The first time Mara returns, she wears red lipstick.
Not coral. Not rose. Red—deep, sinful, and deliberately smeared at the edges like a warning. Or an invitation.
It’s not church-appropriate.
But then again, Mara stopped caring about appropriateness the moment Father Elijah whispered, Tell me everything.
She walks slower this time. Like a woman in command of her own damnation. Her heels click against the marble, each step echoing like a challenge—daring the saints in the stained glass to look away, daring the crucifix to flinch.
She dares him, too.
But he doesn’t stop her.
She slips into the booth like smoke, drawn to the dark. The scent of old wood and incense now clings to her memory like perfume—an olfactory prelude to a ritual that no longer belongs to God.
She doesn’t cross h
