My bishop father disowned me in front of two councilmen

By midday, the world outside the Pierce estate had descended into absolute madness.

While Malik slept in a lavish master suite, curled beneath a goose-down duvet with a pediatrician monitoring his vitals from the adjoining room, I sat on the terrace drinking hot tea brought by Elijah’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. My clothes had been laundered, my bruises from the past few days tended to, and yet the surreal nature of the morning still clung to me like a fever dream.

Elijah walked out onto the stone patio carrying a tablet. He looked transformed—showered, dressed in a charcoal cashmere sweater and tailored trousers, though the sharp intensity in his dark eyes had only sharpened.

"You should see what your brother-in-law is doing," Elijah said, his tone dry as bone.

He handed me the tablet.

On the screen was a live broadcast from the steps of Grace Citadel, my father’s 15,000-seat megachurch. Bishop Thomas stood behind a podium draped in purple velvet, his silver hair catching the midday sun, looking every bit the righteous patriarch he had spent forty years selling to the public.

Beside him stood my mother, Valerie, wearing oversized designer sunglasses and holding a lace handkerchief to her eyes, flanked by Khloe in an impeccably tailored cream blazer and Brad, whose grin looked like it had been surgically applied.

"Grace Citadel has always been a beacon of charity," my father was booming into a dozen microphones. "When my daughter, Zuri, acting as an extension of our church's outreach ministry, identified young Malik Pierce in distress, our entire family rallied to ensure his safety. We coordinated around the clock with law enforcement to facilitate his miraculous return to Mr. Elijah Pierce."

The reporter shoved a microphone forward. "Bishop Thomas, reports say Zuri was living in an apartment in the lower ward. Did the rescue take place through church facilities?"

Brad smoothly leaned in, taking the microphone. "What matters today is the bond between families. As Bishop Thomas’s chief financial advisor and Zuri’s brother-in-law, I can assure you that our family’s resources were mobilized immediately. We are currently in direct contact with Pierce Industries leadership to ensure the child’s transition back to his family is seamless."

I stared at the screen, my blood turning to liquid fire.

"They threw him out," I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. "They told me to call the state. My father told me Malik was a street rat who would ruin his zoning approval dinner. Brad laughed at me and said I’d be begging for grocery money within three days."

"I know," Elijah said quietly.

I looked up at him. "You know?"

Elijah sat down in the chair across from me, his expression calm, calculated, and terrifyingly cold.

"Do you really think my intelligence team only tracked Malik’s hospital records?" Elijah asked, leaning forward. "The moment we pinpointed your apartment, my investigators ran a complete background check on you, your business, and your family. We pulled the security logs from your parents' neighborhood in Buckhead. We saw what time you arrived last night. We pulled the street cameras outside their gated estate showing you walking into the pouring rain carrying my son."

He paused, his eyes locking onto mine.

"And two hours ago, the manager of the private diner where you first found Malik sent us his security footage. You fed him from your own plate. You gave him your scarf. You sat with him in an emergency room for seven hours, refusing to let them transfer him to an overcrowded shelter until an official investigator arrived."

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back. "I just did what any person should have done."

"No, Zuri. Most people look away. Your family looked away. In fact, they did worse—they kicked you out into the rain for caring." Elijah took the tablet from my hands and set it face down on the table. "And right now, they are outside my front gate."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"Look," Elijah gestured toward the estate’s security monitor mounted discreetly by the French doors.

The feed from the front gate showed a black Mercedes Benz—my father’s church-issued luxury sedan—parked directly across the outer drive. Bishop Thomas was standing beside the vehicle, waving his leather-bound Bible at the security guards, while Brad paced behind him on a cell phone, gesturing wildly. Khloe was adjusting her lipstick in the side mirror, clearly anticipating a grand photo opportunity.

"They told my security guards that they are here to 'reunite with their beloved daughter and son-in-law-to-be,'" Elijah said, an eyebrow arching with icy amusement. "Apparently, Brad told the gate officer that he had a scheduled investment briefing with my asset management team."

"They have no shame," I said, disgust twisting in my gut. "None at all. My father believes that if he says a lie loud enough, God is obligated to make it true."

Elijah stood up, smoothing his cuffs. "Would you like me to have Marcus turn the fire hoses on them?"

I almost laughed, but a colder, more resolute feeling settled over my chest. I had spent twenty-eight years bowing my head to Bishop Thomas’s tyranny. I had spent a lifetime watching Khloe get the pedestal while I was treated like the broken pillar.

"No," I said, standing up to meet his gaze. "Don't turn on the hoses."

"Then what would you like to do?"

"Let them wait," I said coldly. "Let them stand in the sun until their cameras die and their sweat ruins their thousand-dollar suits. And then let Marcus tell them that Mr. Pierce does not take meetings with strangers."

A slow, wolfish smile spread across Elijah’s face. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Zuri."