23. Monica
23
MONICA
I lean back in my chair, watching Henry sip his bourbon across the table. The restaurant hums with quiet conversation and the clink of silverware against fine china. Something about the warm candlelight catching in his eyes makes me feel... safe.
"This place is incredible," I say, running my finger along the rim of my wine glass. "Though I'm definitely critiquing every dish in my head."
Henry laughs. "Professional hazard?"
"Absolutely. Can't help it." I take a sip of my cabernet. "My first cooking job was at this tiny bistro in Queens. The chef was this terrifying French guy who'd throw entire pans across the kitchen if you overcooked the fish."
"Did you duck?"
"Got real good at it." I smile, remembering. "But he taught me how to make the most perfect hollandaise. Said I had 'the touch' for delicate sauces."
Henry leans forward, genuinely interested. "When did you know you wanted to cook?"
"I was eight. My grandmother let me help with Sunday dinner. I made the cornbread all by myself." The memory warms me. "It was terrible—dry as the Sahara—but everyone ate it anyway."
"That's love."
"It was." I pause, swirling my wine. "I didn't always have people who believed in my cooking dreams."
Henry's expression shifts, a subtle tightening around his eyes. He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "Their loss."
I set down my wine glass, the words suddenly tumbling out before I can stop them. I don't want him to think that I was some naive girl who fell in love with an abusive asshole against my better judgment. Things weren't bad at first. Not at all. In fact, I truly believe that I loved that bastard at one point, with my whole soul.
"Benjamin wasn't always cruel." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "When we first met, he was charming, attentive. He'd surprise me with little gifts—cooking magazines, a special whisk I'd mentioned wanting."
Henry's eyes stay fixed on mine, patient and steady.
"It started small. I'd spend hours perfecting a new recipe, and he'd taste it and say something like, 'It's good, but maybe stick to the basics.' Or he'd laugh when I talked about opening my own place someday." I trace a pattern on the tablecloth. "Called it my 'cute little hobby.' He never really believed in me, and I realize that it's because he wanted to keep me grounded, at his level. He hasn't accomplished much in life, so he didn't like seeing me do things that elevated me above him. If that makes sense."
The memory still stings, like salt in a wound that never fully healed.
"Remember that Queens bistro I talked about? Well, I was really excited about it at first. Like, over the moon about it, but then, he showed up during one of my shifts. Said he wanted to surprise me, but he'd just stand there watching, making me nervous. My boss noticed. Started giving me fewer hours after that which absolutely gutted me."
Henry's jaw tightens, but he remains silent, letting me speak.
"If I stayed late at work, he'd accuse me of sleeping with the sous chef. If I wore makeup, I was 'trying too hard.' If I didn't, I was 'letting myself go.'" I take a shaky breath. "Once, I made dinner for his birthday—spent the entire day on this elaborate meal. He took one bite, pushed his plate away, and ordered pizza."
My fingers curl into my palm.
"The worst part? I started believing him. That I wasn't good enough. That my dreams were stupid." I look up at Henry. "We'd have these explosive fights, and somehow they always ended with me apologizing. For everything. For nothing."
I reach for my wine, needing something to do with my hands.
"After we broke up, I couldn't cook for a few months. Just couldn't find the joy in it anymore. That's what scares me the most about him showing up again. Not what he might do to the restaurant, but what he might take from me. Again."
I watch Henry's face as I speak, searching for signs of judgment or pity. His expression shifts from concern to something deeper—a genuine empathy that makes my chest tighten. His eyes never leave mine, even as I stumble through the ugliest parts of my past. I feel naked, exposed, yet somehow... at ease.
When I finally fall silent, Henry reaches across the table and takes my hand. His touch is warm, steady.
"Monica." The way he says my name makes me look up. "Thank you for telling me."
I swallow hard. "I just... I don't want you thinking I'm some kind of victim. Or that I'm damaged goods."
"Is that what you think I see?" His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Because what I see is someone incredibly strong. Someone who didn't let that asshole steal her passion."
A knot forms in my throat. "He almost did."
"But he didn't." Henry leans forward, his pretty blue eyes transfixing me. "You know what amazes me about you? You could've given up. You could've believed all that bullshit he fed you. But instead, you're here, creating incredible food, building your career, taking risks."
I feel my eyes burning with unshed tears. "Sometimes I still hear his voice in my head."
"Then we'll just have to be louder." Henry's smile is gentle but fierce. "You're the most fascinating person I've ever met, Monica. And I've traveled all over the world, met all kinds of people."
I laugh softly, blinking back tears. "Now you're just saying that."
"I'm not." His eyes hold mine, unflinching. "The way your mind works when you talk about food—it's like watching someone speak a language they were born knowing. You light up. It's beautiful."
The word beautiful hangs between us, and for once, I don't question it. I don't look for the hidden agenda or the eventual disappointment. I just let myself believe him.
I take another bite of my perfectly seared scallop, savoring the buttery texture while watching Henry across the table. Something has shifted between us tonight. The air feels different—charged with honesty and understanding.
"You have to try this," Henry says, offering me a bite of his steak. Without thinking, I lean forward and accept it from his fork. The gesture feels intimate, domestic even. Something a real couple would do.
"That's incredible," I murmur, letting the flavors bloom on my tongue. "The chef nailed the temperature."
Henry smiles, and it reaches his eyes in a way that makes my chest tighten. "I've been meaning to ask—what's your signature dish? The one that feels most like you?"
"My jerk chicken with mango-habanero salsa." I smile, thinking about it. "It's spicy but sweet, complex but comforting. Takes time to get right."
"Like you," he says softly.
The candlelight flickers between us, casting shadows that dance across his face. I realize with startling clarity that this—whatever this is between us—feels more genuine than anything I've experienced before. Even though our marriage is built on convenience and mutual benefit, the connection growing between us is undeniably real.
"This is weird, isn't it?" I gesture between us. "All of this started as this elaborate lie, but sitting here with you now feels like the most honest thing in my life."
Henry sets down his fork, his expression serious. "Maybe that's because it is."
I take a sip of wine to steady myself. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to reveal some hidden agenda or for me to mess everything up."
"What if there is no other shoe?" Henry reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "What if this is just us, figuring things out together?"
I look at our hands, his larger one covering mine. Mrs. Blackwood. The name still feels foreign on my tongue, but the way Henry looks at me—like I'm something precious and worth protecting—it feels like home.