The Saintess Chose The Wrong Man

Chapter 1

The biggest fools on earth had to be high school kids.

Lombard had watched them for years—kids who spoke like they had life mapped out, who argued with teachers like they were seasoned scholars, quoting half-baked “research” they barely understood. They talked down on grown men who had lived twice their lives, survived things those kids wouldn’t last a week in.

He had already sorted them into categories.

The first set would get lucky—secure some government job, settle into routine, and stay there until life quietly buried their dreams. The other half would end up like him. Twenty-eight. A girlfriend. No grand ambitions anymore. Just the desperate desire for stability. A home. A family. Peace.

“God!”

Lombard slammed the brakes.

The car screeched to a halt inches away from a child who had darted into the road. The boy’s mother yanked him back so hard he nearly fell, clutching him to her chest as if Lombard had aimed the car at him on purpose.

She shot Lombard a look—sharp, judgmental, familiar.

“Sorry!” Lombard shouted, leaning out the window.

Another mistake. Another look of disgust. He smiled awkwardly, then drove on.

Today couldn’t get worse.

He pulled his rusty Toyota Camry into one of the largest mansions in the estate. The car looked like an insult among the polished SUVs and luxury sedans lined up neatly in front. It didn’t belong here. Neither did he.

Long story.

Lombard was dating a rich girl. Rich parents. Rich family. He told himself it wasn’t about the money. Or maybe it was. He never stayed long enough in that thought to find the truth.

“Will you just check the time?”

Mireya’s voice snapped him out of his head.

He parked hastily and rushed out of the car, forcing a smile as he climbed the porch steps.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He reached for her.

Mistake.

She shot him a look so cold it froze the words in his mouth.

“I—I’m sorry,” he started.

“You are taking me for a joke!” she snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot touch me during the day. I have a function to serve. The people are watching. Your unholy habits will put all of us in jeopardy!”

“I’m sorry,” Lombard said quickly, instinctively shrinking. He knew this tone. If he didn’t end it now, this would turn into another ten-hour lecture about purification and discipline. “Why are you outside?”

The moment the question left his mouth, he knew he had messed up again.

Mireya stared at him like she had never seen him before.

“Is that Lombard?” a voice sneered from inside. “I hope he didn’t forget today’s holy meeting again.”

“The Holy One knows I really tried to make this work,” Mireya said softly, her eyes glistening.

Lombard stepped closer. “Sweetheart, I didn’t deliberately forget. I was with you in the holy room all night. We prayed for hours this morning. I thought that was—”

Enough.

She turned and walked inside, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Lombard ran a hand through his hair and plastered a smile on his face before following her.

Everyone inside was dressed in white robes.

Everyone except him.

The room smelled like incense and something metallic beneath it. Candles lined the walls. Faces turned toward him in unison—blank, assessing, unwelcoming.

Concentrate, he told himself.

“Mireya,” her mother said calmly, “have you told him what needs to be told?”

That woman.

Lombard had never liked her. He had tried—God, he had tried—telling himself that if he loved Mireya, he could tolerate her mother. But every look from the woman felt like a verdict.

“Yeah,” Mireya said quietly. “Lombard, sit.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Sit,” her mother cut in sharply, making the sign of the cross.

Lombard sat.

“So, Lombard,” Mireya’s mother continued, her voice syrup-sweet, “count yourself lucky. The Holy One has finally chosen you.”

Lombard looked around at the faces in the room. A chill crept down his spine.

“Last night,” Mireya said gently, “before the prayers, I realized I was pregnant. That’s why we prayed so long. And this morning… we confirmed what the Holy One wants.”

“Wait.” Lombard raised a hand. “Rewind. You said you’re pregnant?”

Her mother opened her mouth, but a man stood up before she could speak.

Lombard recognized him vaguely—he had seen him once before, hugging Mireya too tightly. She had said he was just a holy guest.

“I am the father of the child,” the man said calmly.

The room tilted.

“And the Holy One has spoken,” Mireya added with a peaceful smile. “You are to take responsibility for the child when it is born.”

“What the fuck—”

Prayers erupted immediately.

Mireya’s mother rushed forward with a napkin, reaching for Lombard’s face. “You are possessed by the enemy—”

Lombard yanked the napkin from her hand and threw it to the floor.

“Will one sane person explain to me what the hell is going on?”

“The enemy is making him angry!” someone cried.

More prayers.

“You should be grateful,” Mireya’s mother said. “The Holy One has—”

Lombard didn’t care anymore.

He grabbed Mireya’s wrist. “We need to talk. Now.”

“I have been patient with your religion for two years,” he snapped. “I followed every rule. Every restriction. And you get pregnant for another man and dress it up like divine instruction?”

“The Holy One—”

“How many months?” Lombard asked suddenly.

“Three,” the man said.

“You’ve been sleeping around behind my back while telling me I can’t even hold your hand?”

“Enough!” someone shouted. “You have no right to slander her. This was the will of the Holy One. If you cannot care for the child, then you are not fit to be in this family.”

Lombard stared at Mireya. “Is that it?”

“I have to marry the father of my child,” she said calmly. “It is divine will.”

“What are you talking about?” Lombard snapped, stepping toward her. Gasps filled the room.

“You could have just told me you didn’t want to marry me instead of keeping me as a second option!”

“You were never an option,” Mireya snapped back. “You were chosen. You will be the caretaker of my child. That is a higher role than being my husband.”

“One more word about the Holy One,” Lombard said quietly, “and you’ll regret it.”

“You will need many prayers when you leave,” someone warned.

Lombard turned, stormed to the door, and slammed it behind him.