THE ITALIAN HUSBAND'S LIE

Chapter 4:The Locked Room

I woke up in the big white bed and Marco got up and dressed. Black shirt, black pants. Stood by the window, looking at the lake.

The wedding dress was still on the floor.

I sat up, holding the sheet. "Marco?"

He turned. His face was cold again. Not like last night when he took the pins out of my hair. Cold like business.

"You are awake," he said. No good morning. No smile.

He picked up a tray from the table — bread, cheese, fruits, orange juice — and put it on the bed next to me.

"Eat."

I looked around. "Where is my phone? My bag?"

He didn't answer. He went to my small bag — which I didn't even pack, someone else packed for me — and took my phone out of it right in front of me.

"Marco, what are you —"

"You don't need phone today," he said, putting my phone in his pocket. "It's honeymoon. Only me and you. No family calling and crying."

"But my mother —"

"No."

He walked to the door.

"Where are you going? It's our honeymoon morning," I said, my voice shaking.

"I have business. I will be back late."

He opened the door.

"Marco, wait —"

He went out.

Click.

He locked the door from outside. In front of me. I heard the key turn.

I ran to the door and tried the handle.

Locked.

"Marco!" I shouted. I banged the door. "Marco! You locked me!"

No answer. His footsteps went away.

I was alone in the huge suite. On the bed, the tray. Bread, cheese, fruits. Like food for a prisoner.

The lake light was coming through the huge windows. The room was silent. Too silent. Boats passing outside. Rich people swimming.

I sat on the floor because the bed was too big and too white. My stomach was growling but I was too scared to eat. I thought of Accra. My mother's small house. The noise outside our compound. My aunties shouting. I missed home so much my chest hurt.

Why was Marco cold again? After the wedding, after last night... now cold again.

And Luca...

I kept seeing Luca's face at the wedding. Standing far away, glass shaking in his hand, jaw tight, eyes red. Worried and sad. Not angry. Sad. Jealous, yes, but also scared? Like he knew something I didn't know.

They do things together, Marco and Luca. Everything together. Business, family... everything. So why did Luca look like he wanted to stop the wedding?

I stayed in that room the whole day. I ate a little bread. I counted the flowers. 32 roses. I cried a little, quiet, so no one outside could hear.

At 7 p.m., the door finally opened.

Marco came in. He looked tired, but cold. Like he had been in meetings the whole day.

"You ate?" he asked.

I nodded. I was still in the hotel robe, my eyes red.

"Good. Get dressed. We are going back to Milan. To my house."

He took my phone out of his pocket and put it on the bed. "Here.

The drive back to Milan was two hours, silent. Black car, dark outside. Lake disappearing behind us.

Marco's house was not the same as the wedding garden house. This was bigger. Modern. Black gates, guards. Inside, music was loud.

Not one girl. Three.

Three Italian girls in the living room. Long hair, expensive dresses, red lips. Drinking wine, laughing loud. They looked like they owned the world. Like they owned the house.

When we entered, they all looked at me. From my braids to my cheap shoes that someone had put back in my bag. Then they laughed.

"Ah! La moglie!" one said. The wife. She said it like a joke.

Marco didn't tell them to stop. He went and kissed one on the cheek. The blonde one. She touched his chest like she knew him.

"Marco, you didn't tell us she was so... dark," another one whispered, but loud enough for me to hear. They giggled.

I stood at the door holding my small bag, still in yesterday's makeup.

That is when I understood.

Marco loves them. He knows them. He laughs with them. But he married me.

Not because he loves me.

One of the girls came closer to me, looking at my face. "You have such innocent eyes," she said, fake sweet. "So pure."

Marco was watching me from the sofa, his arm around the blonde girl. His eyes were cold again.

I remembered what Luca's eyes were saying at the wedding.

Pure souls. They want pure souls like me.

Their god wants pure souls.

And Marco married me because he wants to use me to make money.

I was not Mrs. Rossi because he loved me.

I was Mrs. Rossi because I was pure.

They gave me a room upstairs.

It was beautiful. Big bed, white sheets, a mirror that showed my whole body, a closet full of clothes that were not mine. Expensive dresses. Red, black, white. All size small. All for me, they said.

But it had a lock. On the outside.

The first night in Milan, Marco came in late. I was already in my nightdress, sitting on the edge of the bed, praying my mother would call. My phone had no signal.

He didn't knock.

He came in and closed the door behind him. His eyes were not cold that night. They were different. Like he wanted something and he already decided he would take it.

"Marco, I am tired," I said. I moved back on the bed.

He didn't answer. He took off his jacket.

I told him no. I told him I was scared. I told him to please wait, that I wasn't ready.

He didn't listen.

After, he stood up, fixed his shirt, like nothing had happened. Like he just drank a glass of water. He looked at me once and said, "You are my wife. This is your duty."

Then he left and locked the door again.

Every night became the same. Whenever he came home, he would come to my room. Sometimes 10 p.m., sometimes 2 a.m., smelling like wine and perfume that was not mine. I would say no. I would cry. I would hold the sheet tight. He would force himself on me anyway.

And every time, after, he would leave like nothing happened. No goodnight. No sorry. Just the click of the lock.

I started to hate that click more than anything.

The three girls downstairs noticed. At first they laughed at me — the village wife, the dark innocent wife. But then they stopped laughing.

Because Marco started coming home early. Because he started going straight upstairs to my room instead of sitting with them on the sofa.

"Addicted," I heard the blonde one whisper one night. She was angry. Jealous. "He never went to Sofia's room that many times. What does this African girl have?"

They started being meaner. They would not let me sit at the table. They would hide my food. They would call me names when Marco was not there.

I got thinner. My eyes were always red.

Two weeks after we moved to the Milan house, Luca came.

I was sitting at the kitchen table alone. The three girls had gone out. Marco was not home. I was staring at the same bread from morning.

The gate opened and Luca's black car entered. He came inside with a file full of documents. Business papers for Marco.

He stopped when he saw me.

I looked up. I know I looked miserable. My braids were old. My dress was one of those expensive ones but it looked wrong on me. My eyes were swollen.

Luca's face changed. That same look from the wedding — sad, worried, guilty.

"Where is Marco?" he asked quietly.

"Not home," I whispered.

He put the file on the table. He looked at me for a long time. He wanted to say something. He wanted to ask if I was okay. But he couldn't. Because we both knew why I was not okay, and we both knew he was part of that family.

He didn't touch me. He didn't come close. He just looked straight into my eyes, and then he slowly put his hand under a small plate on the table and left something there.

Dollars. Folded dollars. Many.

His eyes told me everything: _Take it. Buy yourself something. Eat. Please._

Then he turned and left fast, before I could even say thank you.

I waited until his car left the gate. Then I took the money with shaking hands. I took my small handbag — my real one from Accra, not the expensive ones they gave me — and I walked out.

The guards at the gate looked at me but they didn't stop me. Maybe they thought Marco allowed it. Maybe Luca told them.

I walked to a small restaurant not far from the house. Not fancy. Just normal. I sat outside, where I could feel air. Real air, not air conditioner air.

I ordered food. Real food. Pasta, chicken, orange juice. I ate with my hands because I was so hungry. People looked at me but I didn't care. It was the first time in two weeks I was eating because I wanted to eat, not because there was a tray left for a prisoner.

I sat there for a long time after eating, just breathing fresh air, watching normal people walk with their children.

Then my phone vibrated. One message.

Marco: _WHERE ARE YOU._

He was home.

And his face was angry.