Page 2 of The Black Wife Blessing

I give myself one final look in the full-length mirror by my front door. The black pants are pressed crisp, no wrinkles in sight. My chef's coat gleams white against my skin, the collar perfectly starched. I've paired them with sensible but stylish black leather shoes that can handle hours in a kitchen while still looking professional.

My portfolio tucked under my arm, I pat my pockets - phone, keys, small notebook. Everything in its place.

The hallway light flickers as I lock my apartment door. I take the stairs instead of waiting for the ancient elevator - can't risk getting stuck today of all days. My footsteps echo in the stairwell, keeping rhythm with the mantras running through my head. Each dish, each technique, each flavor combination.

The underground garage is dim and cool, smelling of concrete and motor oil. My little Honda sits in spot 23B, not the fanciest ride but reliable. I run my hand along its hood as I walk to the driver's side.

"You've got this," I whisper, sliding into the seat. The leather is cool against my back, grounding me. I place my portfolio carefully on the passenger seat, making sure it won't slide during the drive.

The garage door rumbles open ahead of me, revealing a slice of bright New York morning. My chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. All the practice, all the testing, all the late nights perfecting each element - it's led to this moment. Whatever happens in this interview, I know I've put everything I have into these dishes.

I start the engine, and my favorite cooking playlist automatically kicks in through the speakers. The first notes of Nina Simone float through the car, and I can't help but smile. It feels like a sign.

2

HENRY

The jet bridge creaks under my feet as I step into JFK's Terminal 1. Four years away, and the distinct New York City energy hits me like a shot of espresso - sharp, familiar, and slightly overwhelming.

"Mr. Blackwood, welcome back!" The flight attendant who'd been particularly attentive during the flight hurries after me, holding out a business card. "If you ever need recommendations for restaurants in the city..."

I accept it with a smile. "Thanks, Sarita. That's very thoughtful."

A group of women at the currency exchange counter pause their conversation, their heads turning in unison as I pass. One of them drops her passport, creating a domino effect of whispers and giggles. I've grown used to this reaction in Europe, but there's something distinctly American about their boldness that almost makes me smirk.

"Excuse me." A businesswoman steps into my path, smartphone in hand, designer heels clicking against the terminal floor. "This is terribly forward, but would you mind helping me with directions? I'm trying to find the Uber pickup point."

"Of course." I point her toward the right exit, watching as she hangs on my every word. She lingers a moment longer than necessary, playing with her hair and shifting her weight to highlight the curve of her hip. Subtle as a freight train.

"You must be new to New York," I say, knowing full well she isn't. Her Manolo Blahniks and the confident way she navigates the crowd screams Manhattan native.

"Born and raised, actually." She winks, sliding her business card next to Sarita's in my jacket pocket without asking permission. "But sometimes we locals need a little... direction." Her emphasis on the last word makes her intentions crystal clear.

My phone buzzes - another message from Mother. That makes twelve since I boarded in Paris. Each one more desperate than the last, all circling around the same theme: my perpetual bachelorhood and her social calendar full of eligible daughters from New York's finest families.

The latest text reads: "Darling, the Ashworths are hosting dinner next Friday. Their daughter Caroline just finished her MBA at Harvard. Perfect timing, don't you think?"

Perfect timing. Right. Because four years building my own fashion empire in Europe means nothing compared to finding the right society wife to complete the Blackwood family portrait. The weight of generations of carefully curated marriages and social connections settles across my shoulders, heavier than my carry-on.

I scroll through the barrage of messages, each one a carefully crafted guilt trip about family obligations and ticking biological clocks - not mine, of course, but those of the parade of debutantes she's lined up.

My driver waits at the curb in a sleek black Maybach, the Blackwood family's preferred mode of transport. As I slide intothe leather interior, my phone rings - Leo's face lighting up the screen.

"Look who's finally stateside."

"And how did you know that?"

"I was tracking your flight, of course." Leo's deep laugh fills the car. "How was the ride?"

"Long enough to receive approximately eight hundred texts from Mother about potential wife candidates."

"Ah, the joys of being the last eligible Blackwood bachelor. Speaking of social obligations, you're coming to my birthday gala, right?"

I loosen my tie, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. "Actually, I was thinking-"

"Don't even try it, Henry. This isn't like ditching one of Aunt Catherine's garden parties. The whole family's coming, including that ancient great-uncle who keeps threatening to write us all out of his will."

"Fuck." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You know Mother's going to parade every single woman under thirty-five in front of me."

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