Page 27 of The Black Wife Blessing

My steps falter as I approach the restaurant's entrance. Something's wrong. Shards of glass glitter on the sidewalk like deadly confetti. My heart pounds as I rush forward, keys jingling in my trembling hands.

"No, no, no..." The front window is completely shattered, jagged pieces still clinging to the frame.

I unlock the door with shaking fingers and step inside. The crunch of glass under my shoes echoes through the empty dining room. Red spray paint mars the cream-colored walls - crude words and symbols that make my blood boil.

"Chef?" Luis, one of our line cooks, appears from the kitchen. His face is ashen. "I just got here and found... this."

Ramona, our hostess, emerges from the back, phone pressed to her ear. "Police are on their way. Jesus, look at the display case."

My gaze follows her gesture to the antique cabinet where we showcase our specialty desserts. The glass front is spider-webbed with cracks, pieces missing where someone took what looks like a bat to it. Inside, our carefully crafted pastries lie in ruins.

"Who would do this?" My voice comes out hoarse as I survey the destruction. Years of building this place's reputation, creating a space where people come to celebrate life's moments, and some asshole decides to destroy it in one night.

Emmanuel, our sous chef, kneels by a pile of broken plates. "Found this by the register." He holds up a brick with a paper wrapped around it.

I snatch it from his hands, unfurling the note. My stomach drops as I read the hateful message scrawled in messy handwriting.

The sound of approaching sirens fills the air as I stand amid the wreckage of my workplace, fury and fear warring inside me. This isn't just random vandalism. Someone targeted us specifically.

My hands crumple the note as memories of Benjamin's past outbursts flash through my mind. The way he'd throw things when angry, how he'd leave threatening messages after our breakup. This has his fingerprints all over it - the senseless destruction, the need to hurt what matters to me.

I straighten my spine. Like hell I'm letting him or anyone else destroy what I've built. Over the past few days, Henry has been reassuring me that I'm much stronger than I used to be. And I shouldn't have to tolerate Benjamin's bullshit anymore.

"Alright team, listen up." I face my staff, who gather around with worried expressions. "This is a setback, but we're not staying down. Emmanuel, grab the industrial brooms from storage. Luis, start documenting everything with photos before we clean. Ramona, call our insurance company."

"What about service tonight?" Luis asks.

"We'll make it work. Board up the window, deep clean everything, and adjust the menu to what we can safely prepare. This kitchen's survived worse."

Red and blue lights flash outside as two police cruisers pull up.

"Actually, change of plans. Ramona, Emmanuel - go talk to the officers. Tell them everything you saw when you arrived." I grab a broom from the supply closet. "Luis, help me start on this glass. We need it cleared before customers show up."

The methodical sweep of broken glass helps calm my racing thoughts. Each push of the broom is an act of defiance. I've worked too hard to let fear or intimidation win.

"We should install cameras," Luis suggests as we work. "Maybe motion sensors too."

"Already making a list." I nod toward my phone on the counter where I've been typing notes between sweeping. "Adding reinforced glass for the windows and display cases. Time to upgrade security across the board."

The pile of glittering shards grows as we clean, like a twisted monument to someone's hatred. But with each piece we collect, my resolve strengthens. Benjamin or whoever else might be behind this clearly doesn't know who they're dealing with.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I'm directing the cleanup crew. Henry's name flashes on the screen, and for a moment, I consider ignoring it. But something in me wants to hear his voice.

"Hey." My voice wavers despite my attempts to sound steady. Damn it. I wanted to sound stronger than this.

"Monica, what's wrong?" The concern in his tone hits me harder than expected. It's immediate and genuine, like he's already prepared to fix whatever's broken.

I move away from the bustling activity, finding a quiet corner near the kitchen where the sound of sweeping glass doesn't overwhelm my words. "Someone vandalized the restaurant last night. Broke windows, destroyed property..." I swallow hard, fighting back the emotion threatening to crack through my professional facade.

"I'm coming over." It's not a question or an offer—it's a statement of fact.

"No, you don't have to—" I start to protest, the independent part of me kicking in automatically.

"I'm already grabbing my keys. You're my wife now, even if it's just on paper. Let me help." His voice carries a finality that both irritates and comforts me. I should argue, tell him I've got this handled, but the truth is, I don't want to be alone right now.

That one little word lingers with me. Wife. Mrs. Blackwood. It echoes in my mind as I end the call. I've been treating this marriage like a temporary solution, but standing here in my damaged restaurant, those words take on new meaning.

The Blackwood name carries weight in this city. Real estate empires, business connections, old money influence. And now that power is mine to wield, even if temporarily.

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