Chapter 176 The D-Day—Purity Ball
Chapter 176 The D-Day—Purity Ball
I barely recognized myself in the mirror before we left the house.
The hair was the first change. It was dyed a deep, even brown that erased the black colour people in this town still associated with the Ashford name.
I had cut it shorter too, sharper at the sides. The black suit was custom enough to look expensive and plain enough to disappear into a crowd of other expensive suits. Thick black sunglasses hid the rest. Even my posture felt different once the glasses were on — more closed, less like the son who had spent the last several days living quietly inside his father’s house.
My father noticed.
He looked at me once in the hallway, eyes flicking over the hair and the glasses, and then he said nothing. No comment. No question. Just a small, unreadable pause before he adjusted his own cuffs and walked toward the car where the driver was already waiting. I followed.
In the passenger seat I watched the late sunlight catch the silver in his hair and realized I had almost stopped seeing it during the dsys of living under the same roof. It was brighter than I remembered. Cleaner. The kind of silver that made people trust a man before he even spoke.
We did not talk on the drive.
The church was already filling when we arrived. White roses. Soft lighting. The particular hush that settled over these events before the performance began. I stayed half a step behind my father, anonymous by design, and let the crowd swallow us. No one looked twice at the quiet man in the black suit and sunglasses. That was the point.
I left my dad outside and went into the church building. I found a place along the side where I could see the stage, the front rows, and most of the main doors without being obvious. My only task tonight was to observe and take note. Nothing more.
The ceremony moved the way these things always moved — scripted purity language, carefully chosen hymns, young people in white trying to look radiant under the weight of expectation. I watched the board members more than the stage. I watched who spoke to whom. I watched the small signals that never made it into the public program.
Then the heavy wooden doors at the back opened again.
Three men in sharp black suits entered.
They did not slip in quietly. They walked straight down the center aisle with the calm authority of people who had never needed permission to take up space. The murmurs rose immediately. People shifted. A few necks turned too fast.
The men did not look at the crowd. They took the reserved seats in the very front row, directly in front of the stage.
My father was one of them.
I watched him settle into the seat, silver hair bright under the lights, and felt the old, familiar cold move through my chest. He leaned toward the man beside him.
Their eyes moved together, not toward the girls in white, not toward the congregation, but toward Pastor Matthew Whitaker, who stood at the front of the stage looking radiant and completely unaware.
They watched him the way wolves watch something that has not yet realized it is surrounded.
Then my father looked across the distance, past the rows of white dresses and proud parents, and for a fraction of a second his gaze landed near the section where I knew Abigail Thompson was sitting. He gave a slow, polite smile that did not reach his eyes.
I filed it away.
The ceremony continued. I kept my attention split between the stage and the front row. Pastor Whitaker spoke with the same practiced warmth he always used.
The girls renewed their vows. The air stayed thick with the performance of purity. I took mental notes on every board member who leaned in to whisper, every glance that lingered too long on the highest-scoring girl in the room.
Then the tone shifted.
My father stood.
I felt my focus sharpen immediately. What is he doing?
He walked to the stage with the same unhurried calm, microphone already being offered to him. Pastor Whitaker stood beside him, suddenly pale, the radiance from earlier cracked at the edges.
The other two suited men moved to flank the stage like silent enforcers. The hall went quiet except for the low rustle of people trying to understand what they were looking at.
My father smiled as if he belonged there.
“Beloved saints,” he began, voice smooth and authoritative, carrying easily through the speakers. “We come tonight not to disrupt this holy celebration, but to fulfill it. The Purity Board has watched over this community with prayerful eyes. We have seen purity… and we have seen hidden sin.”
His gaze swept the room slowly.
I watched the way the congregation tensed. I watched the way Pastor Whitaker’s hands stayed locked at his sides. I watched the girl with the highest score, Abigail. go rigid in her seat even from this distance.
“We have evidence of grave impurity among us,” my father continued. “One young sister, in particular, has walked in darkness while wearing the garment of light. But tonight, we offer mercy before judgment. We will now project the evidence so that the light of truth may shine.”
A large white screen descended behind him.
The lights dimmed.
I leaned forward slightly, every sense narrowed to the stage. Whatever was about to appear, I needed to see it clearly.
The image projected.
It was not a compromising photograph of anything.
It was a polished, professional portrait of Pastor Matthew Whitaker and Rebecca Thompson smiling, hands clasped, standing in the church garden under soft evening light. The caption beneath it was elegant and final:
'A Divine Union: Pastor Matthew Whitaker & Sister Rebecca Thompson — Wedding Coming Up Soon.'
For a moment I simply stared.
Pastor Whitaker was getting married.
The Fund did not approve of uncontrolled personal alliances at his level. Marriage meant shared confidence, shared vulnerability, shared risk.
It was the kind of decision that should have been reviewed, delayed, or quietly blocked. And yet it was happening in full view of the entire community, announced by the Board itself like a blessing.
The man had more power than I had calculated.
I felt a cold thread of surprise move through me, followed immediately by something sharper. The mother of the girl with the highest Purity Score was the woman he was marrying. That was not coincidence. That was proximity. Access. A new layer of protection or control settling around the exact girl the system had already marked.
My suspicion deepened in real time.
The hall erupted in carefully managed reaction: gasps, applause, the usual performance of joy. I barely heard it. I was already tracking my father’s movement as he stepped down from the stage.
He did not return to his seat. He moved toward the side exit with the same calm authority, the other two men following at a short distance.
I remembered the girl storming out during the announcement— the flash of white dress, the too-fast walk, the way her mother had tried and failed to hold her back. The timing lined up too cleanly.
My father was going to the parking lot.
He was going to find her.
I stayed still until he was through the doors, then I moved. Not quickly. Not in a way that drew attention. Just another man in a black suit shifting toward the exit as the congregation continued its noisy celebration of a marriage that should never have been allowed.
Outside, the night air was cooler. I stopped in the shadow of the building and watched the parking lot without stepping into the light. My father was already near one of the black cars, speaking to someone I could not yet see clearly. The girl was out here. I was certain of it.
Abigail Thompson.
Highest score. Daughter of the new fiancée. Already close enough to the head of the Fund that the system itself had just wrapped another layer of protection around her.
I needed a way to reach her that did not look like reaching her.
I needed time, proximity, and a reason that would not raise every alarm the Board possessed.
I stood in the dark with the sound of the celebration still leaking through the church walls and let the next moves arrange themselves in my mind.
There were cleaner opportunities coming.
One of them was almost here.
Halloween.