Page 20 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Well, you want to do this quick - get married, use the honeymoon as an escape from all..." She gestures toward the house. "This. But being a chef isn't exactly a nine-to-five job. The hours are brutal, unpredictable. Not exactly fitting for a Blackwood wife, according to that crowd in there."

"Hey." I set my glass down on the fountain's edge. "I don't give a shit what they think a 'Blackwood wife' should be. You're a chef. A damn good one. That's who you are."

"Henry-"

"No, listen. I've tasted your food. I've seen how you light up talking about new recipes, about your vision for your restaurant. Anyone trying to take that away from you can go fuck themselves."

Her lips quirk up. "Even your mother?"

"Especially my mother." I run a hand through my hair. "Look, this whole thing might be complicated, but I won't let it derail your career. I want to see you succeed. I mean that."

Monica's smile softens, genuine warmth replacing her earlier uncertainty. "Thank you. That... means a lot."

"You know," I say, trailing my thumb across my lip to wipe away the excess champagne. "Being Mrs. Henry Blackwoodcomes with some serious perks. Private jets, connections to the best suppliers, prime real estate opportunities. Hell, you wouldn't even need to work those crazy hours if you didn't want to."

Monica's laugh echoes through the garden. "Right, because I'd love nothing more than to join the ladies-who-lunch crowd in there." She gestures toward the penthouse. "My eyes are on the prize, Henry. I've worked too hard to build my reputation in this industry. That future restaurant? The expanded catering business? That's my dream. I'm not giving it up now."

"Good." I can't help but smile at her determination. The way her eyes light up when she talks about her ambitions - it's magnetic. "I don't want you to give it up. Ever."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "No offense, but I half expected you to be like the rest of them in there. You know, expecting your wife to host dinner parties and attend charity galas."

"Please. I've had enough of that shit to last ten lifetimes." I take another sip of champagne. "Watching you crush their expectations is way more entertaining."

"Even if it means making you the talk of the party?" she asks. "People like them have a certain expectation on how life is meant to be lived, and you're breaking all the molds."

"I've done that my entire life," I reply easily. "Doing it one more time isn't going to hurt me."

15

MONICA

My hands tremble as I stand before the altar, facing Henry in his impeccable black tuxedo. The church stretches behind him, packed with New York's biggest players - his family's social circle, business associates, and what feels like half of Manhattan's upper crust.

Despite his mother's objections, we've decided to get married around a month into this fake engagement. And with his level of wealth, we managed to pull together quite a beautiful ceremony in a limited amount of time. It's impressive, but I can't even relish in the moment. Not with so many unfamiliar eyes on us.

I catch Olivia's encouraging smile from her spot in the front pew. She sits next to Leo, their little boy squirming restlessly in his tiny suit between them, tugging at his bow tie. At least I have two friendly faces in this sea of strangers who are sizing me up with calculating eyes, probably wondering how a chef managed to snag one of New York's most eligible bachelors.

"You okay?" Henry whispers, his piercing blue eyes searching mine as the minister drones on about sacred unions and eternal love. The irony isn't lost on me. This whole ceremony, beautifulas it is with cascading white flowers and flickering candles, is built on a foundation of deception.

My voice catches in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. "I don't know if I can..."

Henry's thumb traces small circles on my palm, the gesture hidden from our audience. His touch is surprisingly calming, grounding me when I feel like I might float away on a tide of panic. "Focus on me. Just us here," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

The minister turns to Henry, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "Do you, Henry Alexander Blackwood, take Monica Elizabeth West to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do." His voice rings clear and confident through the church, steady where mine threatens to shake apart. There's something in the way he says those two simple words—a conviction that makes my stomach flip despite knowing better.

"And do you, Monica Elizabeth West, take Henry Alexander Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

My throat tightens. The weight of hundreds of eyes bears down on me. This is crazy. This whole scheme is insane. We can't possibly-

Henry squeezes my hand, drawing my attention back to him. He gives me that crooked smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. The one that's become as familiar as my own reflection these past months.

"I do." The words come out stronger than I expect.

"The rings, please?"

Henry slides the diamond encrusted band onto my finger. His hands are warm, sure, grounding me in this moment. When it's my turn, I manage to get his ring on without dropping it, though my fingers still tremble.

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