Page 9 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Monica!" Nya appears at my side, first aid kit already in hand. "Let me see."

"I'm fine, I need to finish—" I try to sidestep her, reaching for a towel to wrap around my hand. This is the worst possible timing.

"Stop. Now." Nya's firm grip guides me away from the station, her expression leaving no room for argument. "Someone clean that board and start fresh! Get those vegetables out of here!"

I grit my teeth as she examines the cut, frustration boiling inside me. "This is amateur hour bullshit. I haven't cut myself in years." I watch the controlled chaos of my kitchen continue without me, feeling the weight of every passing second. Leo's birthday dinner won't wait for a stupid knife wound.

"Even Thomas Keller probably nicked himself once or twice." Nya cleans the wound with practiced efficiency. "You're pushing too hard. Take five minutes."

"We don't have five minutes. Leo's party?—"

"Will be perfect because you've planned every detail." She wraps gauze around my palm. "But not if you pass out from stress. You have to trust us. You've given us everything we need to succeed. We'll survive without you for a few minutes."

My shoulders slump as the adrenaline fades. She's right, but that doesn't stop the frustration bubbling in my chest. One stupid mistake could throw off our entire timing.

"Fine. Five minutes." I flex my bandaged hand, testing the movement. "But then I'm back on the line."

"Deal." Nya steers me toward the break room. "Drink water. Breathe. The world won't end if you pause for a moment."

I sink into a chair, anger at myself mixing with exhaustion. Years of building my reputation, and I slip up at one of our biggest events. The cut throbs, a constant reminder of my momentary lapse in focus.

I pick at the edge of the gauze, resisting the urge to unwrap it completely. The cut pulses with each heartbeat, asteady reminder of my stupidity. Through the break room door, I catch whiffs of Miguel's citrus beurre blanc - the perfect accompaniment to those butter-basted scallops.

My team moves with practiced precision, their stations a symphony of sizzling pans and knife work. The menu I crafted pushes boundaries while honoring classic techniques. Deconstructed beef Wellington with a mushroom foam, the pastry transformed into delicate tuiles. A play on Leo's favorite childhood dessert - classic chocolate chip cookies reimagined as an elegant plated affair with tahini caramel and malted milk crumbs. We have so many dishes to prepare, catering to the many varied tastes in attendance tonight.

The bandage catches on my watch as I check the time. Three minutes left of my mandatory break. I flex my fingers, testing the movement. Pain shoots across my palm. Shit. Knife work will be tricky, but I can manage. I'll have to.

I stand up, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. The wound throbs, but I push the discomfort aside. There's still the final sauce to finish, garnishes to place with surgical precision, the timing of each course to orchestrate. My team is incredible, but they need their conductor. And I refuse to let a stupid cut derail Leo's celebration.

The break room door swings open. I straighten, expecting Nya with more lectures about self-care. Instead, a tall stranger in an impeccably tailored suit strides in, his blue eyes landing on my bandaged hand.

"Kitchen battle wound?" His lips quirk into a half-smile.

"More like a reminder that even professionals fuck up." I wiggle my wrapped fingers. "Are you lost? This area's staff only."

"I'm Henry. Leo's cousin." He drops into the chair across from me. "I was looking for the birthday boy, but hiding out here seems more interesting."

"Hiding from what exactly?"

"My mother's attempts to parade eligible socialites in front of me." He smiles. "I'd rather discuss whatever masterpiece you were creating when the knife won its argument."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. For some reason, I find myself lowering into my seat again. "Bell peppers. Nothing masterful about basic knife work."

"Depends who's wielding the knife. Though maybe not in this case." His eyes dance with mischief.

"Watch it." I point my good hand at him. "I'm still armed and dangerous. Sort of."

"Clearly." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "So what else are you serving besides rebellious vegetables?"

The genuine interest in his voice draws me in. I find myself describing the menu's progression - the delicate balance of flavors, the seasonal ingredients, the stories behind each dish. Henry listens intently, asking questions that reveal a surprising knowledge of cuisine.

"You actually know your food." I tilt my head, studying him. "Most people just pretend."

"Four years in Europe. You learn to appreciate real cooking or starve." He shrugs. "Though nothing I've had there compares to what you just described. Even with the slight delay due to pepper-related injuries."

"You're kind of an ass, you know that?"

"I've been told it's part of my charm."

---