25. Monica
25
MONICA
I wipe my brow with the back of my wrist as I survey the kitchen at Taste of Heaven. The rhythmic chopping of knives against cutting boards and the sizzle of pans create a symphony that normally soothes my soul. Today's special is a fusion dish featuring Caribbean-inspired flavors, and I'm determined to make it perfect.
"Monica, can you taste this sauce?" Nya calls from across the kitchen.
"Coming!" I move toward her station when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Henry checking in. A smile tugs at my lips as I pull it out.
But instead, it's an unknown number.
My thumb hovers over the notification. I shouldn't open it. I know better. But some morbid curiosity—or maybe just habit—makes me tap.
The images load and my stomach plummets. Photos of us. Intimate photos I'd forgotten existed. From back when I thought his possessiveness was passion. When I mistook control for care.
"Remember these, baby? Still have plenty more. Thought your new "husband" might enjoy seeing what he's getting."
The kitchen suddenly feels too hot, too loud. My chest tightens as memories flood back—Benjamin's hands gripping my wrists too tight, his voice in my ear telling me I'd never make it without him.
"Monica? You okay?" Nya's voice seems distant.
I grip the edge of the stainless steel counter, feeling the cool metal against my palms. No. I won't let him do this again. Won't let him pull me back into that dark place where I'm small and afraid.
My fingers tremble as I type: " Delete these immediately. This is harassment."
His response comes quickly: " Don't be like that. We had good times. Henry's just a rebound."
The familiar rush of panic rises in my throat. But something else rises with it—rage. Pure, clarifying rage.
"This isn't about Henry. It's about you refusing to accept that I've moved on. Delete these photos or I'll contact the police."
I set my phone face-down on the counter and take a deep breath. The kitchen comes back into focus—Nya's concerned face, the scent of caramelizing onions, the weight of the chef's knife in my hand.
"It's nothing," I tell her, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Just an unwelcome blast from the past."
My phone buzzes again, but I don't check it. Benjamin doesn't control me anymore. I pick up my knife and return to my station. My hands are still shaking, but I keep chopping.
I can't focus on the knife in my hand. The blade trembles against the cutting board as Benjamin's message echoes in my mind. Those photos were taken during a weekend getaway—one of those rare good moments when his charm had pulled me back in after a fight. I'd felt beautiful, desired. Now those same images make me feel dirty, exposed.
My body burns with shame. What would Henry think if he saw them? The thought makes my stomach twist into knots.
"Monica, the sauce is reducing too much." Nya's voice breaks through my spiral.
"Shit." I rush to the stove, pulling the pan off the heat. Another mistake. Benjamin always said I'd never make it as a chef—too distracted, too emotional.
No. I refuse to let his voice back into my head.
I stir the sauce vigorously, but my mind keeps drifting. What if Benjamin sends those photos to Henry? To the restaurant? To my family? The thought of being exposed, of everyone seeing me like that—vulnerable, naive, under Benjamin's control—makes me want to vomit.
Just when I was starting to believe I deserved something good. Just when Henry and I were becoming real.
My phone buzzes yet again, pestering me. I ignore it, but the damage is done. Benjamin has found a way back in—not physically, but into my thoughts. Into my sense of safety.
"Need to use the restroom," I mutter to Nya, who gives me a concerned look.
In the small employee bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. The woman looking back at me isn't the same person who let Benjamin dictate her worth. I've built something here—respect, a career, a relationship with a man who sees me.
But the fear remains. What if Henry sees those photos and realizes I'm damaged goods? What if he decides I'm too much trouble? The thought of losing what we've built makes my chest ache.
I grip the edge of the sink. Benjamin might have these photos, but he doesn't have me anymore. I won't let him take my future too.
I splash more cold water on my face, taking a deep breath. The bathroom's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, but I force myself to look directly at my reflection.
"He doesn't own you anymore," I whisper to myself.
My phone keeps buzzing again and again in my pocket, making me want to throw it at the wall. Should I just ignore these messages? Delete, block the number, and hope that Benjamin doesn't send these to anyone else? A small part of me wants to hide the embarrassing truth from Henry. I can deal with this on my own. I always have.
But then, the truth hits me with startling clarity: I care what Henry thinks. Not just about the photos, but about me. About us. The realization sends a wave of vulnerability through me that's both terrifying and freeing.
I've spent so long protecting myself, building walls so high that even I couldn't see over them sometimes. But with Henry, those walls have been crumbling, brick by brick. And now I have a choice—rebuild them stronger than ever, or let him see the mess behind them.
I dry my hands and pull out my phone. Three more messages from Benjamin, each more threatening than the last. My finger hovers over Henry's contact. What would I even say? "Hey, my psycho ex is threatening to send you naked photos of me"?
But I know what happens when secrets fester. They poison everything good, everything real.
I text Henry: " Can we talk tonight? Something's come up with Benjamin."
His response is immediate: " Of course. Are you okay?"
I'm not okay. I'm scared and angry and ashamed. But for the first time, I don't have to pretend I am.
"Not really. But I will be."
I tuck my phone away and straighten my chef's coat. Benjamin wants me cowering, wants me hiding. He wants to drive a wedge between me and Henry before what we have can fully bloom.
Not this time. This time, I fight back—not alone, but with someone by my side who I'm starting to believe might actually stay there.