Page 38 of The Black Wife Blessing

Monica hesitates. "Henry, I?—"

"I'm not asking to see the photos, Monica. Just the messages. The timestamps. What he wrote."

She slides her phone across the table. I scroll through the conversation, my stomach turning at Benjamin's words.

"Remember how good we were together? No one will ever know you like I do."

"Does your fancy new man know about these? Or how about these? Wonder what he'd think..."

"I've got more where these came from. Call me."

Each message designed to burrow under her skin, to make her doubt herself, to question us. My knuckles turn white around the phone.

"This ends now." I hand her phone back, my mind racing through options. "This isn't just harassment, Monica. This is criminal. It's revenge porn."

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The last thing Monica needs is to deal with my rage when she's the one who's been violated. I move back to her side, kneeling beside her chair.

"I'm sorry this happened to you. But I need you to know something." I take her hands in mine. "This isn't about you. This is about him trying to control you. He's scared because he knows he's losing his power over you."

I pace the room, rage still coursing through my veins. The sight of Monica's face—that mix of shame and fear—has awakened something primal in me. A possessiveness I've never felt before.

"I want to fucking kill him," I mutter, more to myself than to her.

But violence isn't the answer. Not when there are smarter ways to destroy a man like Benjamin. I could bury this jackass and I wouldn't even have to lift a finger. Just make a few calculated calls.

I stop pacing and look at Monica. Really look at her. This incredible woman who's fought her way through hell to build something beautiful. Who creates art on a plate. Who makes me laugh. Who kisses me like she means it.

And this piece of shit thinks he can take that away from us?

"No," I say aloud, my voice steady now. "He doesn't get to do this."

I pull my phone from my pocket and dial. "Josiah? It's Henry. I need you to meet me tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. And bring the digital forensics guy you used for the Harrington case." I hang up and turn to Monica. "That was my lawyer. One of the best in the city for cases like this."

Jealousy still burns in my chest, but it's transforming into something more useful—determination. I've spent my life watching my father handle threats to our family with calculated precision. Time to put those lessons to use.

"Here's what's going to happen," I tell her, sitting back down and taking her hands in mine. "We're going to document everything. The vandalism at your restaurant, these texts, the photos—all of it. We'll get a restraining order first thing tomorrow." I squeeze her hands gently. "And then we're going to make him regret the day he ever thought he could threaten what's mine."

The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me. But it's true. Somewhere between our fake engagement and right now, Monica has become mine. And I've become hers. Not as property, but as something far more valuable—as choice.

I watch Monica's face carefully as she processes what I've just said. Her eyes dart away, a flicker of doubt crossing her features.

"Henry, I appreciate what you're doing, but..." She pulls her hands back slightly. "This is my problem. I don't want you getting caught up in my mess. I don't want you getting in trouble over me."

"Your mess?" I shake my head, moving closer. "Monica, look at me."

When she finally meets my gaze, I see fear there—not just of Benjamin, but of something else. Of letting me in completely.

"We're married now," I say firmly. The words feel right, even though our arrangement started as pretense. "Mrs. Blackwood, remember? That ring on your finger is powerful. It represents the arrangement we have, the bond we share. Even if it wasn't made out of love." That remark stings a little bit.

Her eyes drop to the diamond on her hand, and I place my palm over hers.

"Whatever happens to you happens to me. If someone attacks you, they attack me. That's how this works."

"But you didn't sign up for this," she whispers. "For a psycho ex who won't let go."

"The hell I didn't." I lift her chin with my finger. "I signed up for you. All of you. The incredible chef, the woman who makes me laugh, and yes, the woman with the baggage too. I'm not running from this."

I can see she's torn, wanting to protect me from her past while desperately needing support.

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