Sinner's Grace

The Call

I shove the phone into my bag and walk into the house. Mom and Dad are sitting at the dining table with Alina, laughing and chatting as if they're the perfect family. It's unsettling how warm and carefree they seem when I know how they truly feel about me.

With my head down, I try to sneak past them and head toward the stairs, but Mom's sharp voice stops me.

"Your dinner is served," she says flatly.

*Oh. That's new.*

"Thanks, Mom. I'm just going to... take a shower and come back," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I don't expect a reply, and of course, I don't get one.

After a long shower, I throw on some casual clothes and make my way back downstairs. My stomach growls loudly—it's been ages since I've had a proper meal.

I sit down next to Alina and grab a fork. After a quick prayer, I start eating, thankful to finally have some food in my system.

"So, you still pray? I didn't think you did," Mom says with a mocking tone, sipping her juice as her eyes pierce through me.

I freeze for a moment but force myself to continue eating. She's clearly baiting me.

"How's your job at Sandy's?" Dad asks, his sudden interest catching me off guard.

"It's been great. Thanks," I reply cautiously.

"Why did you decide to work?" he presses.

I glance around the table, feeling their stares like daggers. "I just needed something to do before college," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Wow. That's epic," Alina scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"Do you have male customers?" Mom cuts in.

I blink, confused. "It's a restaurant. Of course, there are male customers."

"Have you gotten yourself a boyfriend yet? One of those customers, maybe? You seem to have a talent for getting men to look at you," Mom says, her words dripping with venom.

"Or throwing yourself at them," Alina adds with a smirk.

I shake my head, biting my lip to keep myself from saying something I'll regret. Why did I think tonight would be any different just because they called me for dinner?

"I hope that's not true," Dad interjects. "You need to learn some discipline. The fact that you're no longer in nun school doesn't mean you can start messing around. We forgave you for that club nonsense, but don't push your luck. Try to be more like your sister—a true example of a Christian daughter."

I glance at Alina, who smirks triumphantly. *Be more like her? The fake, deceitful saint they idolize?*

"Sure, Dad," I mutter, focusing on my food. It's the easiest way to get out of this conversation.

Thankfully, they ignore me for the rest of the meal, turning their attention to their new church friend, Janell. I finish eating quickly, clear my plate, and head back upstairs without another word.

Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts wandering to Kade. Do I have to call him? He wasn't kidding when he said he'd knock on my parents' door and pretend to be my boyfriend. The man is insane enough to follow through.

I pull the iPhone from my bag and unwrap it, admiring its sleek design. It's a beautiful upgrade from the phone Mom smashed. Hesitantly, I transfer my SIM card and turn it on.

As the phone powers up, I pace the room nervously. What am I doing? Why does this man make me so uneasy? He's just a guy—a ridiculously attractive and frustrating guy—but still.

Taking a deep breath, I pull up his contact and hit the call button. The phone rings twice before his deep, smooth voice answers.

"And she called," he says, amusement laced in his tone.

"You knew I would."

"I didn't. But I also didn't think threatening to tell your parents I'm your boyfriend would fail. Do you hate me that much, Ivy? Do you think we wouldn't make a good couple?"

"What do you mean?"

He chuckles. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you called."

"I didn't have a choice."

"And why's that?"

"You know why," I hiss, lowering my voice. "You threatened to show up at my house."

"That wasn't a threat, Ivy," he says, his voice smug.

I sit on the edge of my bed, frustrated. "You're worse than trouble itself."

I hear him laugh softly. "Why are you whispering?"

"Because I have parents who would lose their minds if they knew I was talking to you."

"Fair enough."

"Kade, what do you want from me?" I blurt out, exasperated.

There's a pause on the line.

"What do I want from you?"

"Yeah. Look, Kade, I'm not really your type of girl, all right?" My voice wavers slightly, but I hold my ground. "You even called me a naive Christian. We're both different people, and I don't want any trouble, okay? You're that guy... and I'm... this girl. What do you really want?"

There's silence on the other end of the line, but I can practically hear him smirking. My heart pounds as I grip the phone tighter, waiting for him to respond.

When his voice finally comes through, it's calm, deliberate, and a little too self-assured. "That guy? This girl? You make it sound so black and white."

I swallow hard, leaning back against the headboard of my bed, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. "That's because it is. You live in a world of danger, expensive cars, and women who—well, who aren't like me."

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "You think you know me, Ivy?"

"I don't have to," I say quickly, trying to maintain my composure. "It's written all over you. The tattoos, the attitude, the way you walk into a room like you own it. You're trouble, Kade. The kind of trouble I should stay away from."

"And yet," he says, his tone dipping into something darker, "you haven't stayed away, have you?"

I blink, his words hitting me harder than I'd like to admit. "That's not fair," I whisper, feeling cornered.

"Fair or not, it's the truth," he counters, his voice softening. "You don't push me away, Ivy. Not really. Why is that?"

I open my mouth to answer but find that I don't have a good enough excuse. Instead, I run a hand through my hair and let out a frustrated sigh.

"See?" he says, almost triumphantly. "You don't even know why."

"That doesn't mean anything," I argue, though my voice lacks conviction.

"It means everything," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "You want to know what I want, Ivy? I want you to stop pretending you're not curious about me. About us."

"Us?" I laugh, but it's forced, shaky. "There is no us, Kade. We're not... this isn't..."

"Not what?" he asks, pressing me gently but firmly. "Not possible? Not allowed? Not something you've thought about?"

I feel my cheeks heat up, and I pull my knees to my chest, cradling the phone like it's a lifeline. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here I am," he says, his voice lighter now, teasing. "And here you are, still talking to me."

For a moment, I let the silence linger. My heart races, but I can't bring myself to end the call. There's something about the way he talks to me, the way he makes me feel seen and infuriated all at once.

"What do you really want, Kade?" I ask again, softer this time, almost afraid of the answer.

"What do you think I want from you?"

"s*x," I blurt out before I can stop myself. The word crashes into the conversation like a thunderclap, loud and awkward. My cheeks flush with heat as I realize what I just said. *Oh, God. Why did I say that?*

A heavy silence follows, thick and charged, and my stomach twists into knots. *Did I just cross some invisible line? Is he offended? Worse, is he amused?* I bite my lip, suddenly wishing I could snatch the word out of the air and take it back.

Then it happens. That sound. A deep, low chuckle. It spills through the line, rich and smooth, curling like smoke in the space between us.

*Good. He's not angry.*

But that laugh—it's lethal. The kind of laugh that makes your skin heat and your heart race for all the wrong reasons. It's warm and self-assured, dripping with a kind of charm that feels dangerous, even over the phone.

When the sound dies down, his voice slides in like silk, teasing and controlled. "Is that what you want?"

"What? No! Jesus!" I practically yelp, horrified. My hand grips the phone tighter as my heart beats erratically in my chest.

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing," he says, his tone light but laced with amusement, as though he's enjoying this far too much.

"It is a bad thing. In the eyes of God, yes," I snap, trying to reassert control over the conversation.

"Right," he says, dragging the word out lazily, like he's savoring it. "But what about in your eyes?"

I falter, the question hitting me square in the chest. My throat tightens as I struggle for a response. Why does he keep flipping everything back on me? It's like he's peeling back layers I didn't even know I had, and it's making me feel raw and vulnerable.

"Why do you care?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

"I'm curious," he replies, the amusement in his tone fading slightly, replaced by something deeper—something harder to read.

"Why don't you be curious about someone else?" I snap, turning onto my side and staring blankly at the wall.

"You're more interesting than you think," he says softly, almost like a confession.

The comment throws me, and for a moment, I don't know how to respond. His words carry an unexpected weight, like they've slipped out before he could stop them.

"I don't think so," I mutter, breaking the tension.

"Ivy," he says, and my name sounds different when he says it. Like it means something more. "I can get s*x from any girl. Quit panicking like a scared little bird."

*Wow. The audacity.* My grip tightens on the phone, and I glare at nothing in particular.

"That's not even an answer," I say, my tone biting.

"It's the only answer you need," he replies, his voice dipping lower, almost like a challenge.

The weight of his words lingers, thickening the air around me. I hate the way he speaks with such certainty, like he's already figured me out.

"Kade," I start, but my voice is unsteady.

"I'm picking you up tomorrow."

"Kade, no. I can't."

"Yes, you can. Be ready by seven. Look beautiful for me, Little Saint," he says, hanging up before I can argue.

I stare at the phone in disbelief. My heart is racing, and my palms are sweaty. I throw myself onto my bed, burying my face into the pillow. The man is relentless—and absolutely insane.

As I lie there, I can't help but notice the small flutter of something else, something unfamiliar. Excitement.

*What the hell did I just agree to?*

I remove my SIM card and switch the new phone off, sliding it back into its case with a resolute sigh. Returning it feels like the right thing to do—even if my conscience whispers otherwise. My fingers linger for a moment before I open the bottom drawer, gently placing the phone inside, and shutting it with a decisive click. Just to be sure, I lock it.

Crossing the room, I sink into the chair opposite my mirror, curling my knees to my chest. My reflection stares back at me, unkind in its honesty. God, I look so plain. My pale skin, the way my hair falls lifelessly over my shoulders, and the faint shadows under my eyes—all of it feels inadequate, especially when I think about him.

*What does a man like Kade Sterling even want from someone like me?*

The thought spirals, growing heavier with each breath. Kade Sterling, with his untouchable wealth and his self-assured arrogance, could have anyone. Women who are confident, stunning, and comfortable in his extravagant world. And yet, here he is, barging into my ordinary, fragile life. Why? What is he looking for? Whatever it is, I'm sure it will only complicate things further.

My gaze shifts to the nightstand, where the small bottle of pills waits, a reminder of the storm I keep at bay. I reach for it, twisting off the cap with a practiced motion. Swallowing one with a gulp of water, I let my eyes fall to the book my therapist from Georgia once recommended: *That One Enemy Called Depression.*

The cover has faded from my touch, the title a cruel reminder of a battle I'm still fighting. I don't even remember the last time I opened it. With a small sigh, I pick it up and toss it underneath my bed. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe if I hide it well enough, I can convince myself I'm fine.

I press my palms against my cheeks, trying to rub away the heat of my frustration. My skin feels clammy, and my body is restless. The weight of everything—the phone, the book, the thoughts of Kade—presses down on me, stifling like a thick fog.

*I need a cold shower.*