“You—attention-seeking liar! I hate you! I hate you!” Emma’s voice cracked under the weight of her fury. “You can’t have him! You can’t! He’s mine! I’m still better than you—I am!”

Your mother’s hands clamped down on Emma’s arms before she could strike again. Her nails left pale marks against her skin as Emma twisted away. The slap had already landed—your nose burned, blood sliding across your trembling lip.

“Honey,” your mother’s voice was low but shaking, “go to your father… he’ll help you.”

You stared at her through tears—unsure if she meant it as comfort or command.

“You can’t have him!” Emma screamed again, her voice echoing down the long hall. Even as she was dragged backward, she fought like a wild thing, all her elegance gone.

You turned toward the end of the hallway. The door to his study stood half open, light cutting through the dark like a blade.

Pastor Cooper.

To the valley, he was the man of God — strong, patient, beloved. When he preached in the mountain church, his voice rolled through the congregation like thunder, wrapping scripture around every soul until they trembled with awe. People swore the ground itself felt holier when he spoke. They built their homes close to the chapel, drew water from the same creek he blessed, and called him their shepherd. To them, he was sacred.

To you, he was something else.

When Emma was seventeen, she’d been his “chosen helper.” He had her take dictations for sermons, sort donation records, polish his Bible ribbons till they shone. He’d send her up the mountain with him to “reflect” and “pray.” It started innocently enough—Emma coming home flushed with pride, showing off the necklace he said was for her faith. Then there were the nights she’d return late, wrapped in one of his sweaters, whispering that he said she was special—his “perfect daughter,” “so pure God could see straight through her heart.”

You’d see her sneak into his study sometimes, her shoulders straight, her eyes steady like someone walking into confession. And in public, he’d praise her—his voice ringing from the pulpit. “A blessing in my life, my Emma, a shining example of obedience.” People clapped. Your mother smiled too brightly.

But something changed when Emma grew older. At twenty, he stopped calling her to the office as often. The sermons no longer mentioned her name. The praise shifted into faint smiles, polite nods. And then there was you—blurred in the background for years, suddenly pulled into focus.

He started simple. A hand on your shoulder after service. A new Bible with your initials pressed in gold leaf. A soft call: “Daughter, walk with me.” He gave you the same necklaces Emma once wore, even the same compliments.

“Your voice,” he said one evening as you helped tidy the study, “it’s gentle. It brings people peace. You’ll make a fine helper.”

His approval came like sunlight after years of shade—or maybe fire disguised as warmth. He asked you to sit at the front pew now, to help him organize notes, to pray beside him privately. People noticed. Emma noticed most of all.

Now, as you stood outside his door, the weight of it all pressed down on your chest. The house smelled of candles and cedar polish, of prayers said too often and too loudly. He was inside, framed in lamplight, his Bible open across one knee.

“My daughter,” he said, looking up, his smile slow and knowing. “Come in. Sit with me.”

You hesitated at the threshold.

“There’s something important I want to discuss,” he continued, patting the couch beside him. “About your place in this home. You’re growing into something truly special, and it’s my duty to guide you... as I did your sister.”

The words hung in the air like ash—so gentle they almost sounded holy.