Page 16 of The Black Wife Blessing

I nod, forcing a smile that becomes more genuine when I look up at him. His blue eyes hold nothing but concern – no judgment, no frustration at my reaction. Just patience.

"Monica?" he asks gently.

"Yeah, just..." The words stick in my throat. How do I explain that even this perfect evening has shadows lurking at its edges? That every time something good happens, a voice in my head whispers it's temporary?

Henry steps in front of me, his expression serious. "Monica, what's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing. Everything." I force a laugh. "Just remembering that this is supposed to be pretend."

But that's not it. Not really. I'm remembering Benjamin's last words to me: "You'll never find someone who understands you like I do." And even though I know it was manipulation, even though Henry proves him wrong with every genuine question and careful touch, part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Hey." Henry's thumb traces my cheekbone. "Whatever you're thinking about - whoever you're thinking about - they're not here. It's just us."

I lean into his touch, trying to believe him. But I can't shake the feeling that happiness this pure comes with a price. That somewhere in this city, my past is waiting to catch up with me.

12

HENRY

The crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across my mother's opulent dining room as Monica and I navigate through clusters of people giving us smiles and waves. Her hand rests in mine, fingers intertwined, and the weight of it feels more natural than I expected.

"Henry, darling!" My mother's voice carries across the room, cutting through the ambient chatter like a diamond through glass. "Come, you must tell the Alexanders how you proposed."

Monica's grip tightens around my fingers, her nails briefly pressing into my skin, but her smile never falters. Not even a twitch. We've rehearsed this story so many times I could recite it in my sleep, perfected every detail down to the exact vintage of champagne I supposedly ordered.

"Actually, I'd love to hear Monica's version." Cassandra Alexander leans forward, her strand of pearls gleaming under the chandelier light, eyes hungry for romantic details. "The bride's perspective is always more romantic."

Monica launches into our carefully crafted tale of a surprise dinner at her restaurant after hours, not missing a single beat. Her voice carries the perfect blend of excitement and affection asshe describes how I supposedly got down on one knee between the prep stations, surrounded by candlelight I'd arranged while she was distracted in the walk-in freezer. The women around us sigh collectively, completely fucking sold on our bullshit story. I have to admit, she's damn good at this—maybe even better than me.

"That's our Henry." George Preston, one of my father's old friends, claps my shoulder. "Always had a flair for the dramatic."

I catch snippets of conversation as we make our rounds. 'Finally settling down.' 'Such a lovely couple.' 'Who would have thought Henry Blackwood would be tamed?' Each comment feeds a growing satisfaction in my chest. For once, the attention isn't about my latest business venture or another disappointed expectation - it's about something that makes these people smile, makes my mother beam with pride.

"Your mother hasn't stopped grinning all evening," Monica whispers as we pause near a window overlooking the garden.

"Neither have I." The words slip out before I can catch them. "You're handling this crowd like a pro."

"Years of customer service." She smooths her dress, a deep blue number that makes her skin glow. "Though I usually deal with hungry patrons, not hungry socialites."

"Trust me, these vultures are always hungry for something."

"Henry!" A group of my mother's friends waves us over. "We need more details about the wedding plans."

Monica's laugh tickles my ear. "Your stage awaits, Mr. Blackwood."

I guide her toward them, riding high on the unexpected pleasure of this charade. Who knew fake engagement could feel this damn good?

We make our way over, mingling and chatting with the many people vying for our attention. As I answer questions about the wedding, Monica gets in her element and starts talking aboutfood. I watch Monica gesturing animatedly to Mrs. Davidson about the proper technique for making authentic French macarons. Her eyes light up as she describes the delicate balance of temperature and timing, and even this jaded socialite seems genuinely enthralled.

"The secret is in how you fold the mixture," Monica explains. "Too rough and you lose the air that creates those perfect little feet around the edges."

"You must show me sometime, dear." Mrs. Davidson touches Monica's arm. "Henry, your fiancée is absolutely delightful."

My chest tightens at the word 'fiancée.' It rolls off their tongues so easily, and Monica plays the part with such natural grace that sometimes I forget this is all pretend. She's worked her way through half the room, charming everyone from the wine snobs to the food critics with her encyclopedic knowledge of cuisine.

"The '82 Bordeaux pairs beautifully with a properly aged ribeye," she tells Mr. Russo, one of our city's most notorious wine collectors. "But personally, I prefer the complexity of the '86 with beef."

Russo's eyebrows shoot up. "You know your vintages."

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