Page 23 of The Black Wife Blessing

Heat rises in my chest. "Did he ever-"

"No, nothing physical." She shakes her head. "Just... constant criticism. Little digs that made me doubt myself. I started second-guessing everything, wondering if maybe he was right."

"He wasn't." The words come out sharper than intended.

"I know that now." Monica adjusts the temperature on one of the burners. "Haven't heard from him in a while, thank God. Last I knew, he took a job at some corporate restaurant chain in Jersey."

"Good. Let him stay there." I resist the urge to find out which chain. "You deserve better than that bullshit."

She gives me a small smile. "It's fine. I'm fine. Just sometimes these memories..." She gestures vaguely. "They sneak up on me."

I want to say more, do more, but I recognize that look in her eyes - she's done talking about it for now. Instead, I reach past her to grab two wine glasses from the cabinet.

"How about we open that bottle of Bordeaux? Since you're making fancy French chicken and all."

Her shoulders relax slightly. "That sounds perfect."

I pour two generous glasses of the Bordeaux, handing one to Monica. The deep red liquid catches the kitchen's warm lighting.

"To us." I raise my glass. "And our mutually beneficial arrangement."

Monica clinks her glass against mine. "To fooling all of New York's elite." She takes a sip, her eyes widening. "This is incredible."

"It should be. Cost more than my first car." I lean back, watching her return to the stove. The way she moves through the kitchen, confident and focused, reminds me how far she's come from that controlling ex of hers.

My mother's getting off my back about marriage is one thing, but Monica's dreams? Those are tangible. Real. The restaurant space in SoHo I've been eyeing would be perfect for her vision - exposed brick walls, high ceilings, that industrial-chic vibe that's so hot right now. And with my connections to the right investors...

"What's that look for?" Monica stirs the coq au vin, eyebrow raised.

"Just thinking about some business opportunities." I take another sip. "You know, being Mrs. Blackwood opens a lot of doors in the restaurant world."

"Henry-"

"I'm serious. You've got the talent. The vision. Now you've got the name recognition too." I set my glass down. "Let me introduce you to some people. Real estate developers, restaurant groups, private investors. No strings attached."

Monica pauses, wooden spoon hovering over the pot. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to. Consider it my way of saying thanks for keeping my mother's marriage crusade at bay." I move closer, inhaling the rich aroma of wine and herbs. "Plus, I get to be the first investor in what's going to be New York's next big restaurant. It's just good business."

A smile tugs at her lips. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Impossibly helpful, maybe." I refill our glasses. "To your future restaurant empire."

This time when we toast, her smile reaches her eyes.

17

MONICA

The hustle and bustle of Wilson's Market encapsulates me as I stand in the produce section, scanning the fresh herbs. Tonight's dinner needs to be perfect - I want to show Henry my gratitude for everything he's done so far. He's secured a business meeting with restaurant investors, people who are genuinely interested in hearing my vision. And when he told me the news, the smile that radiated off his face was so beautiful. So genuine.

He's such an attractive man, that fake husband of mine. With his blue eyes and somewhat messy hair and muscled body that I've tried not to think too long about.

My fingers brush over the fragrant basil leaves while I picture his face lighting up at the first bite of my signature pasta dish. But then, a flash of movement catches my eye three aisles over. My hand freezes mid-reach. That particular way of walking, the slight hunch of those shoulders...

No. I'm being paranoid. Benjamin is probably nowhere near this neighborhood. I force myself to focus on selecting the ripest tomatoes, but my hands shake as I place them in the cart.

Another glimpse. This time it's the back of his head - that same messy brown hair. My heart pounds against my ribs. The shopping cart suddenly feels like my only anchor to reality.

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