Page 167 of Divine Temptations

No, I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.

The room was dim, lit mostly by the muted glow of monitors and the half-drawn blinds filtering late afternoon light. My father lay in the bed, smaller than I remembered, his skin pale and his once-booming voice reduced to the faint rasp of his breathing. The oxygen tube framed his face, and his hand twitched against the blanket as if even when unconscious, he was still restless.

I froze. All the anger I’d rehearsed on the drive down evaporated. All that was left was this heavy, hollow ache — the kind you feel when you realize the monster from your childhood was just a man all along.

Lucien stayed by the door, and I stepped closer to the bed.

“Hey, Daddy,” I whispered. My voice barely made it past my throat.

He didn’t stir. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the silence. I swallowed, forcing the words out. “You look… tired.”

My hand shook a little as I reached for the rail. I didn’t touch him — just needed to anchor myself to something that didn’t move.

“I heard about your show,” I mumbled. “Still preaching obedience, huh?” A bitter smile ghosted across my face. “Guess your own heart got tired of listening.”

Lucien gave me a quiet glance that said, go easy on him.

“I didn’t come here to be cruel,” I murmured. “I came because—because I don’t want to carry this anymore.”

The air felt heavier the longer I stood there. My chest tightened, the faint antiseptic smell mixing with something faintly floral — the same cheap air freshener they used in my mother’s hospice room. The memories hit hard. I remembered the soft click of heels in hallways, and the quiet prayers I’d whispered that God had ignored.

I drew a shaky breath. “You broke me down to mold me into your image, Daddy. You made me believe love was punishment.”

Lucien’s reflection glimmered faintly in the window glass, his expression unreadable but full of quiet strength. That steadiness helped me find my voice again.

“I forgive you,” I said finally. The words felt like glass leaving my throat. “Not because you deserve it. But because I need to be free.”

Lucien took a slow step forward, stopping beside me. I reached back and found his hand without looking. His fingers laced through mine, warm, grounding.

“And this,” I said, turning slightly toward the bed, “is my husband. Lucien Perez. You remember him, right? The so-called devil worshipper you sent me to spy on?”

A humorless laugh slipped out. “Turns out you were half right. He’s got a hell of a way of showing love.”

Lucien huffed a quiet chuckle.

“But he saved me,” I went on. “He showed me what real grace looks like. What it feels like to be seen and not judged.”

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the steady beep of the monitor. I started to step back — and then Daddy’s eyelids flickered.

“Lucien,” I whispered, frozen.

My father’s eyes opened. They were pale, almost watery, and for a split second, there was recognition there — of me, of him, of everything between us.

He blinked slowly, lips moving. It took effort, like the words were made of stone.

“Get out,” he rasped.

The syllables were weak but sharp enough to cut air.

I stared at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. I thought I’d feel anger, or grief, or vindication. But what I felt was… nothing. Just a hollow quiet, like the wind after a storm.

Lucien squeezed my hand. “Come on,” he whispered.

We left without another word.

Outside, the air smelled like rain and cut grass — alive. I leaned against the hood of our car, the metal cool under my palms, and let the tears come. They fell fast but easily.

Lucien stood close, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You did what you needed to do.”