18. Henry
18
HENRY
I rip off my tie as I step out of the elevator onto Monica's floor, my briefcase heavy after a long day of meetings. The scent of her cooking usually greets me, but tonight the penthouse is silent and dark. Strange.
"Monica?" My voice echoes through the space as I set down my briefcase and shrug off my suit jacket.
A shape moves on the couch, backlit by the city lights streaming through the windows. Monica sits curled up, a wine glass dangling from her fingers.
"Hey." Her voice comes out soft, distant.
I cross the room and crouch beside her. "What's going on? Why are you sitting here in the dark?"
"Just thinking." She takes another sip of wine. "How were the meetings?"
"Fuck the meetings." I reach for the lamp but she catches my wrist.
"Don't. I like it dark right now."
The city twinkles behind her like scattered diamonds, but her expression remains hidden in shadow. My chest tightens. This isn't like her at all - Monica's usually a force of nature, filling every room with her energy.
"Talk to me." I settle onto the couch beside her. "What's got you drinking alone in the dark?"
"Nothing really. Just one of those days, you know?" She swirls the wine in her glass. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually good enough for any of this."
"Any of what?"
"This life. Being Mrs. Blackwood. Running my own restaurant." She lets out a hollow laugh. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just playing pretend and eventually everyone's going to figure it out."
I shift closer, my arm brushing against hers. The vulnerability in her voice hits me like a punch to the gut. "Monica..." I lower myself down to her level, kneeling down next to her. "What happened? Something has you acting this way and I want to know what."
Monica draws a shaky breath. "I wanted to make you that pasta dish you mentioned last week. The one with the fresh herbs and cherry tomatoes."
My heart clenches at the tremor in her voice.
"But when I got to the store..." She sets down her wine glass with an unsteady hand. "Benjamin was there. He just...appeared in the produce section while I was picking out some ingreidnets."
My jaw tightens at his name. That fucking piece of shit.
"He started talking about how much he missed me, how we should try again." Her voice cracks. "And he said a bunch of other things, trying to make me reminisce about the past. But I was so frozen and scared…"
My fingers dig into my thighs as I fight to keep my expression neutral, but inside I'm seething. The thought of him anywhere near her makes me want to hunt him down.
"I just... couldn't move. Or think." Monica wraps her arms around herself. "Like I was that same scared girl again. Then I just... left everything there and ran." A sob escapes her. "God, I hate that he still has this power over me."
"Come here." I pull her into my arms, and she collapses against my chest. Her tears soak through my shirt as I hold her close, one hand stroking her back while the other cradles her head.
"I've got you," I murmur into her hair. The need to protect her, to shield her from everything that's hurt her, surges through me. But beneath that protective instinct burns something darker - a possessive rage I've never felt before. The idea of Benjamin trying to worm his way back into her life makes me want to tear him apart.
Monica's fingers clutch my shirt as she cries, and I tighten my hold on her. I won't let that bastard anywhere near her again.
"Let me handle Benjamin." I pull back just enough to look at her face, though the darkness still masks her features. "One conversation with me and he'll never bother you again."
Monica stiffens in my arms. "No. Please, Henry." Her hand grips my forearm. "You don't know what he's capable of. He's ruthless when he feels threatened."
I bite back a harsh laugh. If she only knew the things I'm capable of, the connections I have. Benjamin would be nothing more than an inconvenient memory. But her fear is real, and the last thing she needs is more conflict in her life.
"Okay." I brush my thumb across her cheek, wiping away tears. "We'll stay clear of him. But you're not alone in this anymore."
"Thank you." She exhales, her body relaxing against mine.
"And forget about cooking tonight. That pasta dish can wait." I reach for my phone. "Let me order in. What sounds good?"
"You don't have to-"
"I want to." I scroll through my contacts. "How about that Ethiopian place you love? We could get the whole spread - injera, doro wat, all of it. And that spicy lentil dish you always finish before I get a bite."
A small laugh escapes her. "Misir wat."
"That's the one." I press a kiss to her temple. "Plus some of those honey wine cocktails they do. And sambusas. You can never have too many sambusas."
"That... actually sounds perfect."
I make the call, ordering enough food to feed a small army. When I hang up, Monica's curled closer, her head resting on my shoulder. The tension from earlier has begun to fade from her muscles.
After I'm done placing the order, I set my phone down on the coffee table, settling back into the cushions. Monica shifts with me, staying close, her head still resting against my shoulder. The city lights paint abstract patterns across the floor, and her warmth seeps into my side.
I've held countless business meetings, navigated thorny negotiations, dealt with ruthless competitors. But nothing has ever hit me like seeing her break down tonight. The urge to shield her from harm pulses through my veins, fierce and instinctive.
Her breathing has steadied now, matching the slow rise and fall of my chest. One of her curls brushes against my neck, soft as silk. When was the last time I felt this... content? This connected to someone?
Monica lets out a small sigh, her body melting further into mine. My arm tightens around her shoulders reflexively. She's done so much for me - agreed to this whole charade, dealt with my family's expectations, become the kind of friend I never knew I needed. Someone who calls me on my bullshit but still has my back. Someone who makes me laugh without trying.
But there's something else now, something that stirs when she's this close. The delicate scent of her shampoo fills my lungs. Her fingers absently play with a button on my shirt. Each point of contact sends electricity skating across my skin.
Fuck. I shouldn't be thinking about her like this. She's vulnerable right now, dealing with her asshole ex trying to worm his way back in. The last thing she needs is me complicating things by developing... whatever this is.
And yet.
The way she fits against me feels right in a way I can't explain. Like we've done this a thousand times before. Like we could stay here forever, wrapped in darkness and each other's warmth.
I close my eyes, trying to sort through the tangle of protectiveness and attraction and genuine affection coursing through me. When did this fake marriage start feeling so real?