

Just act normal. Whatever’s happening, I can handle it. I’ve handled worse.

My car purred to a stop in our circular driveway. The garage door didn’t automatically open when it sensed my arrival—another deviation from routine. I checked my appearance in the rearview mirror, adjusting my perfect pastor’s wife mask. Exhaustion weighed on my limbs after the events with Clare. The key made a jarringly loud sound in the lock.

If Sean asked about Clare, I’d tell him about Mother and I’s plan and how this was God’s timing. The foyer greeted me with darkness and silence, but not emptiness—that unique silence of someone deliberately being quiet. Sean was home. Waiting.

“Sean?” I reached for the light switch, but it was unresponsive. This felt like déjà vu in reverse. I saw a lighter bring a touch of light to the darkness, and then I saw a cigar being lit. I felt all alone in the darkness.

“You lied to me, Angelica.”

“Sean, what are you talking about?”

“Not only have you been unable to carry a child since we’ve been married, faked your periods, and had fake IVF visits; you can’t even have children. No wonder you didn’t want me to go to the visits with you. You didn’t want me to find out about your lies.”

“Who told you?”

“I’m asking the questions here.” I watched as he took another drag of his cigar. “You faked pregnancy test and morning sickness. Everything about our life was a fabricated lie. Who are you?

“Turn on the lights, Sean.”

“Are you sure you are ready for that?” I walked over to the breaker and flipped it on, and I almost fainted when I saw what covered the walls of my living room.

Photographs.

Dozens of them.

They were carefully arranged in chronological order.

Baby pictures at first—innocent images that could be any child. But I recognized the blue blanket, the teddy bear with one eye. My throat tightened. These were supposed to have been scattered over the Pacific Ocean years ago.

My eyes continued to scan the wall. There were more photos that revealed elementary school portraits. A distinctly male child with my eyes stared back, growing progressively more uncomfortable with each successive image. Andrew’s bowl cut. Andrew’s forced smile. Andrew’s Little League uniform.

Middle school photos now. The awkward years. The painful years. Andrew’s growing discomfort was captured in his rigid posture and distant eyes—the beginning of the end.

“You didn’t kill Andrew. You are Andrew,” Sean replied. “You killed the boy I loved.”

The final light illuminated what I feared most—side-by-side comparisons. Andrew and Angelica. Same eyes. Same smile. Same person.

How did he find these? I destroyed every trace. Mother promised we’d gotten them all.

Sean was sitting in his leather chair, surrounded by more photographs. Articles. Medical records. The evidence of my transformation laid bare around him like an academic research project.

I moved carefully into the room. “Where did you get these?”

“Your father.” The revelation struck like physical impact. My knees weakened, forcing me to grab the back of the sofa for support.

“Daddy? No. He wouldn’t. He promised we’d never speak of it again. You’re lying,” I whispered.

“How could you know all these years and lie to me about this? Do you know how much pain I carried about what I allowed to happen to you?” I tore one photograph in half, then quarters, watching Andrew’s face disappear in fragments.

“You wouldn’t dare expose me. Your precious congregation would never follow a man who allowed a gay teenager to almost be beaten to death.” The words hung between us, acknowledging a shared past neither had voiced aloud until now.

“I want the truth,” Sean said.

“The truth?” My laugh sounded foreign even to me. “Andrew is dead. You killed him. You hurt him so bad that day that even though he had healed physically, he was mentally scarred. He took his mother’s sleeping pills and crushed them into his chocolate milk. He then stood in front of the bathroom mirror and drank it all. Andrew’s mother caught him passed out and took him to the hospital. This event let Andrew know it was time to kill Andrew and be reborn as Angelica. He’d always felt like Angelica on the inside, but this made him take the final step.”

“I’ve carried that guilt with me every day. I’m so sorry I didn’t step in. I’m so sorry I didn’t stand up for you, but I was afraid that my dad would find out and that he would kill me for liking boys. For loving you.”

“Sean, you didn’t even come to see me at the hospital. One of those boys kicked me so hard in the testicles that the doctor told my parents I would never have kids.”

“I did show up at the hospital, but I was told you had died.”

“Who told you that?”

“A doctor.” I wanted to get upset, but it didn’t matter now. Everything was out.

“I killed Andrew because the world didn’t love Andrew, but they love me. The congregation wouldn’t follow Andrew, but they worship Angelica. God wouldn’t bless Andrew, but He blessed me!”

I moved toward the walls and pulled down all the pictures. I moved frantically now, destroying evidence, erasing history.

“Don’t you understand? Andrew was weak. Pathetic. Unloved. Broken. I had to destroy him to survive!” Sean watched my destruction, something shifting in his expression. “I know,” he said quietly.

 “What are you talking about?”

“I became a religious studies professor because of what I did to you. Because I was bisexual, I killed that gay part of me and married a woman. I married you because of what I did to Andrew. I swore I would never be with another guy. I felt like being with another man wouldn’t have been right. My entire life has been an atonement for that moment of violence. You reminded me of him. We’ve both been running from who we are and what we love to appease others, and this has to stop now.” Sean knelt among the destroyed photographs, picking up fragments of a teenage Andrew. “I’ve been searching for him for twenty years. In my studies. In my prayers. In you.” He looked up, eyes glistening. “I loved him. The boy I hurt. The boy I’ve spent my life trying to make amends to. The reason I became who I am.”

Something cold and terrible unfolded in my chest. “You loved Andrew?”

“Yes.”

“But you love me now,” I insisted, desperate certainty in my voice. “You love who I’ve become.” The silence stretched between us, filled with twenty years of unspoken truth. When Sean finally spoke, his voice was gentle but unflinching.

“Yes, I love Andrew, but I also love you, Angelica.”

Ten words. I sank to my knees amidst the destruction, surrounded by fragments of the person I’d killed to become someone worthy of love. The perfect pastor’s wife. The community leader. The inspirational figure. All constructed over the grave of a boy who had been loved all along.

“We stop the pain,” Sean said quietly. “We stop the lying.” I looked up at him through tears, seeing him clearly for the first time in ten years. “You’re right,” I whispered.

Around us, the shattered remnants of Andrew’s life caught the last light of day—fragments of a truth that could no longer be buried or destroyed. The person I’d been. The person Sean had loved. The ghost that had haunted our marriage from the beginning. Sean reached out, offering his hand. “Let’s find a way forward. Together.” I stared at his outstretched palm, wondering if redemption was possible after so much deception. After Clare. After Andrew.

“How?” I asked, voice barely audible.

“A new vow.A Perfect Vow that we are unwilling to break.”

“But what about Sandra Newman? Who is she, Sean, and how does she fit into this?” I watch as Sean gets up, enters his office, and emerges carrying an enormous trunk. He unlocks it, and inside are journals and letters. He takes one in a pink envelope and hands it to me.

“I think this will explain everything.”

29

Angelica: The Pink Letter

With trembling hands, I stared at the handwritten letter that Sean handed me. It looked like it had been ripped from a college-ruled spiral notebook. I just sat there for a moment and allowed it to burn in his hands. I was hesitant at first because I didn’t know what to expect. Why was this letter different from any other letter I had read from the now infamous mistress, Sandra Newman? My darkest secret had just been revealed, and he wasn’t enraged or angry when he had every right to be livid. To be honest, his calmness frightened me. I was playing the biggest deception probably anyone has ever experienced, and my calm, beautiful husband handed me a handwritten letter. 

I reached out and grabbed it, and when our hands touched, I felt an unusual spark between us. Our eyes locked, and then he spoke.

“Everything will make sense once you read this letter.” I broke our gaze, unfolded the letter, and watched as he sat in the chair directly opposite me with his legs crossed like he was one of those rich, metrosexual French men you watch in foreign films.

“Are you going to sit there and watch me read a letter you wrote to your mistress?”

“Just read the letter, Angelica,” he said. Tears dribbled down my caramel cheeks as soon as I read who it was addressed to.

Dear sANDRa  nEWman,

I made up this fake girl name with your real name hidden inside it. Sandra Newman. If you look at the letters, Andrew is right there inside the name Sandra Newman. I thought I was so clever. Dad checks my stuff sometimes, and he gets really mad about “that gay stuff,” so I had to be careful because I didn’t want him to beat me.

Mom found me crying yesterday, and I couldn’t even tell her why. How do you tell your mom that your boyfriend died because you didn’t defend him when a group of guys jumped him.

 The doctor at the hospital looked sad when he told me. I rode my bike there every day after school for a week to check if you were getting better after what happened. When he said you died, it felt like the floor disappeared.

I should have been braver. I should have visited you sooner at the hospital. I should have told my dad to shut up for once. Maybe you would still be here if I hadn’t made you keep everything secret.

I finally got the courage to go to your house yesterday. I had to ask the school office for your address and make up some dumb story about returning a textbook, but I was really trying to return your Marilyn Manson shirt to your parents. When I arrived, this old man answered and said your parents moved away last month. He didn’t know anything else. I stood there on the porch like an idiot, holding that shirt you let me wear, and I realized I’d never get to give it to you now.

My brother asked about you at dinner. He asked, “What happened to that weird kid you were hanging out with?” I told him you moved. I couldn’t tell him you had died. If he knew what really happened, he’d probably say something terrible, and I can’t handle that right now. He’d never understand how it feels when your heart breaks into a million pieces. He’s the one who always called us names. I wonder if his words hurt you as much as they hurt me.

I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stand up for us. I’m sorry I made you hide who you were. I’m sorry I never held your hand in public, except for that 5 seconds in the boy’s bathroom. I’m sorry I never told you. I think I love you. I don’t even know what that means exactly, but it hurts so much now that you’re gone.

The last time we talked, you said maybe things would be different when we grew up. We would move to San Francisco or somewhere far away where nobody knew us. I still want that, but now I have to imagine it alone.

I think about you all the time. I hope heaven is real and you’re there. I hope nobody calls you names or makes you feel bad for being you. You were the kindest person I ever knew. You deserved better than this world gave you. You deserved better than what I gave you.

I’m trying to be braver now, but it’s too late for us. I’ll never forgive myself for not protecting you from those boys.

I love you, sANDRa  nEWman,

Miss you always, Sean

I looked up from reading the letter, and my face was soaked in tears. I knew my make-up would be a mess if I looked in the mirror. “All this time, you were writing letters to Andrew?”

“I never stopped loving him.”

“So, Sandra Newman wasn’t a mistress.”

 “No, she wasn’t my mistress. I was trying to find a way to process my feelings about my past, and writing has always been cathartic for me.” Sean extended his hand toward mine, and I placed mine in his. He pulled me toward him, our faces inches apart from each other. “I love you, Andrew Angelica Webster Myers.” Then, for the first time in our marriage, we kissed without secrets, without agendas. For the first time, we were raw, naked. Bare.

30

Sean: The Past

I stood in my kitchen feeling like a stranger as I prepared tea for Angelica and me. I emerged with two mugs of blueberry and lemon tea. Angelica waited on the edge of the couch, her fingers tracing the pattern on the armrest. I noticed how different she looked from the person I once knew, yet somehow familiar in ways I hadn’t seen before.

“Here,” I said, setting her mug on the coffee table before taking the armchair opposite her. I didn’t sit beside her on the couch as I normally would because I wanted to see her and look into those familiar eyes.

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice steadier than I expected. Silence filled the room as we both searched for the right words to say.

“I still can’t quite believe it,” I finally said as I studied her face and searched for traces of the boy I’d once loved. “You were Andrew all this time. It was really you.”

“Angelica now,” she corrected gently.

“Angelica,” I repeated, the name strange to my tongue despite our years of living together. The woman I’ve been sharing my life with is the same person I thought I’d lost forever.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Angelica finally asked. “About your father when we were kids.” My shoulders tensed instantly. I looked down at my hands, now clasped tightly around my mug.

“I was scared,” I admitted. “Not of you. Never of you. But my father...” I swallowed hard. “He wasn’t just conservative, Angelica. He was dangerous.”

“I remember him being strict, but⁠—”

“He beat me when he found my journals. The ones where I wrote about—” I paused, “—about my feelings. For you.”

“How bad?” she asked quietly.

“Bad enough that I missed school for a week. He told everyone I had mono.” I kept my voice low, as always, when talking about my father. “I knew then that if he ever found out about us, about what we’d done together, he might have killed me. Or worse, he might have come after you.”

Angelica shuddered. “I had no idea.”

“I wanted to tell you. To explain why we needed to be more careful. But then...”

“Then I got hurt,” Angelica finished. I nodded, feeling the familiar pain resurface.

 “I was just so scared my brother would tell my father if I tried to help you when those guys jumped you. I was afraid he’d find out about me, and I just couldn’t take another beating. I came to the hospital. A doctor stood outside your room and said you were dead.” I forced myself to continue. “She looked me in the eye and said, ‘Andrew is gone. You killed him.’”

“My God,” Angelica whispered. “No one ever told me.”

“I believed her. The nurses wouldn’t let me see you. Your room was guarded. Later, there was a small obituary in the local paper. Andrew Webster, beloved son. I thought...” My voice broke. “I thought I’d lost you forever.” Angelica set her untouched tea down, her hands trembling.

“Mom probably told the doctor to say that to you. It was her way of protecting me and punishing you. She partially blamed you because you didn’t help.”

“I was 12 Angelica.”

“But try telling that to a parent whose child was in the emergency room. I begged them not to hurt James or you because I knew James had done it because he was mad at me.”

“What does James have to do with this?” I asked.

“Oh, you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“If I tell you something, can you promise not to get mad?”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“James caught us once behind the school. It was just kissing, but it was enough. He didn’t say anything then, but a week later, he found me alone in the gym after everyone had left. He tried to kiss me, and I turned him away. The next day, he told everyone I was gay, and his friends jumped me.”

“Angelica, are you telling me my brother orchestrated you to get jumped?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it didn’t seem like a coincidence that after I denied his kiss, I got called gay and then got beat within an inch of my life.”

“He really tried to kiss you?”

“Yes, that part is true. I know you lost your family in a bad accident, and I just couldn’t bare you hating the only living relative you have left.”

“So, all this happened because he was jealous of what we had?” The cruelty of it all settled over me in this warm living room that suddenly felt too confining. “I’m going to kill James.”

“Let it go. He’s the only family you have.” Angelica reached out and grabbed my hand, and the anger slowly left my body.

“Please promise me you won’t hurt James. He was a kid dealing with his attraction to men with a homophobic father, a gay boy who rejected him, and a brother he couldn’t share his sexuality with.”

“I’ll let it go, but only because you asked me,” Sean said.

“Thank you; I appreciate it,” Angelica said.

“Look at us; you are being kind, and I am being aggressive,” I said.

“The tables have definitely turned.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where did you all go after that?”

“After the surgery and recovery, my parents moved us to Georgia, and then we left there and went to New Jersey. My father got a real estate license and started selling houses here while my mother started a day care business. I think my mother feared what might happen if we stayed.”

“Damn, I should have had the courage to stop them!”

“You were twelve, Sean. Please let it go.”

 “It’s going to take me some time.” A heavy silence fell between us. Outside, darkness had fallen completely, the living room now lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp and the dying embers in the fireplace.

“When did you...?” I gestured vaguely at her, unable to complete the question.

“Transition?” Angelica supplied. “Right after high school. I’d always known something wasn’t aligned when I was a child, but it took years to understand exactly what. The physical process was gradual. Name change and surgery took place at eighteen. My parents wanted to make sure it was what I really wanted. They didn’t want me to regret this.”

“You look happier,” I said, and the simple observation brought tears to her eyes.

“I am. I am fully myself.” She studied me across the coffee table. “And you? Have you been happy, Sean?” I considered the question, unused to thinking about my happiness. “I’ve been... searching. After my parents died, there was just James and me. He’s still the same, still fighting his own demons. But losing them made me question everything. That’s when I turned to theology. Trying to understand suffering, I suppose.”

“That’s why I went to divinity school, too,” Angelica admitted. “Though for me, it was about reconciling faith with identity.”

I smiled—the first genuine smile of the evening. “Two broken people looking for answers in the same place. Coincidence or divine intervention?”

“Perhaps a bit of both. I kept tabs on you, and when I saw you were going to go to divinity school. I applied. I told God if it was meant to be, we would both get in.”

“Aww, so you bumping into me at Yalerton in the hallway was planned.”

“Kinda. I didn’t know if you were even into women, but I decided to try, and now we’re here. Living together, building a life together, without you ever knowing our shared past.”

“I’ve been angry for so long,” I finally said. “At myself, mostly. For not protecting you. For causing your death. Finding out you’re alive and have been beside me all these years is like the world has shifted under my feet.”

“I know the feeling.” Angelica tentatively reached across the coffee table, her hand hovering in the space between us. “I was angry too. At your brother, you, and now at my mother and father for their deception. In a world that made a young boy feel like he had to hide who he loved.” I looked at her outstretched hand, then slowly reached to meet it. Our fingers intertwined.

“I want you to know something,” I said, my voice low. “I’m grateful that you still want to protect James. He’s my only family now, but I don’t know how I can forgive him after what you just told me.”

“Sean, I only told you, so we have no more secrets.”

“I know. But I feel like he should suffer.”

“He’s already suffering. Let it go, Sean.”

“Fine.” The room had grown darker, and the fire was now just glowing embers. Neither of us moved to turn on more lights.

“What now?” I asked the question hanging between us.

“I don’t know,” Angelica answered honestly. “I didn’t plan beyond this moment. Beyond finally asking you why.”

“And now you have your answer.”

“Yes. More answers than I expected.”

“I’d like to know you again,” I said finally. “The person you are now, not just the shadow of who I thought I lost.”

“I’d like that too,” Angelica replied, warmth in her voice. “Perhaps we can start over, in a way. Build something new on the foundation of truth.”

“I’d like that.” We sat there a moment longer, hands still joined across the coffee table, neither quite ready to break the connection. Outside our window, the neighborhood was quiet. Our shared history stretched behind us, but for the first time in twenty-five years, the future held no ghosts.

“Are you hungry?” Angelica asked eventually, though she made no move to stand. “We never had dinner.” I shook my head. “Just a moment more,” I requested, my eyes fixed on our joined hands. “I think I need to sit with this. With forgiveness.”

“Yours or mine?” Angelica asked softly.

“Both,” I answered. “For so long, I’ve carried this guilt. The belief that I’d somehow caused your death. That, my love for you, had led to your destruction.” I looked up at her, trying to convey what I felt. “I forgive you, Angelica, for hiding who you were from me and for all the lies.” Tears welled in Angelica’s eyes.

“And I forgive you, Sean. For not telling me about your father. For the silence that came from love and fear. For not stepping in to help.” The words hung between us, simple yet profound. In that moment, something shifted—a burden lifted.

“I think I could eat something now,” I said, finally releasing her hand and rising from my chair. Angelica smiled. “There’s leftover Thai in the refrigerator that we could heat up.”

“Sounds perfect,” I agreed.

We walked together to the kitchen. Some feelings were too raw to be given voice. But as I reached past her to open the refrigerator, my hand briefly touching her shoulder, I felt a certainty settle in my chest: we had both been led here through paths of pain and searching. Our journeys, separate for so long, had converged again in this home we’d unknowingly created together. As we moved around each other preparing a meal in our shared kitchen, I knew that whatever came next would begin with truth. And after over twenty years of half-lives built on partial truths and protective lies, that seemed like a miracle enough. I paused at the microwave, watching her arrange plates on the counter. “It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?” I asked, not bothering to hide my vulnerability.

“Yes,” she replied with quiet certainty. “I think it is.” As we sat down to our simple meal, the kitchen table between us no longer felt like a barrier but a shared space. For the first time since she’d found the letters addressed to Andrew, the past felt like just that—the past. It was no longer a weight to be carried but a story to be acknowledged. Its pages finally turned. Tomorrow was waiting, unwritten.

There was only one problem. We had an injured woman in her parent’s basement.

31

Sean: Duality

The bare bulb hanging from the basement ceiling flickered intermittently as Clare sat bound to the wooden chair. The concrete floor was cold against my shoes, the air heavy with laundry detergent, antiseptic, and fear. Upstairs, somewhere beyond the closed door, Angelica and her parents moved around the kitchen, but not close enough to hear any screams. I watched the realization dawn on Clare’s face. She wouldn’t be screaming. Not with the duct tape across her mouth.

It took Angelica, Carolyn, and Clark a lot to convince me that there was no other option than to keep Clare captive. I wanted to release her, but if we did, she would talk, and we couldn’t have her talking. It would destroy everything we’ve built. Then I realized that by keeping her here, I would be able to have everything I wanted, and she would serve an even greater purpose, a divine one. Upstairs, my wife and her mother prepared Monday dinner while fully aware of what was happening in this basement. Our shared darkness bound us together more strongly than any wedding vow.

“How much time do we have?” Dr. Templeton asked, unzipping his medical bag. The sound of the zipper made Clare flinch.

“Enough. Can you step back a few feet and give me a few moments with Clare? That’s the least you can do since you lied to me for over 10 years.”

“I didn’t really have a choice, Sean,” he said as he moved to the opposite side of the basement to give us privacy. I moved closer to Clare, whose wide eyes followed my every movement. I leaned down, bringing my face close to hers. I whispered in her ear.

“I didn’t want it to end this way,” I said, my voice soft. “I enjoyed our time together, but I had no intention of leaving Angelica for you. I was only fucking you so that you could give us the only thing we lacked, a child. You reminded me of Angelica. The way you smiled and talked. I loved your hunger and ambition and your willingness to do anything to please me. The plan was to fuck you, make you think I would leave Angelica for you, have you deliver our baby, kill you and then take your child and give it to my barren wife. Sure, she would be mad at me for fucking you, but when she saw that baby, and I made her believe it was God’s will and tied it to some scripture in the bible, I was confident she would come around.”

I traced my finger along her jawline, watching her try to pull away. “Now, I never have to reveal to Angelica that when she went on her annual trips to San Diego that we were fucking or that I planted my picture in the newsletter strictly for selfish reasons. You see, Angelica took me for granted. She’d forgotten I helped her build that ministry, and now it was coming in between our marriage. The sex was less frequent, and she was starting not to pay me any attention. So, I decided to get her attention back on me, and what better way to make your wife jealous than to have every woman and gay man in her church fantasizing about her hot husband?”

“I needed Angelica to know that she needed me, that we were bonded for life. That there would never be another Sean. I never have to admit that when she preached and I went to the bathroom, you were in the handicap stall riding my cock. I get to be the good guy, and you get to be of service to us both. God truly does work in mysterious ways. But don’t worry, Clare, we’re not going to kill you. God still has a purpose for you. You’re going to be our surrogate.” Clare’s muffled sounds intensified against the tape. I continued, undisturbed. I leaned close to Clare and whispered in her ear.

“I get everything: you, Angelica, and Andrew.” Clare’s brow furrowed in confusion, her questions lost beneath the tape.

“Oh, you don’t know about Andrew?” I straightened up and unbuttoned my shirt. “Before Angelica was Angelica, she was Andrew. The boy I loved in elementary school. The boy I thought I’d lost. Now, I have both versions in one person. And soon, I’ll have you too. I’ll get to fuck you, and she won’t care because she will get her babies. It was her idea. She said that she wanted her children born of love, and so she insisted we fuck weekly. The babies have a better chance at being 100% healthy through regular intercourse.”  I turned toward Dr. Templeton, who had laid a syringe on a white towel.

“Are those ready?” I asked, noting how his hands trembled slightly. The doctor nodded. “High-dose Botulinum Toxin, formulated for targeted application.” His clinical tone echoed in the basement. “When injected into the vocal cords, it will cause paralysis.”

“You’ve done this before?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Once,” he said quietly. “Twenty years prior. Same result.” I returned my attention to Clare, whose eyes had grown wider. “Angelica and I can never be exposed. What we had—what we did—it stays between us. Forever.”

“We should proceed.” Dr. Templeton picked up the syringe. “I need better light.” I positioned the standing lamp to illuminate Clare’s neck. Her skin looked pale, tears catching the harsh light.

“This is justice,” I said, gripping her hair and tilting her head to expose her throat. “For threatening what God has joined together. For being a Jezebel and for committing adultery.”

“Hold her still,” he instructed. “This requires precision.”

The basement steps creaked. We all froze—my hands still in Clare’s hair, Dr. Templeton with the needle poised at her neck. Clare’s eyes darted toward the stairs, desperate hope flickering briefly. Carolyn descended halfway down the stairs, her eyes sweeping over the scene. No shock was registered on her face. She was performing a clinical assessment.

“How’s it going?” she asked, as if inquiring about a home improvement project. She wore her cream cashmere sweater, pearls at her throat. It was the outfit she wore to lead women’s Bible study.

“Almost finished,” I replied. She nodded, watching Dr. Templeton’s hands.

“Dinner’s ready. Don’t let it get cold.” Her eyes moved to the floor. She studied Clare for a moment, something unreadable passing across her face. She then turned and went back upstairs. Clare’s muffled sounds grew frantic. She’d finally understood.

“You see now,” I said, stroking her hair almost tenderly. “Angelica isn’t just my wife. She’s my partner. My accomplice. My covenant.” Dr. Templeton cleared his throat.

“Before we proceed,” I said, meeting Clare’s terrified gaze, “you need to understand your role. This is integration. You’re becoming part of our family.” I nodded to Dr. Templeton, who stepped forward with the syringe.

“You’ll still produce sounds,” he explained clinically. “Just not words anyone can understand. Not enough to tell our secrets.” I leaned in one final time before the injection.

“We’re bound together now,” I whispered. “All of us, sealed in silence—yours enforced, ours chosen.” It’s The Perfect Vow. The needle slid in with precision. Clare’s muffled scream was the last full sound her vocal cords would produce.

“There,” Dr. Templeton said, applying a cotton ball to the injection site.

I released Clare’s shoulders and moved to face her. “It’s done. When I remove this tape, you won’t scream. Not because you choose not to. Because you can’t, nod if you understand.” After a defiant stillness, Clare nodded, tears streaming down her face. I removed the tape. Clare gasped, her hand flying to her throat as I untied her restraints.

“What...” she tried to speak, producing only a raspy whisper. “What have you done?”

“Sealed our agreement,” I replied. “A binding contract.” Dr. Templeton packed his instruments, avoiding Clare’s accusing gaze. “The condition will appear medically as idiopathic dysphonia. Unexplainable. I’ve prepared documentation for specialists.” I helped Clare stand, steadying her when she swayed. “This doesn’t end our relationship,” I said.

“It transforms it.” The naked horror in Clare’s eyes gave way to something emptier, more resigned. When she tried to speak again, the strain was visible, the sound barely audible.

“Why?” she whispered

“Because I protect what’s mine. The respect at the seminary. My marriage. My future.” I straightened her blouse with practiced hands. “Angelica did the same once. For me.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Carolyn called down.

“Coming,” I replied, voice perfectly normal. I turned back to Clare. “This is your new home,” I said firmly. Dr. Templeton closed his bag.

“And future questions about her disappearance?”

“No one will look too hard,” I replied. “Young women leave town all the time, especially after they find new opportunities overseas. It happens all the time.” I guided Clare to the small cot in the basement’s corner, already made up with fresh sheets. I whispered as I secured her ankle to the bolted restraint hidden under the bed frame. “Don’t worry, you won’t be here alone. Clare meet Judy, and Judy meet Clare. She has been here for over twenty years. She was supposed to be the surrogate to give Carolyn and Clark another child, but they found another use for her.”

I watched as Clare’s eyes widened with horror, and she opened to scream, but no sound came forth. My neighbor Peter was right when he said his wife didn’t leave him. I loved Angelica profoundly. Just as I had loved Andrew. Just as I had, in my twisted way, loved Clare. But Angelica’s love for me contained the same darkness and possessiveness. We recognized in each other a capacity for terrible things. We both walked upstairs and left Clare in the basement.

“I should go,” Dr. Templeton said. Carolyn nodded. “Of course. You need rest, too.” She handed him a small envelope. “As agreed.” The doctor’s fingers closed around it automatically, his eyes shifting between us, comprehending fully that his involvement had permanently bound him to us. When he left, Angelica’s hand slipped into mine. Her fingers were calm and steady.

“She’ll make a perfect surrogate,” she whispered, lips brushing my ear.

“Yes,” I agreed, thinking of Clare secured in our basement. “She’s perfect for us.”

Angelica’s eyes darkened with familiar hunger.

Our love wasn’t a lie. Our marriage wasn’t a deception. They were real, perhaps the only real things about us. It was our public faces, the morality, the seminary position, and the church involvement that were carefully constructed performances. This was our true communion. Our shared sacrament of control. Our duality: public servants, private predators. One couple. Two faces. Perfect balance. The Perfect Vow.

32

Angelica: Divine Miracle

I stood at the pulpit, my clerical robes draped elegantly over my visibly swollen belly. I waited as the murmurs quieted, my gaze sweeping across the familiar faces that looked up at me with unwavering trust.

“Brothers and sisters,” I began, my voice clear and resonant in the vaulted space. “Today, I come before you not just as your spiritual guide but as a living testimony to God’s infinite grace.” I paused, one hand moving to rest on my rounded abdomen, the gesture drawing all eyes to what appeared to be the miracle growing within me.

“Many of you know the struggles Sean and I have faced in our desire to build a family.” I made my voice tremble with well-practiced emotion. “The doctors told us it was impossible. That my body could not conceive because I had uterine cancer.” There were gasps amongst the congregation. In the front row, Sean sat with his hands clasped in apparent prayer, his expression a masterpiece of humble gratitude. Only I could notice the calculating gleam in his eyes as they briefly met mine.

“But I stand before you today to proclaim that the Lord has answered our prayers.” I raised my voice in triumph. “When human medicine fails, divine intervention prevails. I am cancer-free without chemo and expecting our first child!” The congregation erupted in gasps and spontaneous applause. Several older women dabbed at their eyes. A few raised their hands in praise. I accepted their joy with a smile and rehearsed tears, the perfect image of a woman blessed beyond measure.

“We are due in under six months,” I continued once the commotion settled. “Our son—” I paused again, savoring the moment. “CLark AndRew myErs will join our family and our faith community.”

The rest of the service passed in a blur of hymns and prayers. Afterward, I stood in the foyer, accepting congratulations and enduring countless hands reaching to touch my belly—to make contact with the miracle. I never flinched, though each touch against the elaborate prosthetic triggered a moment of panic that today would be the day someone noticed the deception.

“God has truly blessed you,” Mrs. Hartwell said as she pressed a hand-knitted baby blanket into my arms. “After everything you’ve been through.”

“Indeed, He has,” I replied, embracing the elderly woman with genuine affection. My gaze drifted over Mrs. Hartwell’s shoulder to where Sean stood conversing with the church elders, all of them clapping him on the back in congratulation.

“The perfect family for our perfect spiritual leaders,” another congregant gushed, squeezing my arm.

“Perfect,” I echoed, the word hollow in my mouth.

***

Three hours later, I closed the front door of my parent’s suburban home with a deep sigh of relief. We shifted our dinner nights from Monday to Sunday, and now we all come here after service for Sunday dinner and to check on Clare. Sunday services always drained me, but today’s performance required extraordinary effort. I kicked off my sensible heels and headed straight for the guest bedroom.

“Need help?” Sean asked, following me up the stairs, his tie already loosened.

“I’ve got it,” I replied.

“Check on her, will you?” Sean nodded, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder before disappearing down the hallway toward the basement door. In the privacy of the guestroom, I removed my clerical garments, hanging each piece carefully in the closet. Then came the more elaborate disrobing—unfastening the series of straps that held the silicone pregnancy bump against my flat abdomen. The prosthetic was a marvel of craftsmanship, custom-made by a film effects artist who believed she was helping a method actor prepare for a role.

I held the prosthetic in my hands, studying its lifelike texture and weight. It was just one of several, each progressively larger, to mimic the development of a real pregnancy. This was the fourth-month version.

I wrapped the device in its protective cloth and stored it in the locked drawer of my vanity. After changing into a loose sweater and leggings, I headed for the basement. The key to the reinforced door hung on a chain around my neck, nestled between my breasts, alongside the cross I wore for services. I unlocked the deadbolt and the electronic keypad, symbols of our paranoia and determination.

The main basement was ordinary enough. It had a washer, dryer, storage boxes, and my father’s workbench. There was nothing to raise eyebrows if a congregation member needed to retrieve something from storage. The hidden room lay behind a false wall that Sean and my dad had constructed together, accessible only through a door disguised as a storage cabinet.

I entered the second code and swung the concealed door open. The space beyond had been designed to mimic a studio apartment—a bed with clean linens, a small sitting area, and a private bathroom. But the illusion of hospitality was erased by the absence of windows, the camera mounted in the corner, and the two women sitting on the edge of each bed. I watched as Clare placed her hands resting on her genuinely pregnant belly.

“Good afternoon, Clare,” I said, my voice pleasant, as if greeting a houseguest. “I trust Sean has been seeing to your needs?” Clare looked up, her expression flat. The injection from a few months ago had permanently muted her voice. She could only make sounds now. Clare spit in my face. I was used to this by now. It was the only thing she could do to get back at me, and so I allowed her this little luxury because, in a few months, I would have my baby. I also couldn’t risk anything happening to this child. I wiped her spit from my face with the towel that I had in my hand.

“The baby was very active during service,” I continued, pulling up a chair across from Clare. “I could feel his phantom kicks through the prosthetic. Or perhaps that was just my imagination. It was my body preparing for what it will soon experience vicariously.”

Clare’s eyes flashed with momentary hatred before the emotion disappeared behind her typical blank mask. Her hand moved protectively over her four-month belly.

“I want to thank you for your service,” I said, leaning forward to place my hand beside Clare’s on her swollen abdomen. “God works in mysterious ways, bringing us together like this. Your sacrifice will bring us so many bundles of joy.” I turned to her and pushed her hair behind her ears. “I know you think I’m evil, but I’m really not. Some people might call it deceptive; I call it acting. I’m an actress, and this performance could rival even the most decorated thespians in Hollywood. A man who played a female pastor and then commissioned his husband’s mistress to have her kids as punishment for her infidelity. This is what academy awards are made for.” I paused for emphasis. “Just to be clear, this is your punishment. Your punishment for fucking my beautiful husband. I know that my beautiful husband has a wandering dick, all men do. It’s a truth my mother has forced me to accept. But just because his snake attempts to crawl and come into your garden doesn’t mean you allow him access. Whores who come between the sanctity of marriage should all be forced to give their children to virtuous women like myself.” Sean entered behind me, carrying a tray with what appeared to be a nutritionally balanced meal.

“How are my girls doing today?” he asked with inappropriate cheerfulness.

“We’re discussing Clark Andrew,” I replied, watching Clare’s face. “Do you like the name we chose for our son, Clare?” Clare’s eyes darted between us, then fell to the tray Sean placed beside her.

“Clark Andrew Myers,” Sean said, sitting beside me, his hand finding mine. “Strong name for a strong boy.” I squeezed his fingers, the private joke passing between us. CLark AndRew myErs—the name CLARE hidden within, a secret tribute to her contribution that only we would ever recognize.

“The doctor will be by tomorrow for your weekly check-up,” Sean told Clare. Clare wrote on a notepad.

“And then you’ll let me go?” Sean and I exchanged glances.

“We’ve discussed this,” Sean said gently. “You’re part of our family now. Our arrangement is long-term.”

“You promised.” Clare wrote, but Sean cut her off and took her notepad and pen.

“I promised you’d be taken care of, and you are.” His voice remained kind, though his eyes hardened. “You have everything you need here. Safety, comfort, medical attention.”

“Prison,” Clare mouthed.

“Sanctuary,” I corrected. “The world out there wouldn’t understand what we’re doing—what we’ve been called to do. They’d try to stop us, separate us. Is that what you want?”

Clare didn’t respond, her gaze falling on the food that had been brought for her.

“Eat,” Sean encouraged. “Keep up your strength. For the baby.” He stood, gesturing for me to follow. At the disguised door, he paused. “We’ll return later with your evening meal and medications. Remember, the more cooperative you are, the more comfortable we can make your stay.” The threat beneath the hospitable words hung in the air as we exited, securing the hidden room behind us.

***

In the kitchen, I busied myself preparing tea while Sean leaned against the counter, loosening his collar further.

“The announcement went well,” he said, accepting the steaming mug I handed him. “They didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Of course not,” I replied. “Faith makes people blind to what’s right in front of them. They see what they want to see. What they’ve been conditioned to see.”

“Still,” Sean mused, “it’s a risk. What if someone touches you and realizes it’s not real?”

“The prosthetic is convincing enough. Besides, most people are too polite to really press against a pregnant woman’s belly.” I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “And in a few months, it won’t matter. The ‘miracle’ will have arrived, and no one will question a baby that exists.”

That evening, I stood before the full-length mirror in our bedroom, the prosthetic pregnancy bump strapped back into place beneath my nightgown. I smoothed my hands over the artificial curve, imagining the life growing within Clare that would soon be placed in my arms.

“Clark Andrew Myers. My son. My miracle.” My father Clark appeared in the doorway, watching me practice this private ritual.

“You don’t have to wear that here,” he said quietly. “No one’s watching.”

“I am,” I replied without turning. “I need to get used to it. To believe it myself.”

My father crossed to stand behind me, his hands joining mine on the false womb between us. Our eyes met in the mirror—two people bound by secrets darker than we had imagined possible.

“In a few months,” he said, “I’ll be a grandfather.” He took the baseball cap off his head and put it on my head and then put a silver dollar and baseball in my hand. “You will always be my little boy in my heart. I went to the grave site and picked these items back up. I want you to have them and to pass them on to your little boy.” I nodded and allowed him to have his moment. I never realized until I was about to have a child of my own what it must have been like for him to lose his son.

“The Lord has answered all our prayers. I’m getting a child and you’re getting a grandson.”

“The impossible is made possible through faith,” he said. My hand pressed against the silicone that separated me from the reality of our deception, and at that moment, my smile was as radiant and believable as it had been on the pulpit that morning. I looked in the doorway and there stood my mother and Sean watching us.

“Beautiful,” my mother whispered.

“Perfect,” Sean said. But the word didn’t feel hollow in his mouth this time.

It felt like power.

33

Sean: My Brother’s Keeper

 3 Months Later

Tiny pellets of ice beat against the bay windows as the fire crackled in the hearth. The storm had intensified throughout the evening, transforming the world outside into a blurry haze of white and gray. I’d decided to spend the night at my brother’s place while Angelica and the ladies from her prayer group planned the baby shower for this weekend—though I’d told her I might be out of town at a conference, one of many small lies that had started to come effortlessly.

James’s colonial-style home had always felt more welcoming than it should. Family photos lined the mantle—our parents on their anniversary, James at his law firm promotion, and me and Angelica on our wedding day. Her smile in that photo had always seemed genuine. I wondered now if it ever had been.

I took two mugs of hot chocolate from the kitchen and methodically spiked them with rum—a ritual we’d inherited from our parents and continued for years. My hands were steady as I measured a slightly larger pour into the mug with the chip on its handle—the one I always gave to James.

“Careful, it’s hot,” I said, handing him the chipped mug. We toasted to the success of my first child, the amber liquid swirling beneath the marshmallows.

“My little brother is going to be a daddy.” He reached over and messed with my hair like he did when we were kids, his eyes crinkling at the corners like our fathers used to. “I was worried that your swimmers weren’t swimming. Either that or you were in one of those lavender marriages where both of you are gay.” I studied his face. There was casual cruelty in his expression and a slight curl of his lip. Had it always been there? Or was I only seeing it now because Angelica had taught me how to look?

“No, Angelica can’t have kids because of an accident that happened when she was young,” I said, watching him over the rim of my mug. James furrowed his brow, taking another long sip.

“Sean, what are you talking about? Angelica is as big as a house. I saw her at her Mom’s birthday party last month.” I waited until he swallowed the last of his hot chocolate, noting how his Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp.

“That’s a fake pregnancy bump. We imprisoned her assistant in our basement, and she’s actually carrying our child.” James looked at me for a long moment before bursting into laughter, shoulders shaking. I joined him, the sound hollow in my chest.

“Bro, you almost got me,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“No, I did get you. Just like you got Angelica.”

The laughter died in his throat. “Huh, what are you talking about?”

“See, you never told me you started a rumor about Andrew being gay because you tried to kiss him, and he pushed you away,” I said, my voice steady despite the fire burning in my chest.

“You also never told me, you had your friends beat him within an inch of his life.”

James set his mug down with enough force that chocolate splashed onto the oak coffee table. His mother’s table. “Bro, who told you that? How could you possibly know about that?”

“Don’t worry about that,” I continued, watching his eyes for signs of the drowsiness that would come soon. “And it’s because of you that he almost killed himself by putting sleeping pills in his chocolate milk. The doctors pumped his stomach, but something inside him died that night.” James stood up unsteadily, his balance already compromised.

“Sean, where are you getting this information from?”

“Angelica told me.”

“How the fuck does she know?”

“She used to be Andrew.”

At this moment, my brother’s eyes bucked, and he staggered, bracing himself against the wall. His eyes widened with what looked like genuine horror before his eyes clouded. He slumped back into his chair, fighting to keep his focus on me.

“Sean...I didn’t have a choice. Dad made me do it. When he saw your journals, he told me it was my job to look after you, and that meant making sure you didn’t turn out gay. I didn’t want to do it, but it was either Andrew or me, and you knew how Dad could be.” His words slurred, and I immediately regretted my decision. This wasn’t Sean’s fault; it was my father’s.

James’s eyelids fluttered, fighting against the inevitable. “Sean... please... call someone...” His fingers fumbled for his phone, but it slipped from his grasp, clattering to the hardwood floor.

I took a letter out of my pocket and dropped it. No one would question his death after they read this letter. “I’m sorry, bro. If only you had told me about this sooner, all this could have been avoided.”

 I watched my brother take his last breath. The storm outside had quieted, as if nature itself was acknowledging the justice that had been served. I slipped out the back door after wiping down everything I’d touched, pulling on my running gear. The cold air bit at my face as I started down the path that would eventually lead me home to Angelica.

“They killed Andrew,” I murmured to myself as my feet found their rhythm on the snow-covered sidewalk, “so it was only fair that I killed them.”

The falling snow quickly covered my footprints, erasing any evidence of my path away from my brother’s silent home. I had a new family now, one that would love me unconditionally.

Genesis 2:24 says, “Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.”

34

Sean: Pink Panties

The darkness beyond the windows mirrored the approaching doom of finals week as I stood at the front of the class and looked at the ocean of students already putting away their things before class was even over. Auditorium 226 in the Franklin Building felt particularly confining at this late hour.

A current of exhaustion, resignation, and desperate relief circulated through the night air. As a tenured professor of Hebrew literature for ten years, I expected this nightly betrayal: the premature shuffling of papers, the impatient zipping of backpacks, bloodshot eyes fixated on the clock instead of absorbing my final warnings.

They recognized me as Dr. Sean Myers, published author, co-pastor, and televangelist of Unconditional Love Ministries. None could fathom what lurked beneath my meticulously maintained academic facade. They wouldn’t understand the things Angelica and I did to get here.

They would never appreciate the obsession that had driven me to search for a replacement for the one thing I loved the most. They wouldn’t understand why we imprisoned Clare in our basement or why I had to end my brother’s life.

The hushed whispers about my upcoming essay exam followed them into the night. The scent of Calvin Klein cologne lingered in the air near the back row. Someone had been wearing it tonight. The same scent he always wore. I closed my eyes. I pushed him out of my mind. Not now. I arranged my lecture notes with calculated precision, mentally rehearsing the lies I would tell at tomorrow’s faculty meeting, when a familiar silhouette materialized in the doorway.

He was here.

My hand froze mid-motion. I stood before my classroom and watched them pick up their bookbags and head to their next class. “Don’t forget finals are next week and they will be all essay questions!” I called after them. Moans erupted from the class.

Dr. Patty Dent from the Linguistics Department passed by the open door and glanced at me. She had been watching me more carefully since my television appearances began. Jealousy ate at her. She’d heard about my salary increase, book deal, and rumored promotion to Dean. She nodded professionally. I waited until her footsteps faded down the corridor before returning my attention to the doorway. I looked up, and there he was. Andy, the security guard from church.

The one I had hired to watch the cars at the party where Angelica went bat shit crazy at Clare about the pink panties. I knew this conversation was inevitable; I had been calculating the probability for months. I had dodged his emails and made sure he couldn’t take my classes, but he had finally found me.

“Hey, Sean, or should I call you Dr. Myers? I don’t know anymore.” His baritone voice carried a bitter edge, echoing slightly in the nearly empty auditorium.

“How can I help you, Alex?” I maintained my professional tone despite the tension building between us. My fingers tightened imperceptibly around my leather portfolio.

“Oh, so now that you’re on television, your wife is paying attention to you, and you have a child on the way, you just treat me like a meaningless encounter? I changed my name to Andrew for you.” His voice caught on the name. The name I had suggested and insisted upon. But we had agreed his nickname would be Andy. “I wore pink underwear and heels for you, so we matched. Wasn’t that your childhood friend Andrew’s favorite color? I was there for you every Sunday, and we were intimate after every class. I cut my hair like his and wore contacts that were the color of his eyes. We drank chocolate milk together and I even listened to Marilyn Manson with you so that you could heal. Then I discovered I was not the only Andrew; there had been other men over the years that you would pay to be the Andrew you lost. The one who had died as a kid, the one you couldn’t get over. Then you just stopped talking to me. You broke my heart. I love you, Sean.”

“And you almost destroyed my marriage by putting those pink panties in my gym bag.” My anger surfaced despite my efforts to contain it. But it wasn’t just the panties. It was the risk. Finding another Andrew to replace the one I had lost had been my life’s work.

“Well, she needed to know because I was tired of being your secret.” His eyes narrowed with determination. “You told me I was special. That I was the one you’d been looking for. Was that all just manipulation?” It was manipulation. But not in the way he thought. He fit the profile so perfectly. The name change had been the final test.

“Alex, it’s over. I got you the full scholarship you needed. What we had is finished. It was nice knowing you.” I turned away, attempting to end the conversation. The janitorial cart rattled outside in the hallway: witnesses, always potential witnesses.

“My name is Andrew now,” he hissed, stepping closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne again. “I think it’s time for Angelica to know that her husband has been involved with the security guard at the church for the last three years. I think she also needs to know about all the other Andrews that proceeded me.” He placed a file on my desk of the three other guys who looked just like the Andrew I thought had died.

His threat hung in the air between us. He knew too much. He pulled down his jogging pants. “I only wear pink panties now. Meet me in your office so you can take them off. I have the heels in my backpack. Be there in 15 minutes, or your wife will find out.”

I watched as he left my lecture room, the echo of his air force ones against the polished floor fading into silence. By looking at him, you would never guess that this 6’2 beautiful, caramel-colored muscular man would wear panties and heels for me behind closed doors.

You would never believe the things all the fake Andrews did to help me heal. I wish he had stayed away, but now I would have to eliminate him, too. A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Now that I possessed the real Andrew, I no longer needed an artificial or prefabricated one.

35

Carolyn: Orchids

Epilogue

25 Years Earlier

I’ve always liked orchids. They’re complex like humans - they can be deceptive when protecting themselves. They’re one of the few flowers that are deceptive and able to change to trick pollinators. When I saw three orchids sitting in a glass vase on top of a piano at the adoption agency, I knew it meant something. It was a sign I was supposed to be here.

After running an extremely successful daycare where I saw children all day and spoke to a few mothers about adoption, I realized this was my path. My husband, Clark, had suggested we try adoption, and despite my initial hesitation, something about this place felt right. I stood in the adoption agency’s waiting room, holding Clark’s hand tightly as I watched the children play from behind the glass.

The room buzzed with activity. We watched the children laugh, run, and play games with potential parents. Staff members moved between groups, clipboards in hand, observing interactions. The walls were painted in bright primary colors and decorated with children’s artwork. The air smelled of disinfectant and craft glue.

My eyes were drawn to a quiet boy sitting alone in the corner with a picture book. Something about his solitude called to me, though I didn’t know why. Clark squeezed my hand and nodded, understanding in his eyes.

The boy couldn’t have been more than five. His brown hair fell across his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes as he carefully turned the pages. He wore a blue shirt that seemed a size too big. I could tell because the sleeves rolled up multiple times. A small red car sat untouched beside him, abandoned for the book. I stepped into the playroom and approached him cautiously, careful not to startle him.

The floor creaked beneath my feet as I crossed the room. Other potential parents glanced my way, curious about which child had caught my attention.

“Hi, I’m Carolyn,” I whispered, sitting down beside him. “What’s your name?”

He didn’t look up immediately. His fingers traced the outline of a character on the page—a princess in a tower. When he finally raised his head, his eyes were deep brown, watchful, assessing me with intelligence that seemed beyond his years.

He glanced around the room before whispering, “Can I tell you a secret?”

His voice held a tremor of both fear and hope. I noticed his fingernails were bitten to the nub. A small scar marked his chin. He fidgeted with the hem of his oversized shirt, awaiting my response.

“Of course. My lips are sealed.” He looked at me again, searching my face for signs of deception or judgment. Finding none, he leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “My name is Andrew, but... inside, I feel like I’m Angelica.”

The words hung between us. At that moment, I felt the weight of his confession—a truth he had likely never spoken aloud before. My heart raced, not with shock or disgust but with recognition and pure unconditional love.

The social worker watched us from across the room, making notes on her clipboard. Other children shouted and played around us, but Andrew and I existed in our own quiet bubble of understanding.

I walked to the piano and took one orchid from the vase, bringing it back to him. The bloom was white with specks of pink, its petals delicate, yet resilient. I placed it gently in his small hand, watching as his fingers curled around the stem. It was at that moment that I knew I was the one who would love this child unconditionally.

“Can I tell you a secret, too?” Andrew nodded and smiled, his eyes bright with excitement.

“Yes! I love secrets. Please tell me.”

I leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “My real name is Caleb, but inside, I feel like Carolyn.” His eyes widened. The orchid trembled slightly in his hand as understanding dawned. The fear in his expression melted away, replaced by something I recognized instantly—hope.

Connection.

The sudden, overwhelming relief of being seen. He opened his hands and wrapped them around me and said, “Mommy, I’ve been praying for a mommy just like you.” I was filled with emotion and tears fell down my face.

Clark watched us from behind the glass, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He couldn’t hear our exchange but could see something significant had passed between us. I gave him a slight nod, and his shoulders relaxed.

Around us, the adoption agency continued its business. Staff members shuffled papers, children laughed and cried, and parents asked questions and filled out forms. But Andrew and I had formed a bond that transcended the institutional setting—a recognition of shared experience that would form the foundation of our future together.

The orchid rested between us, witness to a moment of truth that would change both our lives forever, and at that exact moment, I made a vow, A Perfect Vow that I would do whatever it took to make my Angelica happy.

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Synopsis

"He has a dark secret, but so does she.

*A mind-bending, dark and genre bending psychological thriller.

Pamela Whitherspoon seemingly has it all—a stunning adopted daughter, a beautiful oceanfront home, and a wealthy, doting husband. But one void remains: a biological child of her own.

After multiple heartbreaking miscarriages, Pamela's dream of motherhood lies in tatters. With each pregnancy, her once-adoring husband Kyle grows increasingly cold and distant, inexplicably repelled by the prospect of fatherhood. His transformation from loving partner to virtual stranger leaves Pamela bewildered and devastated.

Their picture-perfect facade crumbles during a vicious argument about having children. In the aftermath, their housekeeper Chloe abruptly quits, cryptically alluding to something deeply disturbing she witnessed while cleaning the attic—something involving Kyle that she dares not speak aloud.

Driven by a mix of dread and curiosity, Pamela investigates. Hidden beneath a loose floorboard, she unearths a box of old VHS tapes. As she watches, Kyle's darkest secret unfolds before her eyes, shattering her world and filling her with a perverse relief that she never bore his child.

Now, Pamela faces an impossible choice: flee and bury the truth, or confront the monster she married and ensure he pays for his deception. In this chilling psychological thriller, she must navigate a labyrinth of lies to protect herself and her daughter from a danger closer than she ever imagined.

*** Trigger Warnings are listed inside Book.

This psychological thriller is perfect for fans of: Behind Her Eyes and The Perfect Marriage. Similar to authors like Lucinda Berry, John Marrs, & Freida McFadden

The Husband’s Secret: Sneak Peak

Chapter 1: Kyle

Someone was trying to kill my beautiful wife, and the culprit was her own damn womb. To be honest, I didn’t care about her womb. A part of me was happy she couldn’t carry a child to term because I didn’t want—and never wanted—children. It was just painful watching Pamela go through miscarriage after miscarriage, seeing the hope in her eyes die a little more each time—it was almost enough to make a man believe in curses.

Almost.

Our kitchen was a rainbow nightmare of streamers and tiny booties. Pamela bustled about, preparing for her friend Sheila’s baby shower. The only problem was Sheila wasn’t a real friend. She was one of those women who wished she could have Pamela’s life and hung around just for the perks—like this shower that we were paying for–excuse me, that I was paying for. This was the third baby shower Pamela had planned this year, and frankly, I was tired of footing the bill.

Most of these women were mothers at Marissa’s school, and they were big supporters of her organic baby food business. A business that my wife didn’t need to own because, as a man, I took care of everything. She didn’t have to work because we came from money.

I watched my wife. There was a tension in her shoulders, a brittleness to her smile.

I spied her from the doorway, admiring how she moved with practiced efficiency. My wife was an average mocha-complected woman with beautiful skin. You’d think she would have acne with all the sugar she consumed, but her skin remained flawless.

She had a certain grace about her, although she had gained weight over the years—exactly 31.7 pounds since our wedding day. That was considerable for someone 5'6". I monitored her weight meticulously, strictly for health reasons—or so I told myself.

Pamela wasn't supermodel pretty, but attractive enough that I rarely worried about competition. I hated competition. In my assessment, she was a 5.5/10 without makeup and transformed to a solid 8 with it—potentially a 9 if she lost the weight.

“Need any help, darling?” I asked, knowing full well she’d refuse. Pamela liked to do these things to prove she could handle everything.

She turned, startled by my presence. “Oh! No, I’m fine. Just finishing up the decorations.”

I nodded, moving closer to inspect her handiwork. The kitchen island was covered in multicolored miniature food items like candies, cakes, and everything sweet. It was all

so…feminine.

So maternal.

So caloric.

It made my skin crawl.

“It looks lovely,” I lied because that’s what good husbands did. “Sheila will be thrilled.”

Pamela’s smile wavered momentarily, and I could see the pain she was trying to hide.

“I hope so,” she said softly. “I want everything to be perfect.” Perfect. It was a word we used often in this house, a standard we both strove for. But perfection, as I’d learned, was a moving target.

I watched as Pamela fussed with a bouquet of balloons, her movements became more agitated with each passing moment. I knew what was coming–I’d seen this dance before.

“I just feel so…damaged,” she finally whispered, her voice cracking. “All of my friends are having babies and shopping for maternity clothes, and I’m still…barren. Despite all the steps we’ve taken.” She meant the steps she’d taken. I didn’t want kids, and I’d told her that, but if I told her that now, the waterworks would start, and I just couldn’t deal with my wife crying. It hurt me to see her cry.

I bit back the words that threatened to spill out. I wanted to tell her that maybe this was a sign, that perhaps we weren’t meant to be parents, that I was content with just her, that she should be content with just me. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew better than to voice these thoughts.

Instead, I moved behind her, wrapping my arms around her softening waist and pudgy belly that I acted like I loved, even though it repulsed me. I shrank stomachs for a living. I was a personal trainer and nutritionist, but if I even mentioned her weight gain, it was no pussy for me, and I loved her pussy. To be honest, it had been a while since we had sex. “Remember, all things work together for the good of those who love the Lord,” I murmured, nuzzling her neck. “If it’s in his will, it will happen.” Bible verses made her feel better. My wife claimed she was a Christian, but we were the type of Christians who showed up to church on Easter and Christmas.

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I swallowed it down. It was what she needed to hear, after all. Would it have been wrong to get a vasectomy and not tell her? That would have solved one problem but created another.

Pamela leaned back into me, seeking comfort. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said.

“What did I do to deserve such a fantastic and wonderful husband?”

You didn’t do anything. I chose you, Pamela. I smiled against her skin and breathed in the scent of her floral shampoo. “I could say the same thing, darling,” I replied, the lie smooth as silk on my tongue. She took a bite of a cupcake, and I kindly smacked her hand. “That is your third cupcake, Pamela, and you haven’t even had dinner.” She shot me a look that was a mixture of both sadness and hostility. “I digress.”

As a man, it was my job to provide Pamela with shelter, an allowance for household things, and shopping money so she could keep herself nice and pretty for when we mingled with other couples. It was a role I’d perfected over the years—the caring and supportive husband.

But lately, it’s been getting harder to maintain the facade.

Every time she talked about babies, I saw our freedom slipping away. The quiet evenings, the spontaneous trips, the uninterrupted nights—all sacrificed on the altar of parenthood, which included Disney movies and microwave popcorn. I’d tried to steer her away from that idea, suggesting we travel more and focus on our careers. But it was like she was possessed by this need to procreate. I’d even bent my rule and allowed her to adopt Marissa, thinking that would quench her thirst for a child, but it only amplified it.

I seriously wondered how much longer I could keep up this charade. I chose Pamela because she was the type of woman who would never leave, the kind of woman I could mold to fit my ideal life. But now, her desperation for a child was threatening to destroy everything I’d carefully built.

Pamela pulled away from me, returning to her task of arranging tiny cakes into the shape of diapers. I watched her, my mind drifting to darker places.

She’d been adamant about building her business lately, even though we were rich. I was talking about Will Smith and Jada Pinkett rich. Old money was what my mother called it. She was supposed to submit to me and shouldn’t have had a say in the finances. But because her small baby food business was starting to turn a profit, she wanted to start telling me how to invest and wanted to know more about our accounts. That was my area to handle.

If she would just do her job and be content with the life I’d given her, we wouldn’t have been in this mess. But she was stubborn, set in her ways. I’d have to take drastic measures if she didn’t change course. She had no idea what I was capable of.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. I rolled my eyes. Here were the other two women helping to make my life a living hell. Her reinforcements—my sister, Donna, the nanny Chloe, and Marissa, the daughter I never wanted.

“Hey, brother,” Donna said, kissing me on the cheek. “Take a deep breath and just be thrilled she’s not pregnant,” she whispered in my ear and rushed into the house with a handful of bags. She knew I didn’t want kids. Everybody knew, but my internally flawed wife didn’t care.

Chloe came in behind her with Marissa. I didn’t get why she had to hold a six-year-old’s hand. She smiled at me, flirting, but she shouldn’t have because if Pamela ever caught her flirting with me, she would kill her. She’d tried to get me to hire a male nanny, but I didn’t want another man in my house, gay or straight. I needed to be the only masculine authority under this roof. I became annoyed as I watched them bustling about preparing for a baby shower and spending my money.

Women were made to be men’s helpmates and tend to their every need. It was their function and why they were created. God made woman from man and for man. Her entire existence was an extension of me. Wo-man. Fe-male. The words that described her had the male identity wrapped in them. So why couldn’t they accept their identity and fall into line? Why couldn’t Pamela just obey me?

A wise person once told me to find a woman who loved me more than I loved her and that she would never leave. I followed their advice and did just that. I found a good southern girl who loved me and could keep a good house. I chose Pamela because she was the type of woman I could control. At least, that’s what I thought.

But if I didn’t do something soon, I was going to find myself in a desireless marriage with a 300lb wife. I fought so hard for us, for this perfect, childless life we’d built.

“Kyle?” Pamela’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Could you help me hang this banner?”

I pasted on my most charming smile, which made her weak in the knees. “Of course, anything for you.”

As I helped her stretch the “Congratulations, Mommy-to-Be!” banner across the archway, I couldn’t help but notice the way Pamela’s eyes lingered on the words. The longing in her gaze was palpable, a hunger I was beginning to resent.

“It’s going to be a lovely party,” I said, trying to distract her. “Sheila’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

Pamela nodded, but I could see the tears threatening to spill over. “I just…I wish it were me,” she whispered. Now, the waterworks began. Donna and Chloe quickly ran over to Pamela and became her emotional anchors. “Is that terrible of me? To be jealous of my friend?”

“No. These are normal feelings. I get jealous of my friends all the time,” Donna said.

“Mommy, can I pray for you?” Marissa asked.

“Yes,” Pamela said, with a look of hope in her eyes. Marissa put her hand on Pamela’s stomach.

“Dear God, please bless Mommy with a baby in her tummy so I can have a little sister. Amen.”

“That is so sweet, darling. Thank you for that. It makes Mommy feel so much better.”

I loathed this child. She might have been a perfect addition to another family, but she gave my wife hope for a child I didn’t want. I held in my true feelings and walked toward my wife.

I pulled her into an embrace, stroking her hair as she fought back sobs. “Donna is right. It’s natural to feel that way. Your time will come.”

The words tasted like shit in my mouth. I didn’t want her time to come. If Pamela couldn’t let go of this obsession with having a baby, perhaps I needed to take control. The thought should have shocked me, should have filled me with guilt. But instead, I felt a sense of calm wash over me.

“Why don’t you freshen up? Everything is perfect for the party tomorrow. I’ll get started on dinner,” Chloe said.

Pamela nodded, wiping at her eyes. “You’re right. What would I do without you all?”

As she headed upstairs, I surveyed the room. Everything was perfect, just as Pamela wanted. But it came at a price. And I was wondering how much I would pay to maintain this childless paradise I’d created. How far was I willing to go to keep Pamela focused solely on me and to keep our life exactly as I wanted it? As I heard the shower start upstairs, I made a decision. It was time to take charge of this situation once and for all. After all, wasn’t that what a good husband did? It was either me or the baby, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

Get the Husband’s Secret Below

The Husband’s Secret

Synopsis

The girl in the mirror isn't me...anymore

From the outside, my life looks perfect. An elite private school in our affluent Maryland neighborhood. A father who's one of the nation's leading psychiatrists and a beautiful home any teenager would love. But beneath this carefully crafted facade lies the truth my parents want to hide that, I've been diagnosed with residual schizophrenia.

I thought I had it under control. The medication was working. Then the whispers started again.

Shadows move when I'm not looking. Chilling messages appear on my phone. But it's the mirrors that terrify me most – where something watches, waiting, even through the haze of my medication.

As my reality begins to crack, I'm faced with an impossible question: Is my mind betraying me again, or is there something else happening – something no one else can, see? My parents insist I need more treatment, but I'm starting to suspect there's a truth hiding behind my reflection, one that could change everything.

In a world where I can't trust my own perceptions, I must uncover what's real before it's too late. But how do you fight a threat when everyone – including yourself – questions whether it exists?

A mind-bending psychological thriller that will make you question everything you see. Perfect for fans of THE LAST HOUSE ON NEEDLESS STREET and BEHIND HER EYES.

The Reflection: Sneak Peak

Chapter One:

I hate my parents. They are the reason for all my pain. I know that sounds dramatic, but I blame them for my unattractive appearance and the frightening reflection that stares back at me in the mirror. Most children would be happy to go to a private school and live in a big, beautiful home, but what good is that if you’re unattractive and borderline crazy?

Let’s start with the unattractive part. Having material things is nice, but people treat you better and are kinder to you when you fit in with what they consider conventional beauty. When you look in the mirror and your reflection is hideous, unattractive, and unsightly, it can be damaging. Trust me; I know.

My name is Mora Manning, and I am grossly underweight. Yet my mother, Mary Anne, calls me lean. If the wind blew a little too hard, it would wrap me up in a tornado like Dorothy and I’d find myself in the middle of Oz trying to find my way home. My mediocre and impolite peers remind me of my ever so visible flaws by giving me nicknames. The boys call me “Dark and Buggly” referencing my big brown eyes and dark skin and the girls have coined the oh so creative and mentally stimulating, “Bora Mora,” because my mother refuses to allow me to wear make-up, resulting in my plain and boring appearance.

She says its toxins are harmful for my skin.  I wear my thick, bristly hair in a big puffy ponytail at the top of my head with long bangs to distract from my oversized forehead. If I were a couple shades lighter, had contacts to replace my bifocal lenses, and received a relaxer that straighten my coarse bristly hair, maybe I might be attractive enough to find a boy who likes me.

I’ve begged my mother for two things for my seventeenth birthday. A relaxer, to straighten out this kinky hair and contacts. Apparently, it’s unsanitary to stick pieces of plastic in your eye, and according to her my hair is thick and healthy.

She’s a beautician and specializes in healthy hair, but I don’t care about thick and healthy hair. I want a relaxer, because it will straighten my coarse curls and not only make them more manageable—it will make me more beautiful. I often fantasize about having hair like the girls in those Pantene Pro-V commercials that dance in the wind.

Even a lace front wig would be an improvement to the hair I have. How else am I supposed to compete in this new school and new grade? These eleventh-grade girls look like supermodels. Long, straight, flowing hair rules the world. 

Unfortunately, because of my mother’s prehistoric beliefs, I have to continue to wear unattractive bifocal lenses and walk around with this big poof of healthy, but unmanaged hair on my head. I look like a dark-skinned Olive Oyl with glasses. The only difference is, I don’t have a Popeye to save me from this pitiful existence. Mary Anne, my mother, has nice, wavy, flowing long hair like my sister Rain, so they don't understand what I’m going through.

Now couple that with my unattractive name, and hopefully you understand why I’m unhappy. I mean, who names their child Mora? It sounds like a rip off Dora doll that you buy at one of those second-hand stores. Why couldn’t I be a Marissa or an Emily? They named my sister Rain Falls, while I’m Mora Lyndora. Apparently, I’m named after some great-great grandparent that I have never had the pleasure of meeting.

Now let’s discuss the crazy part. Did I tell you I see ghosts and experience vivid nightmares that cause me to wake-up drenched in sweat and on the verge of a panic attack? I also received strange, cryptic text that seem to deliver the same message: “Be quiet.” They disappear when I show them to others and reappear when I view them alone.

My earliest memory of seeing a ghost was at eight. One night while I slept, the abrupt slamming of my bedroom door awakened me. My parents allowed me to keep my door open so the light from the hallway would spill over into my bedroom. They thought a little light might ease my imagination and keep me from hijacking their bed and inundating them with my late-night screams. When the door slammed shut, I jumped up, backed up against my headboard, and pulled my knees as close to my chest as possible.

My quivering fingers held my plush blankets just high enough to cover my face but low enough to keep my eyes visible. As my eyes peered through the darkness, I caught a glimpse of moonlight. It crept through the open curtains, like a thief tiptoeing in the night. I thought the draft from the enormous bay window in the corner of my room might have been the culprit, but when I looked at my window, it was closed—and right before me was a ghost hovering above the floor. I nearly screamed, but when I opened my mouth, no sound came forth.

The ghost had coarse thick hair that was put into a ponytail and big round eyes covered by spectacles. It floated toward me and was wearing a long night gown identical to mine. The gown danced around her without the aid of wind. I can still envision her solemn face. It resembled mine but was void of color. She didn’t smile, and she moved as if she was in slow motion.

It looked like me, if I were reimagined in one of those black and white movies from the ‘40s and ‘50s that my mother loved to watch. She had my rounded nose, hair style and my facial expression. It was terrifying. She raised one of her folded hands in front of her, brought it to her mouth, and pressed her long and wrinkled index finger against her crusted black lips. I can still smell the odor that her presence produced. It was like black tar being repaved on an old road.

On many of those nights when I had nightmares and received those unfamiliar text notifications, I would scream and run into my parents’ room, but this time I froze. My fear cemented my legs to the ground. She crept toward me; her index finger still pressed against her lips. The closer she approached, the more fearful I became.

When she was halfway toward my bed, she stopped and placed her hand down in front of her. My racing heartbeat slowed, and for a moment I thought she would leave and go about her business. Then, she dashed toward me and pressed her face toward mine and said, “Shh…, Mora!!” in a petrifying and spine-chilling tone that sounded like a child’s voice.

I screamed so loud that my mother and father ran into my room and tried to calm me down, but she dissipated into the air like an early morning mist. At first, my parents responded as any parent would. They consoled me and told me it was just a nightmare and that if I stopped reading horror novels and watching scary movies, it would go away.

So, I followed their suggestions and traded my horror novels for romance. But the ghost sightings and nightmares didn’t stop. They kept happening. My parents made me believe that something was wrong with me, and I believed it too. They made me question if my idiosyncratic behavior was responsible for the dissolution of their marriage.

Then one day not long after the incident, my parents called me down from my room and told me they were taking me to see a psychiatrist. Since my father was a psychiatrist,

The American Medical Association considered it unethical for him to treat me, so he referred me to one of his colleagues. I had to decide. Would I lie or tell the truth? I broke down in my best fake cry and told them I was doing it for attention. I quoted an article from Psychology Weekly

that talked about child abandonment issues and being an insecure attachment. Yes. I lied, but I would not be ugly and crazy. Ugly mocha girls that are crazy end up in mental asylums or small cramped jail cells. Pretty girls that are crazy become pop stars who get a slap on the wrist and go to rehab.

So, I did what any scared child would do: I stopped telling my parents about my weird occurrences, but that didn’t stop the occurrences from continuing, and it didn’t stop them from taking me to see a psychiatrist. A few days later, I was on medication. At first, all the abnormal occurrences stopped, but it wasn’t long before it all started happening again. The nightmares, ghost, and text messages became more frequent and got stronger and more intimidating with each encounter. I knew I was unattractive, but now I wondered if I was losing my mind.

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