16. Henry
16
HENRY
I lean against the kitchen counter, mesmerized by Monica's fluid movements as she navigates her workspace. Three pots simmer on the stove while she chops vegetables with lightning precision. The aroma of herbs and spices fills the air, making my mouth water.
"You know you don't have to cook enough for an army, right?" I watch her add more ingredients to an already overflowing pot.
"Force of habit." Monica's knife hits the cutting board in quick succession. "In professional kitchens, we're used to large quantities."
But there's tension in her shoulders, and her movements are more rigid than usual. Something's off.
"Hey." I move closer, careful not to disturb her workflow. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
The knife pauses mid-chop. Monica sets it down and grips the edge of the counter. "This whole situation... it's more complicated than I expected."
"The marriage thing?"
"Yeah." She wipes her hands on her apron. "Your mother called this morning. She wants us to attend some charity gala next week. And yesterday, my old sous chef asked about wedding photos for social media." Her voice rises slightly. "I didn't think we'd have to keep up appearances outside your family circle."
"Fuck what anyone else thinks." I turn her around to face me. "We don't owe explanations to anyone."
"Easy for you to say. You've lived in this world your whole life." Monica gestures at the penthouse around us. "I'm still learning how to be Mrs. Blackwood without tripping over my own feet."
"You're doing fine. Better than fine." I catch her restless hands in mine. "Stop overthinking it. We'll handle each situation as it comes."
"But-"
"No buts. You're already juggling enough with your restaurant plans. Let me worry about the social circus."
Some of the tension leaves her face. "You make it sound so simple."
"Because it is. Now, what exactly are you cooking? It smells incredible."
Monica's smile returns as she stirs one of the pots. "I'm making coq au vin. It's a French dish - chicken braised in wine with mushrooms and pearl onions. Plus some roasted root vegetables on the side."
"Fancy." I lean against the counter, watching her work. "Any special occasion?"
"Just felt like cooking something that takes time." She adjusts the heat under one of the pots. "It's therapeutic, you know? Lets me think."
The kitchen falls quiet except for the gentle bubbling of the cooking food. I take a deep breath, deciding now's as good a time as any for what's been on my mind.
"Listen, about this whole arrangement..."
Monica freezes for a split second before resuming her stirring. "What about it?"
"I want you to know I'm committed to making this work. The fake marriage, the public appearances, all of it."
"Henry, you don't have to-"
"I know I don't have to." I move closer, careful not to crowd her workspace. "But I want to. We've come this far, and honestly? We make a pretty good team."
She sets down her wooden spoon and turns to face me. "The press does seem to love us."
"They eat up every photo op. It's ridiculous." I lean against the counter, watching her work. "That piece in the Times about the 'whirlwind romance between the business heir and the rising culinary star' got more shares than any of our company's press releases this year. My PR team is actually jealous."
"It's all smoke and mirrors though." Monica crosses her arms, her expression turning serious. "You sure you want to keep this up? It's a lot to maintain."
"Absolutely." I don't hesitate with my answer. "Besides, who else would cook me fancy French chicken? My culinary skills stop at microwave dinners and takeout."
A laugh escapes her, breaking the tension. "Is that all I'm good for? Feeding the great Henry Blackwood?"
"That and keeping my mother off my back about settling down. The woman was relentless before you came along." I give her a wink. "I'd say you're invaluable, Mrs. Blackwood. Best fake wife a man could ask for."
Monica's smile fades as she turns back to the stove, her movements becoming mechanical. I've noticed these shifts more lately - moments where she retreats into herself, her usual warmth dimming.
"You okay?" I step closer, giving her space but staying within reach.
She stirs the pot with more force than necessary. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"My old life." She sets the spoon down. "I had an ex-boyfriend named Benjamin. I think I've told you a bit about him before. And he used to tell me I'd never make it as head chef. Said I was too 'emotional' in the kitchen." Her fingers trace along the edge of the counter. "He'd critique everything - my techniques, my plating, even how I held my knife."
My jaw clenches. "Sounds like a real piece of work."
"That's putting it mildly." Monica's voice drops. "He'd wait until we were alone, then pick apart every decision I made. If I got excited about a new recipe, he'd laugh and say I was being naive. When I talked about opening my own place someday, he'd remind me how many restaurants fail in their first year."
Heat rises in my chest. "Did he ever-"
"No, nothing physical." She shakes her head. "Just... constant criticism. Little digs that made me doubt myself. I started second-guessing everything, wondering if maybe he was right."
"He wasn't." The words come out sharper than intended.
"I know that now." Monica adjusts the temperature on one of the burners. "Haven't heard from him in a while, thank God. Last I knew, he took a job at some corporate restaurant chain in Jersey."
"Good. Let him stay there." I resist the urge to find out which chain. "You deserve better than that bullshit."
She gives me a small smile. "It's fine. I'm fine. Just sometimes these memories..." She gestures vaguely. "They sneak up on me."
I want to say more, do more, but I recognize that look in her eyes - she's done talking about it for now. Instead, I reach past her to grab two wine glasses from the cabinet.
"How about we open that bottle of Bordeaux? Since you're making fancy French chicken and all."
Her shoulders relax slightly. "That sounds perfect."
I pour two generous glasses of the Bordeaux, handing one to Monica. The deep red liquid catches the kitchen's warm lighting.
"To us." I raise my glass. "And our mutually beneficial arrangement."
Monica clinks her glass against mine. "To fooling all of New York's elite." She takes a sip, her eyes widening. "This is incredible."
"It should be. Cost more than my first car." I lean back, watching her return to the stove. The way she moves through the kitchen, confident and focused, reminds me how far she's come from that controlling ex of hers.
My mother's getting off my back about marriage is one thing, but Monica's dreams? Those are tangible. Real. The restaurant space in SoHo I've been eyeing would be perfect for her vision - exposed brick walls, high ceilings, that industrial-chic vibe that's so hot right now. And with my connections to the right investors...
"What's that look for?" Monica stirs the coq au vin, eyebrow raised.
"Just thinking about some business opportunities." I take another sip. "You know, being Mrs. Blackwood opens a lot of doors in the restaurant world."
"Henry-"
"I'm serious. You've got the talent. The vision. Now you've got the name recognition too." I set my glass down. "Let me introduce you to some people. Real estate developers, restaurant groups, private investors. No strings attached."
Monica pauses, wooden spoon hovering over the pot. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to. Consider it my way of saying thanks for keeping my mother's marriage crusade at bay." I move closer, inhaling the rich aroma of wine and herbs. "Plus, I get to be the first investor in what's going to be New York's next big restaurant. It's just good business."
A smile tugs at her lips. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Impossibly helpful, maybe." I refill our glasses. "To your future restaurant empire."
This time when we toast, her smile reaches her eyes.