Page 14 of The Black Wife Blessing

"A loose tongue, as always." I drain my glass, signaling Harrison for another.

"Don't be dramatic, darling. People were bound to find out eventually. And really, what did you expect? My only son finally settling down - it's the talk of the season."

"The talk of the season," I mutter. Fucking perfect. What started as a quick solution to Mother's marriage ultimatum has snowballed into a social circus. And now Monica will have to face the wolves in their den. She's doing me a huge favor in accepting this charade. But what if I've just made her life ten times worse?

"Besides," Mother continues, "these things need proper planning. Guest lists for the engagement party, venue selections, not to mention the wedding itself?—"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." I hold up a hand. "Monica and I want to take things at our own pace."

"Really?" She scoffs. "You're already engaged."

The irony of her statement hits me like a punch to the gut. If she only knew how 'slow' things really were - that Monica and I barely know each other beyond our hastily constructed cover story.

"Just... one thing at a time, Mother. The dinner party first."

"And what does Monica think about children?" Mother's voice cuts through my thoughts like a scalpel, precise and painful.

"Jesus, Mother. We haven't even set a date yet." I run a hand through my hair, fighting the urge to get up and leave the room altogether. These dinners always feel like slow torture, especially when she's prodding me like this.

"Well, these things need to be discussed. The Blackwood legacy?—"

"Can wait." I signal Harrison to clear my plates, grateful for the momentary distraction. "Monica's focused on her career right now." And thank God for that—at least one of us has a legitimate passion. Ever since my return to New York City, I haven't felt the same drive I used to feel in Europe. Because now, I have nothing to fight for. Nothing to prove now that I'm established at the top of the social ladder.

"A career in the kitchen." Mother's lips thin until they're practically invisible, her disapproval radiating across the table. "Surely she'll want to step back once you're married. The social obligations alone?—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, echoing against the expensive china. "Her work is important to her. I won't ask her to give that up." I'm surprised by the conviction in my voice—when did I start genuinely defending Monica's dreams?

"But Henry, a chef? What will people say?" She clutches her pearls like they might protect her from the horror of having a daughter-in-law who actually works for a living.

"They'll say whatever the fuck they want. I don't care." I stare her down, daring her to challenge me.

She tilts her head at me and presses her lips into a thin line. "Language, darling." As if that's the real problem here.

I rub my temples. The thought of Monica facing this - the judgment, the whispers, the raised eyebrows - makes my chest tight. She doesn't deserve this shit storm just because she agreed to help me out of a bind. And yet... there's something about her that makes me think she can handle it. The way her eyes light up when she talks about food, how she commands her kitchen with quiet authority.

"Monica's different, Mother. Special." The words come out before I can stop them, and I realize they're true. Even in our brief time together, I've seen glimpses of someone extraordinary.

"Different how?"

"She's real. Authentic. Not like the society wives you parade in front of me."

Mother studies me over her wine glass. "You sound quite taken with her."

I am. That's the problem. What started as convenience is becoming something else - something that makes my pulse quicken when I think about our next meeting. But I can't rush this. Monica's been through enough with her ex; she's told me snippets about the bastard here and there. She needs time, space to see if what's growing between us is genuine.

"Just... give her a chance." I meet Mother's gaze. "That's all I'm asking."

11

MONICA

The warm glow of Flavor Fusion's elegant lighting bathes the dining room in amber hues. Henry pulls out my chair, his fingers brushing my shoulder as I sit. The gesture, though part of our charade, sends a flutter through my chest.

"I hear the duck confit here is life-changing." Henry leans in, enveloping me in that cologne of his. Hesmellsrich. "Though I'm sure you've got opinions on that, being a chef yourself."

"Olivia's duck confit could make angels weep." I unfold my napkin, catching his eye. "But her seafood risotto? That's where the real magic happens."

The restaurant buzzes with energy - wine glasses clinking, conversations flowing, and servers gliding between tables with practiced grace. Olivia has created something special here, a space where food and atmosphere merge into pure joy.

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