15. Monica
15
MONICA
M y hands tremble as I stand before the altar, facing Henry in his impeccable black tuxedo. The church stretches behind him, packed with New York's biggest players - his family's social circle, business associates, and what feels like half of Manhattan's upper crust.
Despite his mother's objections, we've decided to get married around a month into this fake engagement. And with his level of wealth, we managed to pull together quite a beautiful ceremony in a limited amount of time. It's impressive, but I can't even relish in the moment. Not with so many unfamiliar eyes on us.
I catch Olivia's encouraging smile from her spot in the front pew. She sits next to Leo, their little boy squirming restlessly in his tiny suit between them, tugging at his bow tie. At least I have two friendly faces in this sea of strangers who are sizing me up with calculating eyes, probably wondering how a chef managed to snag one of New York's most eligible bachelors.
"You okay?" Henry whispers, his piercing blue eyes searching mine as the minister drones on about sacred unions and eternal love. The irony isn't lost on me. This whole ceremony, beautiful as it is with cascading white flowers and flickering candles, is built on a foundation of deception.
My voice catches in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. "I don't know if I can..."
Henry's thumb traces small circles on my palm, the gesture hidden from our audience. His touch is surprisingly calming, grounding me when I feel like I might float away on a tide of panic. "Focus on me. Just us here," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
The minister turns to Henry, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "Do you, Henry Alexander Blackwood, take Monica Elizabeth West to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do." His voice rings clear and confident through the church, steady where mine threatens to shake apart. There's something in the way he says those two simple words—a conviction that makes my stomach flip despite knowing better.
"And do you, Monica Elizabeth West, take Henry Alexander Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
My throat tightens. The weight of hundreds of eyes bears down on me. This is crazy. This whole scheme is insane. We can't possibly-
Henry squeezes my hand, drawing my attention back to him. He gives me that crooked smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. The one that's become as familiar as my own reflection these past months.
"I do." The words come out stronger than I expect.
"The rings, please?"
Henry slides the diamond encrusted band onto my finger. His hands are warm, sure, grounding me in this moment. When it's my turn, I manage to get his ring on without dropping it, though my fingers still tremble.
"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.