26. Henry
26
HENRY
I set my fork down with a clatter against the fine china. The candlelight that had moments ago cast a warm glow across Monica's face now illuminates tears welling in her eyes.
"He did what?" My voice comes out sharp, dangerous.
Monica's hands tremble as she sets her phone face-down on the table. "He texted me photos. Of me. Naked." She swallows hard. "From when we were together."
Blood rushes to my head, pounding in my ears. The perfectly cooked steak before me might as well be cardboard now. I clench my jaw so tight my teeth might crack.
"That fucking piece of shit."
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the hardwood. My fists ball at my sides as I pace the length of my dining room. The Manhattan skyline outside my penthouse windows blurs as rage narrows my vision.
This isn't random. This isn't a desperate ex lashing out. This is calculated psychological warfare. Benjamin knows exactly what he's doing—trying to make Monica feel violated, exposed, vulnerable. Trying to poison what we're building together.
"Let me see the texts." I extend my hand.
Monica hesitates. "Henry, I?—"
"I'm not asking to see the photos, Monica. Just the messages. The timestamps. What he wrote."
She slides her phone across the table. I scroll through the conversation, my stomach turning at Benjamin's words.
"Remember how good we were together? No one will ever know you like I do."
"Does your fancy new man know about these? Or how about these? Wonder what he'd think..."
"I've got more where these came from. Call me."
Each message designed to burrow under her skin, to make her doubt herself, to question us. My knuckles turn white around the phone.
"This ends now." I hand her phone back, my mind racing through options. "This isn't just harassment, Monica. This is criminal. It's revenge porn."
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The last thing Monica needs is to deal with my rage when she's the one who's been violated. I move back to her side, kneeling beside her chair.
"I'm sorry this happened to you. But I need you to know something." I take her hands in mine. "This isn't about you. This is about him trying to control you. He's scared because he knows he's losing his power over you."
I pace the room, rage still coursing through my veins. The sight of Monica's face—that mix of shame and fear—has awakened something primal in me. A possessiveness I've never felt before.
"I want to fucking kill him," I mutter, more to myself than to her.
But violence isn't the answer. Not when there are smarter ways to destroy a man like Benjamin. I could bury this jackass and I wouldn't even have to lift a finger. Just make a few calculated calls.
I stop pacing and look at Monica. Really look at her. This incredible woman who's fought her way through hell to build something beautiful. Who creates art on a plate. Who makes me laugh. Who kisses me like she means it.
And this piece of shit thinks he can take that away from us?
"No," I say aloud, my voice steady now. "He doesn't get to do this."
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial. "Josiah? It's Henry. I need you to meet me tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. And bring the digital forensics guy you used for the Harrington case." I hang up and turn to Monica. "That was my lawyer. One of the best in the city for cases like this."
Jealousy still burns in my chest, but it's transforming into something more useful—determination. I've spent my life watching my father handle threats to our family with calculated precision. Time to put those lessons to use.
"Here's what's going to happen," I tell her, sitting back down and taking her hands in mine. "We're going to document everything. The vandalism at your restaurant, these texts, the photos—all of it. We'll get a restraining order first thing tomorrow." I squeeze her hands gently. "And then we're going to make him regret the day he ever thought he could threaten what's mine."
The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me. But it's true. Somewhere between our fake engagement and right now, Monica has become mine. And I've become hers. Not as property, but as something far more valuable—as choice.
I watch Monica's face carefully as she processes what I've just said. Her eyes dart away, a flicker of doubt crossing her features.
"Henry, I appreciate what you're doing, but..." She pulls her hands back slightly. "This is my problem. I don't want you getting caught up in my mess. I don't want you getting in trouble over me."
"Your mess?" I shake my head, moving closer. "Monica, look at me."
When she finally meets my gaze, I see fear there—not just of Benjamin, but of something else. Of letting me in completely.
"We're married now," I say firmly. The words feel right, even though our arrangement started as pretense. "Mrs. Blackwood, remember? That ring on your finger is powerful. It represents the arrangement we have, the bond we share. Even if it wasn't made out of love." That remark stings a little bit.
Her eyes drop to the diamond on her hand, and I place my palm over hers.
"Whatever happens to you happens to me. If someone attacks you, they attack me. That's how this works."
"But you didn't sign up for this," she whispers. "For a psycho ex who won't let go."
"The hell I didn't." I lift her chin with my finger. "I signed up for you. All of you. The incredible chef, the woman who makes me laugh, and yes, the woman with the baggage too. I'm not running from this."
I can see she's torn, wanting to protect me from her past while desperately needing support.
"Benjamin's counting on you feeling isolated," I continue. "He wants you to handle this alone because he knows you're stronger with people in your corner. With me in your corner."
Her shoulders relax slightly as the truth of my words sinks in.
"I don't want him to hurt you," she admits.
"And I don't want him to hurt you," I counter. "The difference is, I have resources he can only dream of. Let me use them."
I take her face in my hands, my thumbs gently wiping away a tear that's escaped.
"We're in this together. Not because we have to be, but because I choose to be. Because I—" I catch myself, the word "love" hovering dangerously on my lips. Not yet. "Because I care about you. More than I thought possible."
I see Monica's eyes flicker with something—uncertainty, maybe guilt—as she pulls back slightly.
"I didn't think our fake marriage would get this far," she admits quietly. "This isn't what you signed up for. Dealing with my crazy ex, threats, revenge porn..." She shakes her head. "It was supposed to be simple. Appearances at parties, some photos together, getting your mother off your back."
I can't help but laugh, though there's no humor in it. Just the absurdity of how quickly life can change course.
"Fake marriage or not, I'm going to protect you from Benjamin." I shrug like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Because to me, it is. "The certificate might be real, but whether we fell into this for convenience doesn't change what I'm willing to do now."
I move closer, taking her hands in mine again. They're chef's hands—strong, slightly calloused, with a small burn mark on her right index finger. Hands that create beautiful things. Hands that deserve better than to shake with fear.
"Look, I don't give a shit how we got here. The fact is, we're here now. And I don't let people I care about face threats alone."
Her eyes meet mine, searching. "You really mean that, don't you?"
"Damn right I do." I squeeze her hands. "Benjamin's playing a game he can't win. He thinks he can intimidate you, scare you back to him. But he's not just dealing with you anymore. He's dealing with us."
I feel her fingers tighten around mine. Something shifts between us—the pretense falling away, replaced by something more solid, more real.
"So what do we do?" she asks, her voice stronger now.
"We fight. We document everything. And we show this asshole that the woman he tried to tear down is now surrounded by people who won't let that happen again."