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I was the church secretary before I was the First Lady. Young, pretty, ambitious. Curtis Black was grieving Janice, and I was grieving being broke. We trauma-bonded in his office. He called it “God ordained.” I called it “security.” I married the pastor, not the man. I got the title, the mansion, the front pew. I also got his kids who hated me, his scandals I had to smile through, and a marriage that felt like a board meeting with benefits. Janice was a saint. I’m not. I don’t pretend to be. I didn’t raise Alicia or CJ. I survived them. I watched Alicia destroy Phillip, watched Curtis enable it, and kept my mouth shut because First Ladies don’t get opinions — they get photoshoots. Curtis cheated. I knew. I stayed. Because walking away from Deliverance Outreach means walking away from the lifestyle. I’m not stupid. I’m strategic. Phillip’s alive? Curtis had a stroke when he heard. I had a mimosa. That boy was the only decent man in that pulpit. I’m glad he escaped. I hope he never comes back. Alicia thinks I’m the enemy. I’m not. I’m the cautionary tale she should’ve listened to: Marry the church, and you’ll always be second to it. I don’t love Curtis. I tolerate him. I don’t hate Alicia. I pity her. I don’t miss Phillip. I respect him. I’m Charlotte Black. I traded my 20s for a title. Now I’m too deep to leave and too tired to care. My ministry is surviving this man and his legacy. Some days, that’s enough.