The Saintess Chose The Wrong Man

Chapter 2

Mireya rushed after Lombard, calling his name. The sound of the engine alone should have swallowed her voice whole—the car was already halfway to hell—but by some miracle, the engine coughed and died.

The silence felt personal.

She reached his window just as Lombard shoved the door open.

“If you leave like this,” she said gently, breathless, “you’re going to regret it. You just have to be patient. You don’t deserve me, and we both know that.”

Lombard laughed. It came out sharp and broken.

“You know what else we both fucking know?” he snapped. “You made me wait two years. Two years. And in the end, you tell me I was never even an option.”

Mireya made the sign of the cross.

“You knew my religion before we started dating.”

“That was because I thought you had sense!” Lombard barked. “Instead, all you’ve done is drain the life out of me. You told me to quit my job. You told me to become a teacher in that useless private school where kids think they’re gods because their parents have money.”

She crossed herself again. Slower this time. Like a shield.

“I’m going to need a lot of prayers for you.”

Lombard stared at her. Really stared.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mireya.”

The name slipped out raw, unguarded. He hadn’t called her that in forever. Only her parents were allowed to.

“Mireya.”

A man’s voice called from the porch.

Lombard froze.

Slowly, he turned.

The man was already walking toward them.

Someone else could call her that name?

Mireya smiled—soft, reverent.

“He’s the chosen one,” she said. “Only he and my parents can call me that.”

Lombard watched in a daze as the man pulled Mireya into his arms and kissed her.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a holy kiss.

The kind Lombard had only seen in movies he pretended not to watch.

They pulled apart breathless.

“We should go back inside,” the man whispered against her ear. “I can’t wait to have you.”

She giggled.

Giggled.

Lombard felt something tear open inside his chest.

Mireya turned to him. “I’ll be waiting for you in the evening. You’re no longer allowed to stay in the main house because of your unholiness. One of the rooms in the boys’ quarters.” She pointed casually.

Then she walked away with him.

Just like that.

Lombard stood there, watching them disappear inside.

His life felt like a joke. A badly written one. If this were a movie, the director would’ve cut the scene for being too unrealistic.

He walked to the front of his car and slammed his fist against the hood, hard enough to rattle the engine. Once. Twice.

On the second try, the engine came back to life.

Inside the mansion, people laughed.

“He’ll be back begging.”

“Don’t let him near you.”

“What a joke.”

On the third attempt, the car roared properly, and Lombard drove out of the estate with every muscle in his body clenched.

He pulled over at a park.

Reached for his wallet to buy an iced americano.

Nothing.

Not a single coin.

He stayed in the car, staring out the windshield at high school kids laughing in the café—kids who could afford coffee while he sat there at twenty-eight, broke, humiliated.

His phone beeped.

Hope flared.

Then died.

Termination of Contract.

He read the email twice. Three times.

No severance.

No final salary.

A call came through immediately.

“Is this Lombard August?” an elderly voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Where should we drop your belongings? This is from the Belmont family.”

His stomach sank.

“Excuse me?”

“We have another service in an hour.”

He gave them the park address.

One bag. That was all he had. Clothes, mostly overwashed

He tried calling Mireya.

Voicemail.

He leaned against his car, smiling like a madman.

Two years. He had quit a well-paying job. Worked in her family friend’s school. Paid eighty percent of his income as “religious rites.” The remaining twenty percent was to prove he was worthy.

Worthy of what?

Two high school kids walked past him.

“He must be on drugs,” one muttered.

“Fucking idiot kids,” Lombard snapped, sending them running.

That was when the cops pulled up.

“Lombard August?”

“Yes.”

“This park belongs to the Belmont family. You’ve been reported for loitering. Pay a fine of two thousand dollars now or we seize your car.”

A laugh escaped him.

“Tell them to go fuck themselves.”

“Seize the car,” one officer said into his radio.

A tow truck appeared like it had been waiting.

Chains clamped onto his car.

Lombard felt his chest hollow out.

His phone vibrated.

He rejected the call.

It rang again.

He rejected it.

The third time, he snapped. “What the fuck do you want from me now?!”

“Lomb?”

The voice made his heart stop.

He pulled the phone away, stared at the screen, then pressed it back to his ear.

“You’re still alive?!” he shouted.

“Lomb, I’m in trouble,” the voice said. “My son’s nanny left him. I need you to go to an address I’ll send and stay with him tonight.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll compensate you. I know your time is valuable. I’ll send it now.”

His phone chimed.

Credit Alert: $100,000,000