Apostle Baby Daddy Is A Top Shot

Rain hammered the city like judgment. The streets shimmered with reflections of neon and thunder, every flash of lightning cutting the sky open like a wound.

Yeshua Yael stood outside the black iron gates of Florence’s mansion, a takeout box trembling in his hands. 

Steam rose from the cracks, her favorite meal. The one he used to make when love still meant something. The intercom buzzed. A voice, tired and polite, answered. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Yeshua said softly. “Tell Florence I brought dinner.”

A pause. Then the housekeeper sighed. “Sir, Madam said she doesn’t want to be disturbed tonight.”

The rain came harder, tracing cold lines down his face. “Please,” he whispered. “Just… tell her I’m here.”

Silence. Then a click. The line died. He stayed there, gripping the box until heat bit his palms. He had no umbrella, no pride left to protect. Just the stubborn, dying hope that maybe, tonight, she’d remember him.

Through the half-drawn curtains upstairs, golden light spilled onto the rain. He could see shadows moving. Two of them. One laughing.

That laugh used to be his world. He stepped closer to the fence. His breath fogged against the cold metal. The voices were clearer now, a man’s confident tone, Florence’s soft reply.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s not her sister.”

Glass clinked. Laughter again, carefree, intimate. A guard appeared under the porch, umbrella in hand. “Mr. Yael,” he said carefully. “Madam told me not to let you in.”

Yeshua’s voice cracked. “She’s my wife.”

“Was, sir.” The guard looked away. “I’m sorry.”

That word hit harder than the rain. “Was.”

He turned away, the city’s glow blurring through his tears. His phone buzzed in his pocket, a message from her.

Florence: Don’t come back. The papers will be ready tomorrow. I’ll take the twins. You’ll be fine.

The words blurred as he read them again and again. “I’ll take the twins.”

The phone slipped from his hand into a puddle. From behind the gates, the mansion door opened. 

Florence stepped out, silk robe clinging to her like moonlight. A man followed, tall, confident, fixing his cufflinks as though this were normal.

She froze when she saw him. “Yeshua… what are you doing here?”

He raised the box weakly. “I brought dinner.”

“Dinner?” She almost laughed. “You think food can fix years of failure?”

He took a shaky breath. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” Her tone sharpened. “You had years to talk, years to build something real. But no, you chose your sermons, your dreams, your little church. You let this family starve on faith.”

Her words cut like glass. The man behind her stepped forward. “Maybe you should go, buddy. It’s getting awkward.”

Yeshua’s gaze flicked to him. “Who are you to tell me to leave my wife’s house?”

The man smirked. “Ex-wife, from what I hear. And I’m the man who treats her right.”

Florence’s expression twisted between shame and defiance. “Please don’t make a scene. You’ll only embarrass yourself again.”

He looked at her one last time, the woman who once held his heart, now holding a stranger’s hand. “You already did that for me.”

The words silenced her. He turned away slowly, each step heavier than the last. The rain blurred everything, the mansion, the lights, the laughter. Behind him, the door shut. Final.

He stopped under a streetlight, soaked and shaking. “Father,” he whispered to the storm. “If You can hear me… tell me what I did wrong.”

Thunder rolled, distant and hollow. “Was I not faithful? Did I not forgive? Did I not serve?” His voice cracked. “Then why take everything from me?”

Lightning split the sky, white and merciless. He dropped to his knees in the mud, hands pressed to the earth. “You’re silent again. Always silent!”

Then, silence broke. A whisper, soft but vast, moved through the rain. It wasn’t sound. It was inside him. “Yeshua Yael.”

He froze. The air shifted, rain suspended midair, every droplet hanging like frozen glass.

“Who, who’s there?”

The streetlight above flickered, then exploded in a shower of sparks. “You thought I forgot you,” the voice said. “But I have been waiting.”

Yeshua’s breath came fast. “What are You?”

“Not what, who. I am.”

A tremor passed through his chest, sharp and burning. He gasped, clutching his heart. Golden light bled through his fingers, pulsing with life.

“The time of humiliation is over,” the voice thundered. “You are not forsaken. You are chosen.”

Lightning struck nearby, blinding white. The shock threw him backward. When he hit the pavement, he saw it, a sigil glowing on his forearm, a circle of wings carved in light.

He stared, trembling. “Why now?”

“Because now you have nothing left but Me.”

Tears blurred his vision. The voice wrapped around his soul, deeper than thunder, older than grief. “Rise, Yeshua Yael. For the stone they rejected will become the cornerstone.”

The world resumed. Rain fell again. The mark faded to a faint golden shimmer beneath his skin.

He pushed himself to his feet, soaked, shaking, but something within him had changed. The emptiness was gone.

He looked toward the mansion, its lights still glowing like sin behind the rain. “You’ll remember this night,” he said quietly. “The night Heaven remembered me.”

Lightning flared again, and Yeshua Yael walked into the storm reborn.

Morning came late. Yeshua sat at the edge of his narrow bed, the mark faintly glowing under his skin. 

He hadn’t slept. The city outside hummed, unaware that something ancient had awakened in its streets.

He washed his face, stared into the mirror. His reflection looked different, not holy, not broken, just clear.

His phone buzzed with notifications, messages, group chats, whispers. One stood out: “When your broke ex thinks prayer pays the bills.”

A photo of him kneeling in the rain. Viral already. He smiled faintly. “Let them laugh. Heaven heard enough last night.”

He put on a clean shirt, plain, white, almost priestly, and stepped outside. The streets were the same. But he wasn’t.

A woman selling fruit looked up as he passed. “Pastor Yael,” she said, startled. “You look… different.”

“Just rested,” he said gently.

But he could feel it, that same hum under his skin, like light waiting to break loose. He headed toward Vanguard Legal. Toward her.

Florence was in the lobby when he arrived. Polished. Perfect. Pretending the night before hadn’t existed.

The receptionist’s whisper carried across the marble floor. “That’s him. The one she divorced.”

Phones lifted discreetly. Yeshua stood still, letting the noise wash over him, then the elevator doors opened, and Florence stepped out with her colleagues. 

Laughter died instantly when she saw him.f “Yeshua,” she said, voice sharp. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk.”

“There’s nothing left to say.”

One of the men smirked. “Man, have some dignity. You’ve already gone viral once. You want a sequel?”

The lobby erupted in low laughter. Yeshua didn’t flinch. “I didn’t come for them.”

“Then leave,” she snapped. “You can talk to my lawyer.”

He took a slow breath. “I’m talking to her now.”

Then, chaos. A scream. Papers flew. An older man collapsed near the elevator, clutching his chest. Florence gasped. “Mr. Anderson!”

“Call an ambulance!” someone shouted.

Yeshua’s pulse quickened. That same warmth from last night ignited under his skin.

“Yeshua, don’t, ” Florence started, but he was already kneeling beside the fallen man.

He placed a hand on the man’s chest. The golden mark flared. The air hummed. Light bled through his fingers.

The man gasped, eyes snapping open. Color returned to his face. Florence’s colleagues froze. Someone whispered, “He was dead.”

Yeshua rose slowly. The glow faded. The crowd stared, awe, fear, disbelief. Florence whispered, “What did you do?”

He looked at her gently. “Not me.”

Cameras flashed. Phones recorded. The lobby was silent except for the hum of divine aftermath. Yeshua turned to leave. “Tell them it was mercy.”

Outside, sunlight pierced through the storm clouds, falling in a single beam over him. He looked down at his trembling hands. 

A voice whispered again, faint but firm. “Every sign will cost you something.”

He closed his fist. “Then let it cost me.”

Behind him, through the glass, Florence stood frozen. And for the first time, she wasn’t angry. She was afraid.

And in the shadows of a cathedral miles away, a man in white robes watched the viral video and smiled. “Found you,” he murmured. “The heir of Dominion lives.”