Page 76 of Divine Temptations

That was it.

I slammed both palms on her desk so hard her iced matcha vibrated.

“I’m going to bring him down,” I said. My voice didn’t even sound like mine—it was something deeper, guttural. “I don’t care how pretty Jude is or how many lonely people he’s fooled. I’m going to expose him for what he is. And then I’m going to tear off the halo and show the world the con artist underneath.”

Claudia didn’t flinch. In fact, she grinned like she’d just won the goddamn lottery.

“There he is,” she purred. “That’s the Julian I invested in. Sharp. Ruthless. Vengeful. My favorite kind of content creator.”

“Nobody makes a fool of me,” I muttered and hurried toward the door.

“Oh, and Julian?” she called after me.

I turned back, scowling.

“If you do manage to get him into bed…” She smiled, all teeth. “That’s part of the story. I want details. Sensual and spiritual.”

I stormed out before I said something I couldn’t take back. Her assistant gave me a nervous glance as I passed, but I didn’tslow down. I marched out of the building, into the heat and filth of Midtown, my fists clenched and my brain on fire.

So Jude wanted to play the holy man?

Fine.

Let’s see how divine he looks when I strip away the spiritual smoke and mirrors and get to the truth. But underneath all my righteous fury, one question kept rising like smoke I couldn’t wave away:

What the hell is it about Jude Brooks that’s still got me this twisted?

Chapter Ten

Julian-Episode 73- Unholy Orders

Welcome back to Unholy Orders, the podcast where spiritual grifters meet a healthy dose of journalistic skepticism—and where the phrase “blessed and highly favored” is usually followed by an eye roll.

I’m your host, Julian Reed, and yes—before anyone asks—I’m alive. I haven’t been abducted by a cult or lost in a sensory deprivation tank. I’ve just been… marinating. In research. And rage. Mostly rage.

Today’s episode is one I never thought I’d record. Because for the first time in the illustrious history of this podcast, I’ve met a fraud I can’t stop thinking about. And no, I don’t mean that in a cute way. I mean it in “keeps me up at night like a bad tattoo and an untreated ulcer” kind of way.

Let’s talk about Jude Brooks.

Pause. Breathes into mic.

This man—this barefoot, beatific little demigod of Riverbend, Virginia—has managed to con an entire town into believing he can heal them. Heal. Them. Like with touches and rituals and sacred crystals from Etsy. And people believe it. They walk into his so-called healing center with ailments and come outwith testimonials. Glowing ones. Like they just got Botox and a spiritual enema.

But here’s the thing. I’ve made a career—hell, a life—out of peeling back the curtain on so-called messiahs. I’ve stared down snake-handlers and prosperity gospel televangelists with yachts named Divine Favor. But this? Jude Brooks is different. He’s not loud. He’s not flashy. He doesn’t even ask for money. And that makes him ten times more dangerous.

Because people trust him.

Because people want to trust him.

And maybe—maybe—because he looks like a lost Hemsworth cousin who took a vow of celibacy and does yoga at sunrise.

Pause. Clears throat.

Okay. Yeah. We’re gonna talk about that.

Let’s get this out of the way. Jude Brooks is hot. Like, objectively. Disgustingly. That kind of hot where even your mom would pause mid-rosary and go, “Well, the Lord did make him in His image.”

But don’t let the cheekbones fool you. That’s not a halo—it’s camouflage.