Page 6 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Alright, Mother, I'll think about it. Thanks for keeping me updated." The words slip out before I can stop them - my default response to keep the peace. It's easier than arguing, than explaining for the hundredth time that I don't want my life mapped out according to her social calendar. Four years in Europe taught me there's more to life than strategic marriages and board positions, but some lessons don't translate very well across the Atlantic.

Mother's face brightens like a kid on Christmas morning. She leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek that leaves a trace of expensive lipstick. "That's all I ask, darling. You know I just want to see you happy." Her hand squeezes my arm. "And I'm not getting any younger. The thought of grandchildren..." She sighs wistfully. "Your children would be absolutely beautiful."

I watch her glide back toward the party, her silk dress catching the garden lights. The truth is, I do want a family someday. The idea of coming home to someone who genuinely cares, of teaching my kids the value of making their own way in the world - it's appealing as hell.

But not like this. Not through some calculated merger of family fortunes disguised as romance. Not with someone who sees me as a means to climb the social ladder or secure their place in Manhattan's elite.

I drain my champagne, letting the empty glass dangle between my fingers. The garden's gotten darker, quieter. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blares - a reminder that real life exists beyond these manicured hedges and practiced smiles.

The garden's silence reminds me of Leo - he always knew the best hiding spots at these parties when we were kids. Now he's got it all figured out. Married to Olivia, a little son running around... and they started as a fake relationship too.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Leo's contact. He'd get it. He navigated this same bullshit, turned a business arrangement into real love. His story with Olivia reads like a fucking fairytale - arranged marriage to actual marriage, now with a toddler who's the spitting image of both of them.

But Leo's probably busy. It's late, and he's got that whole 'responsible parent' thing going now. Plus, knowing him, he'd just laugh and tell me to stop overthinking everything.

"Fuck it." I pocket my phone and straighten my jacket. Time to face the wolves.

Back inside, the party's reached that point where everyone's had just enough champagne to get loud. I dodge three separate conversations about hedge funds before Mrs. Paulson corners me. And her perfume assaults me long before I even see her.

"Henry! You must tell me about Paris. I heard the most fascinating story about your venture there!"

I launch into my standard spiel about European markets, watching her eyes glaze over at the technical details. It's a trick I learned years ago - bore them with business talk and they stop trying to set you up with their daughters.

The night drags on. I shake hands, laugh at terrible jokes about the stock market, and pretend to be fascinated by stories of summer homes in the Hamptons. Each conversation feels like a performance, a role I've rehearsed since childhood.

Maybe that's what Leo figured out - how to make this whole circus feel real. How to find something genuine in all this artifice.

5

MONICA

The produce section at the local grocery store bursts with possibility as I scan the perfectly arranged vegetables. My phone buzzes with another notification, probably another detail about Leo Blackwood's upcoming birthday celebration.

"Girl, you're making me dizzy." Carla trails behind me, pushing the cart while I dart between displays. "We've been here twenty minutes and your basket's still empty."

"This has to be perfect." I scroll through my notes app, cross-referencing my fifth iteration of the menu. "It's not just any birthday party. It's Leo-freaking-Blackwood."

"The tech billionaire?" Carla whistles. "How'd you land that one?"

"I had an interview with Olivia Blackwood and Celia Saint-Pierre. Clearly, they liked what I had to offer." I pick up a butternut squash, testing its weight. "And now I'm catering for VIP guests."

"VIP?" Carla's eyes widen. "You're gonna need help."

"Already on it." I add the squash to my cart and pull up another list. "Got three sous chefs lined up, plus servers. Just need to nail down this menu." I move to the herb section,inhaling the fresh scents. "I still have to finalize the menu. And now I'm thinking of doing a twist on classic comfort foods. Like these mini shepherd's pies with duck confit instead of ground beef. And maybe those black truffle mac and cheese bites that killed at the charity event."

"Those were insane." Carla grabs some fresh thyme. "What about dessert?"

"That's where I'm stuck." I pull out my tablet, showing her my sketches. "Olivia mentioned he loves chocolate and bourbon. I'm thinking of doing these individual chocolate soufflés with a bourbon caramel center, but the timing would be tricky with that many guests."

"What about pre-setting the ramekins?" Carla suggests. "We did something similar at that wedding last summer."

"That could work." I add it to my notes, then grab my checklist for rentals. "Now I just need to figure out plating, staffing schedule, prep timeline, equipment needs..."

"One thing at a time." Carla squeezes my shoulder. "You've got this. Now can we please get what we actually came here for? My dinner service starts in four hours."

"Right, right," I reply, sending her a smile.

As we start shopping, it's inevitable that my mind starts drifting. And worrying. Then, it starts panicking. The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders like a heavy blanket. My hand trembles as I set down the fresh herbs. What if the food isn't up to their standards? Olivia Blackwood isn't just any client - she's a culinary powerhouse. And Celia Saint-Pierre? Her reputation in the industry is legendary, too. What if I fail them? What if I make them look bad?

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