Page 8 of The Black Wife Blessing

"I'm her only son, and we both know that's not it." My gaze follows a waiter carrying fresh flutes of champagne, and I fight the urge to grab two—one for each hand. "Four years in Europe wasn't long enough to forget how she operates. The Catherine Blackwood playbook hasn't changed since I was in diapers."

"Speaking of operating..." Leo's voice trails off as he spots Olivia waving him over, Thomas squirming in her arms. "Duty calls. But this conversation isn't over. I want to hear what's really got you looking like you're planning an escape route."

I watch him weave through the crowd toward his wife and son, envying the easy happiness they share. The genuine smile that crosses Leo's face when he takes his son makes something twist in my chest. The room suddenly feels smaller, stuffier, filled with too many expectations and not enough exits. The weight of Mother's gaze from across the room is practically burning a hole in my custom Italian suit.

Why did I agree to come to this in the first place? Ah, yes. To support my cousin. Even if it means I'll have to endure another night of matchmaking attempts by Mother, who really can't help herself at this point. Four goddamn years building something of my own in Europe, and I'm right back where I started—dodging debutantes and fielding questions about when I'll "finally settle down and take my rightful place."

I drift through clusters of fancy dresses and expensive suits, exchanging hollow pleasantries and vacant smiles. The same faces, the same conversations - who's merging with whom, which startup just got funded, whose divorce is making headlines this week.

"Henry, darling!" Amanda Pierce, an old family friend, air-kisses both my cheeks. "You must tell me about Paris. I heard you were doing marvelously there."

"Paris, London, and Prague, actually." I take another sip of champagne, draining the glass faster than I should. "And yes, the business is doing well." Understatement of the fucking year, but I'm not about to launch into profit margins at a party. That's all they can say. My business is doing well. Do they even want to know all the shit I went through to make myself a well-known name?

"Oh, you must meet my daughter. She's just finished her MBA at-"

"Ah, excuse me." I cut her off, spotting a passing waiter like he's my personal savior. "I need a refill." I don't, but I'd rather drink myself into oblivion than be set up with MBA Barbie.

I make my way to the far corner of the ballroom where the catering staff has set up their staging area. Here, at least, there's purpose to the movement. No pretense, just people focused on their work. Something I can respect—something real in this sea of wealth and bullshit small talk.

A woman in chef whites stands at the center of the controlled chaos, her curly hair escaping from beneath her cap. She moves with precision, plating dishes and directing her team with quiet authority. Unlike everyone else in this room, she's not trying to impress anyone. She's just doing her job, and doing it damn well from what I can see.

"Table twelve needs the lamb, Jake. Nya, those garnishes aren't uniform - fix them. Miguel, how are we looking on the risotto?"

Her staff responds instantly to each command, no wasted motion or hesitation. She adjusts a piece of microgreens with tweezers, her steady hands creating edible art on each plate.When one of her line cooks stumbles with a tray, she's there in an instant, steadying it before anything can fall.

"You've got this," she tells him quietly. "Deep breath. Reset. Start again."

I lean against a pillar, watching as she transforms simple ingredients into stunning presentations. There's something magnetic about her focus, her quiet confidence. No performative shows of authority - just natural leadership that draws respect from her team.

This is the most real thing I've seen all night.

I keep watching the kitchen staff work, finding more entertainment in their synchronized movements than the party behind me. The chef—their leader—has an effortless grace about her. When she tastes a sauce, her eyes close for a split second, like she's having an intimate conversation with the flavors.

A familiar laugh cuts through the crowd. Mother holds court near the center of the room, her arm linked with some young socialite in a silver dress. Perfect posture, calculated smile, designer everything. Mother's type to a T.

"Fuck that," I mutter into my champagne glass. The thought of another setup makes my jaw clench. Mother's been on a mission since I returned from Europe, parading an endless stream of "suitable" women past me like it's a casting call. And I've rejected each one. When is she going to get the hint?

The chef catches my attention again as she steps in to demonstrate a plating technique to one of her cooks. Her hands move with precision, creating a swoosh of sauce that looks like abstract art. She's got paint on her canvas, only her medium is more interesting than anything hanging in Mother's precious galleries.

"Now try it," she tells her cook, stepping back to give him space. When he recreates the design perfectly, her whole face lights up. "That's exactly it."

Mother's voice carries across the room. "Henry simply must meet her. Such a lovely girl, and from an excellent family..."

I press deeper into my corner, finding refuge in watching the kitchen staff's controlled chaos. The chef moves between stations, tasting, adjusting, directing. No pretense. No agenda. Just pure skill and dedication to her craft.

A stark contrast to the marriage market masquerading as my cousin's birthday party. I'd rather spend the evening studying her technique than dodging Mother's latest prospect. Any day of the fucking week.

7

MONICA

Steam rises from multiple pots as I orchestrate the kitchen staff through the organized chaos. Leo's birthday celebration demands perfection - each dish a testament to the caliber of service we provide. My knife glides through colorful bell peppers, the rhythmic chopping a familiar comfort.

"Two minutes on those scallops!" I call out to Miguel at the sauté station. The kitchen hums with energy, plates clinking and burners roaring as we execute Leo's birthday menu with military precision.

My mind races through the remaining prep list. Vegetable brunoise for the amuse-bouche, herb garnish for the fish course, final check on the reduction sauce, plating diagrams to review with the team?—

"Fuck!" Pain shoots through my palm. Crimson blooms across the cutting board, staining the pristine vegetables. The knife clatters against stainless steel as I jerk my hand back. Blood pulses from the wound, hot and insistent.

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