Page 3 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Better you than me. Though Olivia would kill anyone who tried." There's a pause, and I can picture Leo leaning back in his CEO chair at NeuraTech, probably wearing that shit-eating grin. "No exceptions, cousin. If I have to suffer through another round of 'when are you having a second child' interrogations, you can handle some matchmaking."

"I just got back. Can't I at least-"

"Nope. Consider it payment for all those times I covered for you sneaking out to art galleries instead of attending board meetings."

The car pulls up to Mother's Upper East Side penthouse, where tonight's welcome dinner awaits. Through the ornate windows, I catch glimpses of staff setting up the formal diningroom - Mother's favorite crystal, fresh flowers, and enough place settings to suggest she's invited half of Manhattan's elite.

"Fine. I'll be there." I grab my bag, dreading the evening ahead. "But I'm not dancing with anyone's daughter, niece, or conveniently single friend."

"We'll see about that." Leo chuckles. "Welcome home, Henry."

I end the call and stare at the imposing limestone facade of my childhood home. Same pretentious columns. Same manicured topiaries. Same suffocating expectations waiting behind those double oak doors.

The driver helps carry my things inside while I take a deep breath of crisp autumn air. Despite Mother's overwhelming... everything, a part of me has missed this city. The energy. The possibilities. The network of friends I'd left behind to carve my own path.

My phone buzzes with a text from James, my old college roommate who now runs an art gallery in Chelsea:

"Heard you're back in town. Drinks at The Morgan tomorrow? Got some pieces you need to see."

A smile tugs at my lips. At least some things haven't changed. James still knows how to tempt me with the perfect combination of art and scotch.

"Count me in," I text back. "7PM?"

The front door opens before I reach it, revealing Harrison, our long-time butler, looking exactly as he did four years ago - down to the perfectly pressed uniform and slightly disapproving arch of his eyebrow.

"Welcome home, Mr. Blackwood."

"Good to see you, Harrison." I hand him my coat, feeling the weight of the family estate settle back onto my shoulders. "How bad is it in there?"

"Your mother has invited the Pembrokes, Astors, and Vanderbilts for dinner." He pauses, his expression perfectly neutral except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "All of whom, I'm told, have daughters of marriageable age."

"Fantastic." I loosen my tie, already feeling like it's choking me. Four years in Europe without this bullshit, and within ten minutes of being home, Mother's matchmaking machine is in full swing. "Any chance the wine cellar still has that '82 Bordeaux I hid behind the Merlots?"

"Third shelf from the bottom, sir. I've taken the liberty of having it decanted."

This is why Harrison has always been my favorite. The man's practically raised me, and he knows exactly when I need reinforcements. He's been more of a father figure than my actual father ever managed to be.

The sound of voices drifts from the formal living room - Mother's distinctive laugh, followed by what sounds like an entire sorority's worth of feminine giggles. Christ. She's really gone all out. I'm going to need more than just one bottle to survive this ambush disguised as a welcome home dinner.

But before I face the firing squad of eligible bachelorettes, I need a moment to remember why I came back. Not for Mother's matchmaking schemes, but for the chance to expand my European ventures here, to reconnect with the people who matter. To find my own balance between the Blackwood legacy and the life I want to build.

3

MONICA

Ipush open the doors of Flavor Fusion, my portfolio clutched tight against my chest. The restaurant's modern interior gleams with polished wood and brass accents, while soft jazz music floats through the air. I suck in a shaky breath as I approach the hostess stand.

"I have an appointment with Olivia Blackwood and Celia Saint-Pierre."

"Right this way." The hostess leads me through the dining room toward a private area in the back.

My heart pounds as we approach. This is it - my chance to prove I can handle high-profile events. Leo Blackwood's party could launch my career into the stratosphere. I smooth down my chef's coat and check that not a single curl has escaped my carefully styled bun.

The private conference room door opens to reveal Olivia and Celia seated at a round table, papers spread between them. They both look up as I enter.

"Monica, thank you for coming." Olivia rises, extending her hand. Her presence commands attention, from her perfectlytailored dress to her confident smile. "We've heard good things about your work."

"Thank you for considering me." I shake her hand, then Celia's. "I'm excited to share my vision for Mr. Blackwood's event."

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