By the time Zack walks into the church again, I already know something has changed.
It's in the way he moves.
Slower.
Heavier.
Like the weight of something unresolved is dragging behind him.
I'm seated near the front, going through notes I haven't truly read, when I hear his footsteps echo faintly through the empty hall. I don't look up immediately. I let him approach. Let him feel the space. Let him settle into it.
"Pastor."
I lift my head slowly.
Zack stands a few feet away, eyes tired, shoulders slightly tense. There's relief in his face, but it's strained, like it came at a cost.
"You're back," I say calmly.
He nods. "Yeah."
I gesture toward the pew in front of me. "Sit."
He does, exhaling as he drops into the seat. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable.
It's loaded.
"So?" I ask finally.
He runs a hand over his face before answering. "I went back. Met with them. Tried to negotiate."
"And?"
A humorless laugh slips out of him. "They don't negotiate."
I lean back slightly, watching him. "I expected that."
"Yeah," he mutters. "They said the contract is binding. Ten years means ten years. Or I pay my way out. No shortcuts."
"How much did you raise?"
He hesitates for a second, then says, "Seven million."
I nod slowly.
That's… significant.
Impressive, even.
"Assets?" I ask.
"Cars. Watches. A few properties," he replies. "Sold everything I could without completely destroying myself."
I study him carefully.
Seven million means he's serious.
It means he's committed.
It also means—
He's desperate.
"And the remaining three?" I ask.
His jaw tightens. "That's the problem."
Silence settles again.
Then he exhales slowly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"I thought they'd at least consider it. I mean… seven million isn't small."
"No," I say quietly. "It isn't."
"But they didn't care," he continues. "They said if I don't complete the contract, I pay everything. Every dollar."
I nod once.
Predictable.
Cold.
Structured.
"They're not going to let you walk away easily," I say.
"I know."
He lifts his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine.
"And that's not even the worst part."
I don't react immediately.
"Go on."
He hesitates.
Then—
"She's coming."
My chest tightens.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"Who?" I ask, though I already know.
"Scarlett."
The name lands differently now.
Not distant.
Not abstract.
Real.
Closer.
"When?" I ask, keeping my tone even.
"A few days," he says. "She texted me. Said she wants to see me face-to-face."
Something shifts inside me.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Controlled.
I nod slowly. "And what does she want?"
He lets out a breath. "To understand. To see if I'm serious. To… figure out where she stands in all of this."
Of course.
That's exactly what she would do.
She doesn't react blindly.
She assesses.
Calculates.
Moves with intention.
I lean forward slightly.
"And where does she stand?" I ask.
He runs his hand through his hair. "I don't know. That's the problem. I think… I think she still wants me back. But not like this."
"Not like what?"
"Not like this version of me," he says. "Not the 'church' version. Not the… change."
I nod, absorbing that.
"She wants the version she knew," I say.
"Yeah."
Silence.
Then he adds quietly, "And she can help."
There it is.
I keep my expression neutral.
"How?"
"She has money," he says. "More than people think. Connections too."
Of course she does.
I already know that.
But hearing it from him—
Confirms it.
"But," he continues, "she won't just give it."
I tilt my head slightly. "What would she want?"
He hesitates.
Then—
"Control."
The word sits between us.
Heavy.
"She'd want me back in her world," he adds. "Maybe not fully… but enough. Enough to benefit her."
"Content?" I ask, casually.
He nods. "Yeah. Something like that."
I lean back slowly.
"And you're considering it?"
His expression tightens immediately. "No."
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Too defensive.
"I don't want that life anymore," he says. "I don't want to go back."
"But you need three million."
Silence.
His jaw clenches.
"I'll find another way."
Will you?
I study him carefully.
Desperation makes people flexible.
Even when they claim otherwise.
"So what's your plan when she gets here?" I ask.
He exhales slowly.
"I talk to her," he says. "Make her understand. Show her that I'm serious. That I'm done."
"And then?"
"I try to convince her," he continues. "Not just to help me… but to leave too."
Leave.
Interesting.
"You think she will?" I ask.
He pauses.
"I don't know."
Honest.
Good.
"But I have to try," he adds. "I can't just leave her there."
I nod slowly, my mind already moving ahead.
"You care about her."
"I do."
"And you believe she can change."
"I do."
Silence again.
But this time—
It's different.
Because while he's talking about saving her…
I'm thinking about something else entirely.
Access.
Proximity.
Opportunity.
She's coming here.
To Texas.
To him.
Which means—
She'll be close.
Real.
Not a screen.
Not a profile.
Not a system.
A person.
Reachable.
Observable.
Influenceable.
I feel something tighten in my chest.
Not emotion.
Not exactly.
Something sharper.
More focused.
"You'll need to be careful," I say finally, my tone calm, measured.
"With what?"
"With how you approach her," I reply. "You can't force change. You can't push too hard."
He nods slowly.
"I know."
"She lives a certain way," I continue. "Structured. Controlled. Profitable. You're asking her to walk away from that."
"I know," he repeats.
"Then your approach has to be… strategic."
He glances at me. "How?"
I pause.
Carefully.
"Don't attack her lifestyle directly," I say. "Understand it first. Acknowledge it. Then… introduce something different."
He listens closely now.
Engaged.
Trusting.
"People don't leave what works for them," I continue. "They leave when they believe there's something better."
He nods slowly. "So… show her something better."
"Yes."
Simple.
Effective.
Manipulative.
"And you think that will work?" he asks.
I meet his gaze.
"It depends," I say.
"On what?"
"On how well you understand her."
Silence.
He exhales. "I thought I did."
I don't respond to that.
Because I already know—
He doesn't.
Not fully.
Not like I do.
Not like I'm starting to.
He leans back slightly, running a hand through his hair again.
"I just want out," he mutters. "Out of everything. And I want her out too."
I nod slowly.
But my thoughts are elsewhere.
Because this—
This changes everything.
She's not just an idea anymore.
She's a timeline.
An arrival.
A moment that's coming.
And I need to be ready.
"You should prepare," I say calmly.
"For what?"
"For the conversation," I reply. "For what she'll ask. For what she'll expect."
He nods. "Yeah."
"And Zack…"
He looks at me.
"This is important."
"I know."
"No," I say, my voice slightly firmer now. "You don't."
He frowns slightly.
"If you handle this wrong," I continue, "you could lose both outcomes."
"What do you mean?"
"You lose her," I say. "And you still owe the money."
That lands.
Hard.
He nods slowly. "So I can't mess this up."
"No," I reply quietly. "You can't."
Silence stretches between us again.
But this time—
It feels like something is building.
Something inevitable.
I lean back, folding my arms loosely.
"When she arrives," I say, "let me know."
He looks at me, slightly surprised. "You want to meet her?"
I pause.
Just for a second.
Then—
"Yes."
Simple.
Controlled.
Reasonable.
"She's part of the situation," I add. "Understanding her will help guide you better."
He nods slowly.
"Okay."
Good.
Very good.
Because now—
This is no longer distant.
No longer theoretical.
This is real.
Immediate.
Close.
And as he continues talking about plans, about hope, about change—
I nod.
I respond.
I guide.
Like a pastor should.
But inside—
Something else is happening.
Something louder.
Something darker.
Because all I can think about now is this—
She's coming.
And when she does…
I won't just be watching anymore.