Page 19 of The Black Wife Blessing

His smile reaches his eyes, patient and warm. No pressure, no manipulation, no hidden agenda I'll discover later when it's too late. Just possibility. And damn if that isn't the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I've felt in years.

14

HENRY

The crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across Mother's dining room as scattered conversations fill the air. She's always hosting these damn dinner parties, forcing Monica and I to attend. At least Monica is always a good sport about it, saying it'll be good for our image as a couple.

Monica sits beside me, her fingers occasionally brushing against mine beneath the pristine white tablecloth. The contact sends a jolt through me each time, a welcome distraction from these insufferable circumstances. I catch Margaret Wellington's narrowed gaze from across the table, her lips pursed as she studies our every interaction like a hawk watching prey. Damn vultures, all of them.

"Such a whirlwind romance," Margaret comments, cutting into her beef tenderloin with surgical precision. "I don't recall seeing you two together at any events before the engagement announcement."

"The best things in life catch us by surprise." I rest my hand on Monica's lower back, drawing her closer to me. Her warmth against my palm feels more real than anything else in this room full of fake smiles and calculated conversations.

"Quite." Margaret's smile doesn't reach her eyes, cold as the diamonds hanging from her ears. "Though one might wonder if proper consideration was given to... compatibility."

The implied criticism in her tone makes my jaw clench. These people and their fucking judgments. A few seats down, Richard Prescott nods in agreement, while his wife Jessalyn whispers something in his ear, both stealing glances our way. I've known these people my entire life, yet they're strangers when it comes to what matters.

Monica's shoulders tense beneath my touch. She pushes food around her plate, her earlier vibrant energy dimming under their scrutiny.

"I hear you're planning on opening a restaurant one day, Monica?" Catherine calls out, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Quite ambitious. The Blackwoods have always been more... traditional in their pursuits."

Before Monica can respond, I lean forward. "And that's exactly what drew me to her. Innovation, talent, drive - qualities any sensible person would recognize as invaluable."

"Henry," Monica whispers, her hand finding mine under the table.

"The restaurant industry is rather volatile," Richard chimes in. "Wouldn't want anything to reflect poorly on the family name."

"The only poor reflection here is judging someone's worth by outdated standards." My voice carries across the table, silencing nearby conversations. "Monica's success in the culinary world speaks for itself. Anyone questioning our relationship might want to examine their own prejudices instead."

Monica squeezes my hand, and I feel her relax slightly against me. The protective surge I feel watching her navigate these sharks in designer clothing surprises me. This might bepretend, but I'll be damned if I let anyone make her feel less than extraordinary.

I push my chair back, the legs scraping against hardwood. "Monica, would you care to join me in the gardens? I could use some fresh air."

"Of course." The relief in her voice is subtle but unmistakable.

I snag two flutes of champagne from a passing server, and we slip through the French doors into the cool evening air. The stone path winds through perfectly manicured hedges and flower beds - another testament to Mother's obsession with appearances.

Monica's curls catch the glow of the garden lights as we find a secluded spot near the small water fountain. "Thank you for what you said in there. But maybe dial back the intensity? Those are your mother's friends after all."

"Fuck 'em." I hand her a glass. "They can all go kick rocks for all I care. Been dealing with their bullshit my whole life."

Her laugh rings out, genuine and unrestrained. It hits different out here, away from the suffocating politeness inside. "You're terrible." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "But I appreciate having someone in my corner."

"They don't know shit about you or what you're capable of." I take a sip of champagne. "Twenty bucks says half of them couldn't boil water without burning it."

"Now that's not fair." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "I'm sure they have very qualified personal chefs to do that for them."

We share another laugh, and something shifts in the air between us. Out here, away from the performance, it feels easier to breathe. To be real.

"You know what's funny?" Monica swirls her champagne. "I was kind of dreading tonight, but somehow you make these things bearable. We've been going to these events back-to-back-to-back and it gets so tiring at times. I don't know how your mother does it."

"Justbearable? I'm wounded. Here I thought I was the highlight of your evening."

"Don't push it, Blackwood." But she's smiling, and for a moment I forget this is all supposed to be pretend.

Monica falls quiet, her fingers tracing the rim of her champagne glass. The fountain's gentle trickle fills the silence between us. "How do you think things will change? When we actually get married, I mean."

I turn to face her, studying the way the garden lights catch in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

---