The Black Wife Obsession (Escape Your Life Fake Marriage Romances #8)

1. Mia

MIA

The sixth plate comes together in silence.

I drag a spoon through the sweet potato puree, a single amber curve across bone china, and settle the duck breast beside it.

Seared edges crisp, interior still blushing.

The charred greens go last, tucked against the protein like they've always belonged there.

I step back, wipe my thumb along the rim where a fleck of sauce landed.

Perfect.

The kitchen hums around me. Prep stations gleam under industrial lighting, every surface scrubbed to mirror shine.

My sous chef Jamal calls out a pickup for table nine.

Line cooks move in a trained rhythm, their movements choreographed through weeks of trial runs.

The air tastes of rendered fat and caramelized onion, of thyme and the faint bitter edge of collard greens braised in smoked ham hock stock.

This is mine.

Sable. My restaurant. Forty-eight months ago it was a concept. Tonight it breathes.

I plate three more duck breasts before stepping out onto the floor.

The dining room glows warm under light bulbs suspended from blackened iron fixtures.

Exposed brick on one wall, the other painted a deep charcoal that swallows light.

Tables dressed in ivory linen. A low jazz trio sets up in the corner, bass notes already vibrating through the soles of my flats.

Seventy-five guests tonight. Invite-only.

Friends, investors, food media I've been courting for eighteen months.

The tables fill steadily as I move through the room, shaking hands, accepting congratulations I haven't fully earned yet.

Soft opening means exactly that. We're testing systems, finding friction points before the real launch next month.

"There she is."

Olivia Blackwood cuts through the crowd like she owns it.

Which, given her reputation, she basically does.

Her restaurant Flavor Fusion has been a beloved New York institution for six years.

She's wearing deep plum tonight, her locs swept into a high bun, gold hoops catching light every time she turns her head.

I meet her halfway and she pulls me into a hug that smells like cocoa butter and expensive perfume.

"You did it," she murmurs into my ear.

"We're not open yet."

"You did it anyway." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying me with the same intensity she brings to every kitchen she steps into. "How're you feeling?"

"Horrified."

"Good. Means you care." She glances around the dining room, approval clear on her face. "This space is gorgeous. And it smells incredible in here. What's the special tonight?"

"Duck breast, sweet potato puree, charred mustard greens. Brown butter vinaigrette."

"Soul food with a Michelin edge."

"Something like that."

Olivia loops her arm through mine and steers me toward the bar. The bartender, a young guy named Mario I poached from a downtown cocktail spot, pours two glasses of champagne without being asked. Olivia takes both, hands me one.

"To Mia Holland," she says, loud enough that a few nearby tables turn. "Who built something beautiful. And who won't let anyone take it."

I meet her gaze over the rim of my glass. She knows. About Derek, about the restraining order, about the year I spent looking over my shoulder. We've never discussed it outright, but Olivia has a way of reading a room that extends to reading people.

"Cheers," I breathe out, and we drink.

The champagne is good. Dry, crisp, with enough backbone to stand up to rich food. Mario knows his stuff.

Olivia sets her glass down, leans against the bar. "You invite him?"

"Derek?" I nearly laugh. "God, no."

"Restraining order still active?"

"For another eight months."

"Good." She picks up her glass again, swirls the remaining champagne. "If he shows up, you call me. Or you call the cops. Or both."

"He won't show up."

"Mia."

"He won't." I say it with more conviction than I feel.

Derek hasn't contacted me directly in almost a year.

No calls, no texts, no surprise visits to my apartment.

The restraining order worked, or he got bored, or he found someone else to fixate on.

I've stopped checking my rearview mirror every thirty seconds. Stopped flinching when my phone buzzes.

Mostly.

Olivia studies me for a long beat, then nods. She doesn't push. One of the many reasons I trust her.

"Alright," she says. "Show me to my table. I'm starving."

I seat her near the window, where she can watch both the street and the kitchen pass. She orders the duck and the She-Crab soup, then settles in with her champagne and her phone, probably already texting her own staff about tomorrow's service.

I make another circuit of the dining room, stop at the table where my investor group sits, all three of them looking pleased as they work through the tasting menu.

I chat briefly with a food blogger whose review could make or break my opening week, then check in with Jamal at the pass, where tickets are starting to stack.

"Table six wants the soup subbed for a salad," he says without looking up. "Table twelve asked if we do vegan."

"We do. The braised mushrooms with the forbidden rice."

"Already sent it."

"Good."

I'm heading back toward the kitchen when I notice the rose.

It sits on the hostess stand. Single stem, petals so dark they're almost black, thorns still attached. No vase, no water. Just lying there like someone set it down and walked away.

My stomach drops.

I cross the dining room in four strides. Grab the stem before I've thought it through. A thorn bites into my palm and I barely feel it.

"Where did this come from?" I ask Tanya, my hostess. She's twenty-three, sharp as hell, studying hospitality management at NYU.

She glances up from her seating chart, sees the rose, and frowns. "I don't know. Someone must've left it."

"Who?"

"I didn't see. It was just there when I came back from seating table eight."

"When was that?"

"Maybe five minutes ago?" She's starting to look worried now, picking up on the tension in my voice. "Is something wrong?"

I don't answer. My hand closes tighter around the stem and another thorn sinks in. Blood wells against my palm, a thin red line crossing my lifeline.

He was here. Derek was here.

I scan the dining room, pulse hammering in my throat. Every table is full. Guests laughing, talking, lifting forks to mouths. The jazz trio starts a new song, something low and bluesy. No one looks out of place. No one is watching me.

But he was here.

Black roses were his signature. He'd leave them on my car windshield, on my apartment doorstep, once on my pillow when I came home from a double shift.

Always black, always thornless except for this one.

He'd clip them himself, arrange them in cheap glass vases, write little notes on cream cardstock in his perfect architect's script.

Thinking of you.

You looked beautiful today.

We should talk.

I haven't seen a black rose in twelve months.

"Mia?"

I turn. Olivia stands beside me, her expression already hardening into something protective and dangerous.

"What's that?"

I open my hand. The rose rests against my bleeding palm, petals pristine and untouched.

Olivia takes it from me carefully, examines the stem. "This is from him."

"Yes."

"He was here."

She sets the rose on the hostess stand, pulls a cocktail napkin from the stack beside Tanya’s seating chart, wraps it around my hand. The white paper blooms red almost immediately.

"Where's your phone?"

"Kitchen. Office."

"Go get it. Call the cops."

"I can't. Not tonight. Not in the middle of service."

"Mia."

"I can't. This is my soft opening. There are investors here, media, people who can make or break this place. If I call the cops now, that's the story. Not the food, not the restaurant. Just the crazy ex and the drama."

Olivia's jaw sets. "He violated the restraining order."

"I don't know that for sure. Maybe he had someone else leave it."

"You think that matters?"

"It matters legally."

"Screw legally. He's escalating."

The word sits between us like a stone. Escalating. I've read enough about stalking cases to know what that means. The pattern that starts with gifts and ends with something worse.

"After service," I murmur. "I'll call after service."

Olivia doesn't look convinced but she nods.

I take the rose from the hostess stand, napkin and all, and head toward the kitchen.

My office is barely large enough for a desk and a filing cabinet. I drop the rose in the trash, then stand there staring at it. Black petals against white liner.

Don't let anyone take it, Olivia said.

But Derek's already been here. He was in my restaurant, on my night, leaving his signature behind like a calling card.

I wrap my bleeding palm with a bandage and head back to the line. There are still forty plates to send, still a dining room full of people who came to celebrate something I built.

He doesn't get to ruin this.