Chapter 3: A Crack in the Cassock

Chapter 3: A Crack in the Cassock

The final words of her story, “That is how it began, Father,” hung in the air, a shimmering heat haze in the cold study. Elara watched him, her smile a fragile shield. She had painted him a sunrise, all golden light and gentle warmth, and now she waited to see if its memory would be enough to burn.

For a long, agonizing moment, Father Magnus Blackwood remained perfectly still. The mask of the impassive confessor was flawless, carved from granite. But Elara, an artist of emotion and nuance, looked closer. She saw the muscle twitching violently in his jaw. She saw the white-knuckled grip of his hand on the desk, the pressure so intense it seemed he might splinter the ancient wood. His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm that was anything but calm. It was the breathing of a man trying to cage a beast within his own ribs.

When he finally spoke, his voice was not the smooth, predatory baritone from before. It was rough, scraped raw with an emotion he fought to conceal. “A charming little anecdote. The stuff of fairy tales.”

The dismissal was a slap. He waved a hand, a gesture of bored impatience. “The beautiful boy, the summer sun, a touch on the cheek. How… quaint. It’s a story for children, Miss Vance, not a confession for a sinner.”

He was angry. A deep, cold fury radiated from him, so potent it felt like a physical force. But it wasn’t anger at her sin. It was anger at the story itself. Elara felt a flicker of confusion before it hit her with the force of a revelation. He wasn’t angry at the passion; he was enraged by its purity. The simple, uncalculated connection she’d described—two young artists finding each other in the sunlight—was an affront to him. It was a language he did not speak, a world from which he had been exiled. In that moment, looking at his tormented eyes, she saw the ghost of a life he’d never been allowed, a love he had never known.

His power, his name, his wealth—it had all come at a price. The gilded cage of the Blackwood dynasty would never have permitted a simple, sun-drenched love affair on the town green. He was a man who had been starved, and she had just described a feast.

His weakness made him cruel.

“Let’s dispense with the nostalgic prelude,” he bit out, rising from his chair. He began to pace behind the desk, a caged panther in a black cassock. “You speak of him as if he were some tragic hero from a poem. He was a boy who made a choice. A choice for comfort. For security.”

Magnus stopped, turning to face her. His grey eyes were chips of ice. “Did he ever tell you the real reason he left you? The full story behind his sudden, advantageous marriage to Catherine Dubois?”

The name of Liam’s wife felt like acid on his tongue. Elara’s blood ran cold. “He said it was family pressure. Her father’s business was failing…”

Magnus let out a short, sharp laugh devoid of all humor. “Failing? Oh, it was on the brink of absolute ruin. But who do you think held the strings to that ruin, Elara? Who do you think owned the debt that would have crushed her family, and by extension, Liam’s own prospects?”

The unspoken answer screamed in the silence of the study. The Blackwoods. His family.

The room tilted, the stained-glass saints on the window seeming to mock her. Her carefully constructed narrative, her memories, her pain—it wasn't even her own story. She had been a pawn in a game she never knew was being played, her heartbreak a minor casualty in the vast, ruthless machinery of Blackwood family business. He hadn't just used his family's network to learn about her; his family had actively, if indirectly, shaped her past.

“You…” she breathed, the word stolen from her lungs. The feeling of powerlessness she had fled this town to escape came rushing back, a suffocating tide. He had known all along. He had known the architecture of her sorrow because his own house had built it.

“Yes,” he said, his voice dropping back to that low, intimate tone that was far more terrifying than his anger. He leaned over the desk, invading her space, forcing her to look at him. “My family. We are… thorough. Liam was a weakness you couldn't afford, and he was a weakness his family couldn't afford. A choice was made. He chose a life of comfortable mediocrity over a life of struggle with his passionate little artist.”

He pushed the knife in deeper. “So you see, your story of sun-drenched beginnings is meaningless. It was a fantasy, built on a foundation that my family could have demolished with a single phone call. And did.”

He expected her to break. She could feel it. He wanted to see her crumble, to strip away her defiance with his cold, brutal truth. He wanted her to be the lost, broken sinner seeking his brand of salvation.

But as she stared into the stormy grey of his eyes, she saw it again, clearer than ever: the gaping wound behind his arrogance. He was using his power, his knowledge, his family’s name as a weapon because it was the only thing he had. He was trying to poison her pure memory because he had none of his own. The saint was jealous of the sinner.

The fear inside her didn’t just recede; it crystalized into something hard and sharp. A diamond forged in the pressure of his cruelty. The power dynamic, which had felt so skewed, suddenly leveled. He was just as trapped as she was, chained by a legacy of cold power while she, at least, had known the freedom of genuine passion, however fleeting.

She was done playing defense. She was done letting him dictate the terms of this confession. He wanted a story that elicited a response? Fine. She would give him one. It was time to see if the man of God, the starving man in the gilded cage, could handle a taste of real sin.

Elara slowly uncrossed her legs. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, mirroring his own invasive posture. The movement caused the green fabric of her dress to tighten across her breasts, and she did not miss the way his eyes tracked the motion before snapping back to her face.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her red lips. The trembling vulnerability was gone, replaced by a confident, predatory gleam.

“You’re right, Father,” she purred, her voice a low thrum of challenge. “That was just the prologue. The story of a girl. Perhaps you’re not interested in the girl.”

She let the silence hang for a beat, enjoying the flicker of confusion in his eyes.

“Perhaps,” she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you’d be more interested in a story about the woman she became. A time when I wasn't the one being left. A time when I was the one who was worshipped.” She paused, letting the implication sink in. “A time I was the one in complete control.”

Characters

Elara Vance

Elara Vance

Father Magnus Blackwood

Father Magnus Blackwood

Liam

Liam