Page 36 of The Black Wife Blessing

I take a long sip of water, letting his words sink in. "And what if I make it worse? What if I push too hard when she's not ready?"

"That's the risk with any relationship," Leo says quietly. "But from what you've told us, she's strong as hell. Give her some credit."

He's right. Monica's resilience is what drew me to her in the first place.

"Benjamin complicates things," I admit. "As long as he's lurking around, she can't fully move forward."

"So help her deal with him," Aston says simply. "Not by fighting her battles, but by standing beside her while she fights them herself."

I nod slowly, considering their advice. Maybe it's not about waiting for the perfect moment, but about being there through the imperfect ones.

25

MONICA

Iwipe my brow with the back of my wrist as I survey the kitchen at Taste of Heaven. The rhythmic chopping of knives against cutting boards and the sizzle of pans create a symphony that normally soothes my soul. Today's special is a fusion dish featuring Caribbean-inspired flavors, and I'm determined to make it perfect.

"Monica, can you taste this sauce?" Nya calls from across the kitchen.

"Coming!" I move toward her station when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Henry checking in. A smile tugs at my lips as I pull it out.

But instead, it's an unknown number.

My thumb hovers over the notification. I shouldn't open it. I know better. But some morbid curiosity—or maybe just habit—makes me tap.

The images load and my stomach plummets. Photos of us. Intimate photos I'd forgotten existed. From back when I thought his possessiveness was passion. When I mistook control for care.

"Remember these, baby? Still have plenty more. Thought your new "husband" might enjoy seeing what he's getting."

The kitchen suddenly feels too hot, too loud. My chest tightens as memories flood back—Benjamin's hands gripping my wrists too tight, his voice in my ear telling me I'd never make it without him.

"Monica? You okay?" Nya's voice seems distant.

I grip the edge of the stainless steel counter, feeling the cool metal against my palms. No. I won't let him do this again. Won't let him pull me back into that dark place where I'm small and afraid.

My fingers tremble as I type: "Delete these immediately. This is harassment."

His response comes quickly: "Don't be like that. We had good times. Henry's just a rebound."

The familiar rush of panic rises in my throat. But something else rises with it—rage. Pure, clarifying rage.

"This isn't about Henry. It's about you refusing to accept that I've moved on. Delete these photos or I'll contact the police."

I set my phone face-down on the counter and take a deep breath. The kitchen comes back into focus—Nya's concerned face, the scent of caramelizing onions, the weight of the chef's knife in my hand.

"It's nothing," I tell her, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Just an unwelcome blast from the past."

My phone buzzes again, but I don't check it. Benjamin doesn't control me anymore. I pick up my knife and return to my station. My hands are still shaking, but I keep chopping.

I can't focus on the knife in my hand. The blade trembles against the cutting board as Benjamin's message echoes in my mind. Those photos were taken during a weekend getaway—one of those rare good moments when his charm had pulled me back in after a fight. I'd felt beautiful, desired. Now those same images make me feel dirty, exposed.

My body burns with shame. What would Henry think if he saw them? The thought makes my stomach twist into knots.

"Monica, the sauce is reducing too much." Nya's voice breaks through my spiral.

"Shit." I rush to the stove, pulling the pan off the heat. Another mistake. Benjamin always said I'd never make it as a chef—too distracted, too emotional.

No. I refuse to let his voice back into my head.

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