GRACE’S POV
They say preacher’s daughters are always the first to sin.
I hear it all the time, and every time I do, I just smile. Not because it’s true—at least not for most girls like me. Not in my kind of home. My father sees to that.
We all stood to sing the closing hymn, and I lifted the hymnal just high enough to cover part of my face. My eyes wandered across the church, moving past familiar faces until they caught on someone new.
A woman sat in the far corner. Definitely new. This had to be her first Sunday in Glory Zone Church.
And yes, I would know. I know everyone here. That’s what happens when you’re the pastor’s daughter.
I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she sat—confident, composed, utterly unbothered. Her hair fell perfectly, her makeup was bold, and her dress was brighter than anything the women here would dare to wear. And that lipstick. Red. The kind Father always said good women didn’t wear.
She was beautiful in a way that made you notice. And she didn’t seem to care who noticed.
So different from me.
No makeup. No jewellery. Just my long, high-neck gown that could have belonged to my grandmother—and the hat. That awful, clumsy hat that announces who I am before I even speak and a lip gloss that makes one feel like a girl that I am..
I looked away quickly, facing forward again as Father stepped up to the pulpit. I hadn’t even noticed the hymn was over. The church fell silent, waiting.
“Before we share the grace,” he began, holding the microphone with both hands, as he always did when the news was serious, “I’m delighted to share something good with you.”
He paused. Long enough to make everyone hold their breath.
“Praise be to God,” he said, and then he smiled.
A real smile. Not the polished one he wore every Sunday for the congregation, but a rare, genuine one. The kind we hardly ever saw, even at home.
“Finally,” he said, “the main headquarters has heard our plea.”
The room went completely still. You could feel the tension shift, the expectation thickening in the air.
“Our branch will be renovated.”
For a second, silence. Then chaos.
People jumped to their feet. Applause. Shouts of hallelujah. A woman near the front burst into tears. Someone in the back started speaking in tongues. Mother clapped softly, her face lifted in quiet thanks.
But me? I stayed still.
My eyes moved around the church—the peeling paint, the cracked ceiling, the fans that creaked louder than they cooled. I’d spent my whole life here. Every year we prayed for change. Every year Father said, “Our petition is before the Lord.” Every year, nothing.
And now, when no one expected it anymore, it was finally happening.
It should’ve made me happy.
But all I could think about was the prayer I’d whispered again and again—that I’d leave this town before this church ever changed. That maybe I’d get into a university, leave San Sebastian behind, and start something new.
But no. That prayer still hadn’t been answered.
The church was getting a fresh start.
Me? I was still here.
ASHTON’S POV
I walked into the red room barefoot, dressed only in black pants. The marble floor was cold under my feet, but I liked it—that bite of discomfort that reminded me I was in control.
The lights were low. The scent of leather and perfume lingered in the air. Everything was as it should be—the shelves lined, the bed perfectly made, the cane laid neatly beside the couch. Order. It was the one thing I could still rely on.
She was already there. Clara. Kneeling in the centre of the room, blindfolded, silent. She knew how to play her part—how to breathe slowly, how to wait for me.
I stopped behind her. Her body stiffened slightly when she realised I was there. Then she tilted her head, just enough to acknowledge me, just enough to test my patience.
“Don’t move,” I said quietly.
She stilled.
I reached out and let my fingers brush the back of her neck—just a touch, but enough for her to tremble. The air between us shifted. Power, obedience, trust. That balance was everything.
She wanted chaos. I gave her control disguised as surrender.
But tonight, something felt off. The silence was too loud. My thoughts, too restless.
“Stand up,” I told her.
She obeyed, graceful and trembling.
When she turned her face toward me, blindfold still in place, her lips parted. “I missed you,” she whispered.
That wasn’t in the script.
The words landed wrong—too soft, too human. I felt the sharp edge of reality cut through the room.
I stepped back. The tension broke like glass.
“This isn’t what we do,” I said.
She hesitated. “I just thought—”
“Don’t think,” I cut in. My voice was calm, but it carried enough warning.
Her hands fell to her sides. “I’m sorry, Ashton.”
I walked to the bar, poured myself a drink, and watched the amber swirl in the glass before swallowing it whole. The vodka burned going down. The burn helped.
“I got carried away,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“I know.” I turned, set the glass down. “Get dressed.”
She lingered for a moment, unsure, then moved toward her clothes. The soft click of her heels against the floor was the only sound as she left.
When the door closed, the silence returned—thick, heavy, familiar. I sat back on the couch, staring at the empty glass. The quiet always felt louder after she was gone.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I’m coming to your office tomorrow to discuss something important.
—Father
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed. My jaw tightened.
My father never came to my office unless something was about to go wrong.
And somehow, I already knew—this was the beginning of it.
