Page 21 of The Black Wife Blessing

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Henry cups my face with gentle hands, and I catch a glimpse of something unreadable in his eyes before he leans in. His lips meet mine in a kiss that's soft, sweet, and entirely too convincing for something that's supposed to be fake.

Henry's lips leave mine, and my heart thunders against my ribs as we turn to face the crowd. His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining as we raise our joined hands. The applause thunders through the church, echoing off marble columns and stained glass.

"Ready, Mrs. Blackwood?" Henry's whisper tickles my ear.

I manage a nod, and he guides me down the aisle. Rose petals scatter beneath our feet as we make our way past rows and rows of people. My wedding dress swishes against the carpet, the train trailing behind us like seafoam.

The air hits my warm face as we exit the church. A sleek black limousine idles at the curb, its chrome fixtures gleaming in the afternoon sun. Henry opens the door, helping me gather my dress before I slide inside. The leather seat is cool against my bare shoulders.

Henry settles next to me, loosening his bow tie with a frustrated tug. "Finally. Thought we'd never get through that." His voice carries that hint of rebellion I've come to recognize when he's been forced to perform for high society.

"What's the plan now?" I smooth invisible wrinkles from my dress, feeling the expensive fabric beneath my fingertips. "For the next two weeks, I mean."

"Think we should lay low. Let the dust settle." He reaches for a bottle of champagne nestled in ice, his strong hands working the foil with practiced ease. "Mother's friends will be watching our every move." The way he says it makes it sound like we're being hunted. And in a way, we are. The paparazzi will be ruthless in getting any angle they can of the newlywed Blackwood couple.

"I still want to cook though." The thought of two weeks away from working makes my skin itch and my fingers twitch. "I need to—" Creating dishes is my therapy, my escape, my everything.

"Your penthouse has a professional-grade kitchen," Henry interrupts, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He pours two flutes of champagne, the bubbles racing to the surface. "You can cook whatever you want, whenever you want. Consider it yours."

"Really?" I can't keep the excitement from my voice. A professional kitchen all to myself—no line cooks, no rush orders, just pure culinary freedom.

"Really." He hands me a glass, our fingers brushing in a way that sends electricity up my arm. "Though I expect to be your official taste-tester." His smile is dangerous, promising, and makes me wonder just how much of this marriage is still pretend.

The limo glides through Manhattan traffic, carrying us toward our new shared life. Even if it's temporary, even if it's fake, something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of cooking in that kitchen. Of having a space that's mine, even if just for pretend.

"Just remember," Henry says, swirling the champagne in his glass, "this only needs to last a year. Maybe a bit longer to make it look legitimate." His voice softens. "Then you'll be free to pursue whatever you want. Open that restaurant you've been dreaming about."

The leather seat creaks as he shifts to face me, his knee brushing against my dress.

"I know this isn't ideal. Playing house, dealing with my mother's social circle..." He takes my hand, his thumb tracing over my new ring. The weight of it still feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else's life. "Thank you, Monica. For doing this. For helping me out of an impossible situation."

I look up at him - at the sharp line of his jaw, those ocean-deep eyes, the way his dark hair falls just so across his forehead. My heart does a stupid little flip in my chest. Damn it. This is business, I remind myself. Just an arrangement between two adults with mutual goals.

"It's fine," I manage, trying to ignore how warm his hand feels against mine, how his touch sends tiny electric currents racing up my arm. "Besides, I get a professional kitchen out of the deal." I attempt a light tone, but my voice comes out breathier than intended. I clear my throat, attempting to regain my composure. "Sub-zero fridge, six-burner stove... that's worth playing fake wife for a year."

His smile - that devastating, crooked smile - makes my stomach tighten. There's something dangerous about the way his lips curve up at one corner, something that makes me forget all the reasons this is strictly business.

"And I get the best chef in New York cooking just for me. I'd say that's a win-win." His voice drops lower, more intimate, as his fingers continue their maddening pattern against my skin.

16

HENRY

Ilean against the kitchen counter, mesmerized by Monica's fluid movements as she navigates her workspace. Three pots simmer on the stove while she chops vegetables with lightning precision. The aroma of herbs and spices fills the air, making my mouth water.

"You know you don't have to cook enough for an army, right?" I watch her add more ingredients to an already overflowing pot.

"Force of habit." Monica's knife hits the cutting board in quick succession. "In professional kitchens, we're used to large quantities."

But there's tension in her shoulders, and her movements are more rigid than usual. Something's off.

"Hey." I move closer, careful not to disturb her workflow. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

The knife pauses mid-chop. Monica sets it down and grips the edge of the counter. "This whole situation... it's more complicated than I expected."

"The marriage thing?"

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