20. Henry
20
HENRY
I trace my fingers along the rim of my scotch glass, staring at the thick manila folder Detective Martinez just dropped off. The comprehensive dossier on Benjamin Jenson sits heavy in front of me, a testament to what money and connections can accomplish in just a few days.
"Everything you need to know is in there, Mr. Blackwood. Background checks, financial records, employment history, criminal records—if there was dirt to find, I found it."
"Criminal records?" My attention snaps to the detective's weathered face.
"Nothing major yet, but there's a pattern of complaints from previous employers and a restraining order from another ex-girlfriend that was later dropped." Martinez points to specific tabs in the folder. "I've organized it chronologically. Pay special attention to the last few years."
I flip through the pages, my jaw clenching tighter with each revelation. Benjamin's history unfolds like a roadmap of red flags—jobs left under suspicious circumstances, unpaid debts, and a string of toxic relationships.
"This incident here." Martinez leans over, pointing to a police report. "Bar fight three years ago. He claimed self-defense, but witnesses said he was the aggressor. Charges were dropped when the other guy refused to press charges."
The more I read, the clearer the picture becomes. Benjamin isn't just Monica's troubled ex—he's a ticking time bomb. His bank statements show irregular deposits, suggesting under-the-table work. Multiple addresses in the past year hint at instability.
"What about his current whereabouts?"
"That's where it gets interesting." Martinez pulls out recent surveillance photos. "He's been spotted near Taste Of Heaven three times this week alone, always during off-hours. Never goes in, just watches."
My blood runs cold. The timing matches perfectly with the vandalism at Monica's restaurant.
"There's more," Martinez continues. "He's been making calls to several of Taste of Heaven's suppliers. Can't prove he's trying to sabotage anything, but the pattern is there."
I close the folder, my decision already made. "Keep tabs on him. I want to know every move he makes near that restaurant."
Martinez nods, gathering his things. "I'll keep you updated. And Mr. Blackwood? Be careful with this one. Guys like him—they've got nothing to lose."
I memorize Benjamin's current address from the file. East Harlem. A far cry from the polished streets Monica and I frequent, but exactly where I'd expect to find someone like him.
The drive takes twenty minutes. I park my Aston Martin between a rusted Honda missing its bumper and what appears to be an abandoned delivery van. The building looms ahead—a five-story walk-up with graffiti-covered walls and missing window screens.
A group of teenagers smoking on the stoop eye my tailored suit and watch. I meet their stares head-on, my stride purposeful as I climb the crumbling steps. They scatter, muttering under their breath.
The interior reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. Paint peels from the walls in long strips, and the fluorescent lights flicker with an annoying buzz. Third floor, apartment 3C.
Each step up the narrow stairwell echoes. A baby cries somewhere on the second floor. Through thin walls, I hear the cacophony of various TV shows bleeding together.
Benjamin's door stands out—newer than the others, recently replaced. Interesting. The surveillance photos showed him working odd jobs, yet he's spending money on home improvements.
I knock three times, hard enough to make the frame rattle.
Footsteps shuffle behind the door. The lock clicks, and Benjamin Jenson's face appears in the gap—exactly as he looked in the surveillance photos. His easy smile falters when he sees me.
"Can I help you?"
I plant my foot against the base of the door before he can slam it shut. "We need to talk about Monica."
His expression shifts, that earlier hesitation morphing into something darker. "The hell you want with my girl?"
"She's not your girl. She's my wife." I step forward, forcing him to back up into his apartment. "And you're going to stay away from her restaurant."
Benjamin laughs—a hollow sound that echoes off the bare walls. "Or what? You gonna try to buy me off like you bought her?" He spreads his arms wide. "Look around, rich boy. I got nothing to lose."
"That's where you're wrong." My voice drops lower. "You've got plenty to lose. Your job at the body shop. That deal you've got going with Marco's suppliers. The apartment you just fixed up with money that isn't yours."
His smirk wavers. "You don't know shit."
"I know everything." Heat rises in my chest. "I know about the restraining order Kylie Miller filed. About the 'accident' at your last restaurant job. And I know you've been stalking Monica."
"Stalking?" He snorts. "I'm looking out for her. Making sure she doesn't get caught up with guys like you who just want to use her."
The accusation hits a nerve I didn't know existed. "Use her? I'm trying to protect her from manipulative bastards who can't handle seeing her succeed without them."
"You don't even know her." Benjamin steps closer, jabbing a finger at my chest. "I was there when she was nothing. When she was just another line cook with big dreams. Where were you?"
My hands curl into fists. "I'm here now. And I see exactly what you are—a coward who can't stand that she's better off without you."
The truth of those words slams into me. Monica isn't just someone I'm pretending to be with anymore. She's become something real, something worth fighting for.
Benjamin's eyes narrow, a predatory gleam reflecting in the dim light. "You think you can just waltz in here and threaten me? I know Monica. I know what makes her tick, what she fears?—"
"If you go near her again—" My voice comes out as a growl.
"What? You'll do what exactly?" He steps closer, trying to use our similar height to his advantage. "Face it, you're just temporary. A distraction. She'll come back to me. She always does."
The thought of Monica returning to this manipulative piece of shit makes my stomach turn. Images flash through my mind—her tension whenever his name comes up, the way she flinches at sudden touches, how her voice gets small when discussing their past.
"The only place you're going is away from her." I advance, forcing him back against the wall. "I've got eyes everywhere. One more incident at her restaurant, one more 'coincidental' appearance, and I'll bury you so deep in legal problems you'll never surface."
"Fuck you and your money." He shoves against my chest. "You think you can protect her? You don't know what she needs protection from."
The threat in his voice sends ice through my veins. This isn't just about sabotaging her business—he wants to hurt her, to break her spirit. The realization hits me like a physical blow.
"Try me." I lean in close, dropping my voice. "Because right now, the only thing standing between you and complete destruction is my restraint. And that's wearing real thin."
Benjamin's facade cracks. For a split second, uncertainty flashes across his face. He steps back, hands raised. "Get away from my apartment before I call the cops."
I hold his gaze, letting him see exactly how serious I am. "Stay away from Monica. This is your only warning."
Walking away is harder than I expected. Every step feels wrong, like I'm leaving a knife unsheathed. The depth of my reaction surprises me—this isn't just about protecting our arrangement anymore. The thought of him hurting Monica, of him even being near her, makes me want to turn around and finish this.
When did she become so important? When did this stop being about appeasing my mother and start being about keeping Monica safe?