12. Henry
12
HENRY
T he crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across my mother's opulent dining room as Monica and I navigate through clusters of people giving us smiles and waves. Her hand rests in mine, fingers intertwined, and the weight of it feels more natural than I expected.
"Henry, darling!" My mother's voice carries across the room, cutting through the ambient chatter like a diamond through glass. "Come, you must tell the Alexanders how you proposed."
Monica's grip tightens around my fingers, her nails briefly pressing into my skin, but her smile never falters. Not even a twitch. We've rehearsed this story so many times I could recite it in my sleep, perfected every detail down to the exact vintage of champagne I supposedly ordered.
"Actually, I'd love to hear Monica's version." Cassandra Alexander leans forward, her strand of pearls gleaming under the chandelier light, eyes hungry for romantic details. "The bride's perspective is always more romantic."
Monica launches into our carefully crafted tale of a surprise dinner at her restaurant after hours, not missing a single beat. Her voice carries the perfect blend of excitement and affection as she describes how I supposedly got down on one knee between the prep stations, surrounded by candlelight I'd arranged while she was distracted in the walk-in freezer. The women around us sigh collectively, completely fucking sold on our bullshit story. I have to admit, she's damn good at this—maybe even better than me.
"That's our Henry." George Preston, one of my father's old friends, claps my shoulder. "Always had a flair for the dramatic."
I catch snippets of conversation as we make our rounds. 'Finally settling down.' 'Such a lovely couple.' 'Who would have thought Henry Blackwood would be tamed?' Each comment feeds a growing satisfaction in my chest. For once, the attention isn't about my latest business venture or another disappointed expectation - it's about something that makes these people smile, makes my mother beam with pride.
"Your mother hasn't stopped grinning all evening," Monica whispers as we pause near a window overlooking the garden.
"Neither have I." The words slip out before I can catch them. "You're handling this crowd like a pro."
"Years of customer service." She smooths her dress, a deep blue number that makes her skin glow. "Though I usually deal with hungry patrons, not hungry socialites."
"Trust me, these vultures are always hungry for something."
"Henry!" A group of my mother's friends waves us over. "We need more details about the wedding plans."
Monica's laugh tickles my ear. "Your stage awaits, Mr. Blackwood."
I guide her toward them, riding high on the unexpected pleasure of this charade. Who knew fake engagement could feel this damn good?
We make our way over, mingling and chatting with the many people vying for our attention. As I answer questions about the wedding, Monica gets in her element and starts talking about food. I watch Monica gesturing animatedly to Mrs. Davidson about the proper technique for making authentic French macarons. Her eyes light up as she describes the delicate balance of temperature and timing, and even this jaded socialite seems genuinely enthralled.
"The secret is in how you fold the mixture," Monica explains. "Too rough and you lose the air that creates those perfect little feet around the edges."
"You must show me sometime, dear." Mrs. Davidson touches Monica's arm. "Henry, your fiancée is absolutely delightful."
My chest tightens at the word 'fiancée.' It rolls off their tongues so easily, and Monica plays the part with such natural grace that sometimes I forget this is all pretend. She's worked her way through half the room, charming everyone from the wine snobs to the food critics with her encyclopedic knowledge of cuisine.
"The '82 Bordeaux pairs beautifully with a properly aged ribeye," she tells Mr. Russo, one of our city's most notorious wine collectors. "But personally, I prefer the complexity of the '86 with beef."
Russo's eyebrows shoot up. "You know your vintages."
"A chef has to." Monica winks, and I swear the old bastard blushes.
Standing here, watching her work the room, something shifts inside me. This isn't just about appeasing my mother anymore. When Monica laughs at someone's joke, I find myself studying the curve of her neck. When she talks about food, I'm captivated by the passion in her voice.
"Your girl's quite the catch," George Preston mutters, appearing at my elbow with a fresh scotch. "Nothing like that vapid bunch you used to date."
I take a slow sip of my drink, unable to argue. Monica isn't like anyone I've dated before. She's real. Authentic. The kind of woman who can discuss million-dollar business deals one minute and argue about the best way to caramelize onions the next.
Fuck. This is dangerous territory. We have rules, boundaries. This arrangement is supposed to be simple - mutually beneficial and nothing more. But watching her tonight, I'm starting to wonder if I've already crossed a line I can't uncross.
Once the night comes to a close, I guide Monica toward the coat check, our hands still linked. The warmth of her palm against mine has become familiar over these past few days, and that's part of the problem. Everything about this arrangement is starting to feel too comfortable, too real.
"Your mother outdid herself tonight." Monica accepts her wrap from the attendant. "I've never seen so many different types of caviar in one place."
"Trust me, that's restraint for her. You should see what she does for Christmas."
The joke falls flat as I realize I'm already thinking about future events, planning ahead like we'll still be doing this song and dance far into the future. Like this isn't temporary.
We step out into the cool night air. The valets scramble to retrieve my car, but I'm in no rush to end the evening. Monica's perfume drifts on the breeze - something subtle and spicy that makes me want to lean closer.
"You were incredible in there." I turn to face her. "Even had old Russo eating out of your hand."
"Please. That was all about the wine knowledge. Though I think your mother's friend Mrs. Cheney actually wants to hire me as her personal chef."
"Don't you dare. She'd never let you leave."
Monica laughs, and the sound hits me right in the chest. When did her laugh start affecting me like this? When did I start counting the hours between our "appearances" together? This was supposed to be simple - show up at events, play the happy couple, keep my mother off my back about settling down. Instead, I find myself watching her when she's not looking, memorizing the way she moves, the expressions that cross her face.
The valet pulls up with my car, and I help Monica into the passenger seat. As I round the hood to the driver's side, reality crashes down. We're not just fooling my mother and her social circle anymore. I'm fooling myself if I think I can keep treating this like a business arrangement when every touch, every shared laugh, every goddamn moment pulls me deeper into something I never planned for.
The smart move would be to end it now, before either of us gets hurt. But as I slide behind the wheel and catch her smile in the dim light, I know I'm already past that point.