Page 43 of The Black Wife Blessing

My hands get clammy on the steering wheel. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as I scan the road ahead. There's a hill coming up. If I don't slow down now?—

I jerk the emergency brake. The car fishtails, tires screeching against asphalt. For a terrifying moment, I'm certain I'll flip, but somehow I regain control, though the car barely slows.

"Think, Monica, think!" I downshift manually, the engine whining in protest. The speedometer needle finally starts to drop, but not fast enough. I'm still moving too quickly toward the busy street at the bottom of the hill.

This isn't an accident. The image of Benjamin's smirking face flashes through my mind. The photos. The vandalism. And now this.

He's trying to kill me.

A sob catches in my throat as I swerve around a parked car, searching desperately for somewhere safe to crash. The thought is absurd—there's no safe way to crash—but I need to stop this car before I hit someone else.

I yank the wheel hard to the right, aiming for an empty stretch of sidewalk where I'll only hurt myself. The car jumps the curb, tires screeching against concrete. The front end smashes into a light pole with a sickening crunch of metal.

My body lurches forward violently before the seatbelt catches, snapping my head back like a rubber band. Pain explodes through my neck and shoulders as I'm thrown against the seat.

Everything stops.

Steam hisses from the crumpled hood. The airbag deflates against my chest, leaving a burning sensation across my skin. My ears ring, drowning out the world around me.

"Oh my God." The words escape my lips in a whisper. I can't move my neck without shooting pain racing down my spine.

Benjamin did this. He fucking tampered with my brakes.

The timing isn't coincidental. Benjamin's escalating—from harassment to attempted murder. And it's all because I decided to get a restraining order on him.

I try to lift my arm to unbuckle my seatbelt, but my body refuses to cooperate. Tears stream down my face, from pain or shock or both. My vision blurs around the edges.

A face appears at my window—a woman with concerned eyes. She mouths something I can't hear through the glass and my ringing ears. With effort, I press the button to lower the window.

"Are you okay? Can you hear me?" Her voice sounds distant, underwater, like I'm listening through layers of thick glass.

I try to nod, but the movement sends another jolt of pain through my neck, sharp and electric. "I think... my neck..." The words come out slurred and weak, barely audible even to my own ears.

"Don't move," she says firmly, already pulling out her phone with practiced urgency. "I'm calling an ambulance. Just stay still. Don't try to get out."

I sit frozen in my mangled car, staring straight ahead at the crumpled hood. Benjamin wanted me dead. The reality of it washes over me in waves, each one colder than the last. He wanted me dead because I dared to stand up to him, because I found happiness with someone else. Because I became Mrs. Blackwood instead of staying his punching bag.

The woman stays by my window, talking into her phone while keeping her eyes on me. Her free hand presses against the glass like she's trying to reach through it. "They're coming," she reassures me. "Just a few minutes. Hang in there, honey."

I can't even manage a thank you. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton. I just sit there, stunned, as sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. The taste of fear is metallic in my mouth, mixing with what I realize must be blood from where I bit my lip during impact.

What the hell? Is this really my life right now?

30

HENRY

Istare at the pasta sauce splattered across the kitchen counter, a casualty of my attempt at making Monica's favorite dish. The recipe seemed simple enough—garlic, tomatoes, basil—but somehow I've managed to turn it into a crime scene.

"Fuck." I wipe my hands on a dish towel and check my watch again.

She should've been home an hour ago. I grab my phone, no messages. This isn't like her. Monica's always punctual, especially when food is involved. Even my shitty cooking.

I pour myself a whiskey, trying to ignore the knot forming in my gut. The pasta's gone cold, congealing into a sad, sticky mess. Just like my attempt at being domestic.

My phone buzzes against the marble countertop. Finally. But it's not Monica's name on the screen—it's an unknown number.

"Henry Blackwood speaking."

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