2. Henry
2
HENRY
T he jet bridge creaks under my feet as I step into JFK's Terminal 1. Four years away, and the distinct New York City energy hits me like a shot of espresso - sharp, familiar, and slightly overwhelming.
"Mr. Blackwood, welcome back!" The flight attendant who'd been particularly attentive during the flight hurries after me, holding out a business card. "If you ever need recommendations for restaurants in the city..."
I accept it with a smile. "Thanks, Sarita. That's very thoughtful."
A group of women at the currency exchange counter pause their conversation, their heads turning in unison as I pass. One of them drops her passport, creating a domino effect of whispers and giggles. I've grown used to this reaction in Europe, but there's something distinctly American about their boldness that almost makes me smirk.
"Excuse me." A businesswoman steps into my path, smartphone in hand, designer heels clicking against the terminal floor. "This is terribly forward, but would you mind helping me with directions? I'm trying to find the Uber pickup point."
"Of course." I point her toward the right exit, watching as she hangs on my every word. She lingers a moment longer than necessary, playing with her hair and shifting her weight to highlight the curve of her hip. Subtle as a freight train.
"You must be new to New York," I say, knowing full well she isn't. Her Manolo Blahniks and the confident way she navigates the crowd screams Manhattan native.
"Born and raised, actually." She winks, sliding her business card next to Sarita's in my jacket pocket without asking permission. "But sometimes we locals need a little... direction." Her emphasis on the last word makes her intentions crystal clear.
My phone buzzes - another message from Mother. That makes twelve since I boarded in Paris. Each one more desperate than the last, all circling around the same theme: my perpetual bachelorhood and her social calendar full of eligible daughters from New York's finest families.
The latest text reads: "Darling, the Ashworths are hosting dinner next Friday. Their daughter Caroline just finished her MBA at Harvard. Perfect timing, don't you think?"
Perfect timing. Right. Because four years building my own fashion empire in Europe means nothing compared to finding the right society wife to complete the Blackwood family portrait. The weight of generations of carefully curated marriages and social connections settles across my shoulders, heavier than my carry-on.
I scroll through the barrage of messages, each one a carefully crafted guilt trip about family obligations and ticking biological clocks - not mine, of course, but those of the parade of debutantes she's lined up.
My driver waits at the curb in a sleek black Maybach, the Blackwood family's preferred mode of transport. As I slide into the leather interior, my phone rings - Leo's face lighting up the screen.
"Look who's finally stateside."
"And how did you know that?"
"I was tracking your flight, of course." Leo's deep laugh fills the car. "How was the ride?"
"Long enough to receive approximately eight hundred texts from Mother about potential wife candidates."
"Ah, the joys of being the last eligible Blackwood bachelor. Speaking of social obligations, you're coming to my birthday gala, right?"
I loosen my tie, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. "Actually, I was thinking-"
"Don't even try it, Henry. This isn't like ditching one of Aunt Catherine's garden parties. The whole family's coming, including that ancient great-uncle who keeps threatening to write us all out of his will."
"Fuck." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You know Mother's going to parade every single woman under thirty-five in front of me."
"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 dining room - 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.