Page 34 of The Black Wife Blessing

"I'm not." His eyes hold mine, unflinching. "The way your mind works when you talk about food—it's like watching someone speak a language they were born knowing. You light up. It's beautiful."

The word beautiful hangs between us, and for once, I don't question it. I don't look for the hidden agenda or the eventual disappointment. I just let myself believe him.

I take another bite of my perfectly seared scallop, savoring the buttery texture while watching Henry across the table. Something has shifted between us tonight. The air feels different—charged with honesty and understanding.

"You have to try this," Henry says, offering me a bite of his steak. Without thinking, I lean forward and accept it from his fork. The gesture feels intimate, domestic even. Something a real couple would do.

"That's incredible," I murmur, letting the flavors bloom on my tongue. "The chef nailed the temperature."

Henry smiles, and it reaches his eyes in a way that makes my chest tighten. "I've been meaning to ask—what's your signature dish? The one that feels most like you?"

"My jerk chicken with mango-habanero salsa." I smile, thinking about it. "It's spicy but sweet, complex but comforting. Takes time to get right."

"Like you," he says softly.

The candlelight flickers between us, casting shadows that dance across his face. I realize with startling clarity that this—whatever this is between us—feels more genuine than anything I've experienced before. Even though our marriage is built on convenience and mutual benefit, the connection growing between us is undeniably real.

"This is weird, isn't it?" I gesture between us. "All of this started as this elaborate lie, but sitting here with you now feels like the most honest thing in my life."

Henry sets down his fork, his expression serious. "Maybe that's because it is."

I take a sip of wine to steady myself. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to reveal some hidden agenda or for me to mess everything up."

"What if there is no other shoe?" Henry reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "What if this is just us, figuring things out together?"

I look at our hands, his larger one covering mine. Mrs. Blackwood. The name still feels foreign on my tongue, but the way Henry looks at me—like I'm something precious and worth protecting—it feels like home.

24

HENRY

Iswirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the low lighting of the private dining room. The familiar burn of scotch isn't doing much to take the edge off tonight.

"So this asshole actually smashed her restaurant window?" Leo leans forward, his jaw clenched tight.

"Not just the window. Spray-painted the walls with some bullshit about the restaurant's food being garbage." My knuckles turn white around the glass. "Monica's co-workers walked in and found the place trashed. Display case shattered. It's fucking personal."

Aston signals the waiter for another round. "And you're sure it's the ex?"

"Who else would it be? Benjamin's been showing up, trying to get back with her. Telling her he misses what they had." I down the rest of my scotch in one gulp. "What they had was him tearing her down every chance he got. Told her she'd never make it as a chef. Called her dreams stupid. Classic manipulative shit."

Leo's expression darkens. "And now he's escalating."

"I confronted him at his apartment." I accept the fresh glass from the waiter. "Warned him to back off. He just smirked like it was all a game."

"Sue the life out of this guy," Leo says, slamming his glass down. "I've got lawyers who'd take this case pro bono. Destruction of property, harassment, stalking—we'll bury him."

"Leo's right." Aston nods. "Hit him where it hurts. These types only understand consequences."

"Monica's hesitant to escalate things. She's worried it'll make him worse."

"And what happens when vandalism isn't enough anymore?" Leo asks. "This pattern doesn't just stop. Trust me, I've seen it before."

I run a hand through my hair. "That's what keeps me up at night. She finally told me everything. How he'd twist arguments to make her feel crazy. How he'd get jealous if she talked to other guys. Fuck, she couldn't even hang out with friends without him accusing her of something."

"You care about her," Aston says. It's not a question.

"Yeah." I don't bother denying it. "A lot more than I expected to."

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