Page 59 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Damn right," Celia says with pride. "Our men know better than to come weak with the jewelry game."

I can't help but smile. "I still can't believe it's real. That any of this is real."

Thomas zooms past the kitchen island, his toy airplane making sputtering noises as he weaves between our legs. "Aunt Monica! Watch me fly!"

"I see you, Captain Thomas!" I call after him, sidestepping just in time to avoid a collision with his three-year-old navigation skills.

Through the open archway to the dining room, I catch Henry's eye. He's lounging with Leo and Aston, nursing a whiskey, but his attention is fixed on me. That look still makes my stomach flip, even after everything we've been through.

"So when's the actual wedding?" Olivia asks, pulling a tray of roasted vegetables from the oven. The smell of rosemary and thyme fills the air.

"We're thinking soon," I say, scraping the peppers into a bowl. "Nothing too crazy. Not after the circus we've already been through."

"Bullshit," Celia snorts. "Henry's mama won't let that happen. She's already calling every wedding planner in Manhattan."

"God, don't remind me," I groan, but there's no real annoyance behind it. Even his mother's overwhelming enthusiasm feels like a gift after what we've survived. We've told her that we want a more intimate ceremony—she'll never know that our relationship started off as a business arrangement. Henry and I are taking that to the grave.

Thomas crashes his plane into my leg. "Boom! Emergency landing on Mount Monica!"

"That's Mrs. Blackwood to you, little man," I say, ruffling his hair.

"Not yet," Olivia corrects, winking at me. "But soon."

I look down at my ring again, then back at Henry. Our eyes lock, and he raises his glass slightly in my direction.

"Soon," I agree, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the kitchen heat.

I'm arranging the last of the caramelized Brussels sprouts on the serving platter when Olivia gives me a satisfied nod. We'veoutdone ourselves tonight—roasted rack of lamb with herb crust, mushroom risotto, seasonal vegetables, and a balsamic reduction that took hours to perfect.

"This looks incredible," I say, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. "I still can't believe how well our cooking styles mesh."

"That's what happens when you have three incredible chefs in the kitchen at the same time," Olivia says with a wink. "Now let's get this feast to the table before the men start gnawing on the furniture."

Celia grabs the wine bottles—a Bordeaux that Aston brought from his private collection. "Thomas, sweetie, go tell your daddy and the uncles that dinner's ready."

Thomas zooms off, airplane still in hand, and we hear his excited announcement followed by male laughter from the other room.

"Dinner time! Dinner time!" Thomas chants, leading the parade of men into the dining room.

Olivia carries the lamb to the table while I follow with the risotto. Celia brings up the rear with vegetables and wine. The dining table is already set beautifully—cream linen tablecloth, polished silver, crystal glasses catching the light from the chandelier overhead.

"Ladies, you've outdone yourselves," Leo says, pulling out Olivia's chair for her.

Henry does the same for me, his hand brushing my shoulder as I sit. That simple touch still sends electricity through me. "This looks amazing, babe," he murmurs close to my ear.

We arrange ourselves around the table—each woman beside her man. Thomas sits between Leo and Olivia in his booster seat, still making occasional airplane noises.

Aston uncorks the wine with practiced ease. "This is a 2015 Château Margaux—perfect with lamb."

As the ruby liquid fills our glasses, I feel Henry's hand find mine under the table. His thumb traces small circles on my palm, and I lean slightly against his shoulder.

"To family," Leo proposes, raising his glass.

"To family," we echo, and I realize with a surge of happiness that's exactly what we are.

I'm halfway through my first bite of the perfectly cooked lamb when Olivia taps her glass with her fork. The crystal makes a delicate ringing sound that cuts through the dinner conversation.

"I'd like to make a toast, too," she announces, standing with her wine glass held high. Her eyes are warm as they find mine and Henry's across the table. "To Monica and Henry," she begins, her smile widening. "You know, it's funny how life works out sometimes. What starts as something... let's say convenient, can turn into the most real thing you've ever experienced."

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