THE ITALIAN HUSBAND'S LIE

Chapter 10: The Two Lines

Three weeks after the Prada show in Milan.

I was throwing up every morning in our mansion.

Every single morning, like clockwork. At 6:15 am, before Antonio brought the coffee. At 7:30 am, after I brushed my teeth. At 9 am, when Maria started frying eggs downstairs and the smell traveled up through the double staircase into the master bedroom.

At first I told myself it was stress. The late nights. The champagne at the brand dinners in central Milan. The pressure of smiling under the ring light while Mrs. Rossi watched me from the couch.

But then Sofia found me on the cold marble floor of the master bathroom, my silk La Perla robe half-open, my hair stuck to my forehead, my Dior makeup ruined.

"Ama? ,you look white. Are you okay? Should I call Marco?" she whispered, holding my hair back.

"No! Don't call anyone!" I said too fast. "I'm fine. Just jet lag. Bad sushi from the dinner night".

Three days. And my period was late. Two weeks late. I never missed. My Flo app was flashing red. LATE.

That afternoon I knew I had to know.

I didn't tell Marco. Marco was downstairs live with Mrs. Rossi, shouting about a new Dolce & Gabbana deal. He would have made it content.

I told Chiara to cover my 4pm t****k live. "Tell them I have a migraine. Tell them GRWM tomorrow."

Then I called Antonio, our driver. He knew how to keep his mouth shut.

"Antonio, I need to go to Como. Not Milan. A small private clinic.I'm not feeling good.

"Of course, Mrs. Rossi. You want me to call Mr Marco"

"No I'll be okay alone " I replied.

He drove the black Range Rover Autobiography with blacked-out windows through the big black gates.

The clinic in Como was all white and glass and silence. Rich women's clinic. They give you Evian in a glass bottle and don't ask your last name if you pay cash.

Dr. Esposito was elegant, fifties, soft voice.

"We did blood and urine, Mrs. Rossi. Wait in the lounge. Ten minutes."

Those ten minutes felt like ten hours. I sat there in my Celine sunglasses and Loro Piana cashmere set, hands shaking so hard I couldn't hold the bottle. My Louboutins tapping the floor nonstop.

When she came back she had a file. And she was smiling big. That smile doctors give you when they think they're giving you the best news of your life.

"Mrs. Rossi! Congratulations! You are pregnant! About 5 weeks and 3 days! Perfect!"

My hands went ice cold. Even though the fireplace was on.

The paper was shaking in my hands. My diamond rings clicking against each other.

POSITIVE. 5 weeks and 3 days. HCG high.

5 weeks and 3 days.

I counted fast in my head. Like a machine.

5 weeks and 3 days ago... that was the week after Mrs. Rossi arrived from Sicily. The week of the laundry room fight. The night after the Prada show in Via Montenapoleone, when Luca parked his black G-Wagon behind the venue and pulled me inside because he couldn't watch Marco kiss me for the cameras anymore. That night in his room, when Marco was downstairs streaming with his mother until 2am.

Last month... Marco had NOT touched me for one month and three weeks. He told everyone on live he was "on a celibacy challenge for focus and for God." Too busy with lives, with brands, with girls in his DMs. He only wanted me for camera hugs. For the perfect couple image. He didn't come to my room. He didn't even try.

The only man who had touched me in the last 5 weeks was Luca.

It was Luca's. 100%. No doubt. No maybe.

I walked out like a ghost. The Lake Como sun was too bright. Too beautiful for how I felt. The water sparkling. Tourists taking pictures, happy.

Antonio saw my face and opened the back door immediately.

"Everything okay, Mrs. Rossi?"

"Yes, Antonio. Just drive slowly. Very slowly. I need air," I said, putting my Dior sunglasses back on, crying silently behind them, one hand over my still flat stomach.

If Marco found out it wasn't his, he would kill me. That cold Rossi anger. I'd seen him break a Gucci vase because a brand deal fell through. Punch a wall until his knuckles bled.

And Mrs. Rossi would destroy me online first. Go live to her 500k followers and call me a w***e. Make all of Italy hate me.

As soon as we passed the black gates and the security cameras, I pulled out my phone with shaking hands. Texted the only person who could understand.

> Me: Luca. Wine cellar. NOW. Emergency. Don't tell anyone. Please.

He replied in 10 seconds. Like he was already waiting.

> Luca: Coming down now. 2 mins.

I didn't go upstairs. I walked straight to the wine cellar, the underground one, temperature controlled, where we keep the 20,000 euro bottles.

My Louboutins clicking on the cold stone. My whole body shaking so hard I had to hold the wine rack.

He came in fast. Must have run three floors. Black gym tee, hair still wet from the shower, chain around his neck, smelling like soap and his cologne.

"Ama? What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost. Did someone hurt you? Did Marco—" He stopped when he saw my tears, mascara running.

I couldn't speak. Throat closed. I just shoved the paper into his chest. Hard.

He caught it. Read it.

POSITIVE. 5 weeks and 3 days.

He read it again. And again. Jaw tightened.

He stared at the paper for a long time. The cellar silent except for our breathing.

Then his face did something I'd never seen. Ever.

A small, slow, real smile broke out. Not his cocky t****k smirk. Not his cold stare. A soft, boyish, real smile. His dark eyes usually so cold went warm and a little wet.

"You're... you're pregnant," he whispered, voice cracking. He touched the paper like it was gold.

"Luca! Do you understand?! Marco hasn't touched me in more than a month and three weeks! If he finds out it's not his, he will kill us! Your mother hates me already! I'm scared! What do we do?!" I grabbed his shirt, crying into his chest, fisting his tee.

He dropped the paper carefully on the wine barrel and held my hands tight with both of his. So calm it scared me more than shouting. His hands warm. Mine ice.

"Hey. Hey. Ama, look at me. Look at me," he said, cupping my face, wiping my tears with his thumbs, so gently. "Nothing will happen to you. I told you that night at Prada. Nothing will happen to you when I'm here. I swear on my life."

"How? How will he think it's his?"

"Tonight," he said, forehead touching mine, noses almost touching in the cold cellar. "Go to him tonight. Make him think it's his. One night is all we need to cover it. Dates will match. 5 weeks, 6 weeks, no doctor can tell exactly. It will be his on paper. It will be safe."

I understood immediately. My stomach twisted with guilt and shame, but I had no choice. Protect my baby. My baby with the man I actually loved.

That night, at 11pm, when the mansion was finally quiet and Mr. and Mrs. Rossi had gone to sleep in the guest master suite, and the girls were asleep in their wing, and Michael had turned off all cameras, I showered for an hour.

I put on the red lace Agent Provocateur nightdress from Dubai — the sheer one Marco bought me and said made me look expensive.

I sprayed his favorite perfume — Baccarat Rouge 540 — on my neck, my wrists.

My heart beating like a drum — not from love, but from fear and survival.

I walked barefoot through the cold hallway to Marco's room and knocked softly.

He opened it, shirtless, in grey Calvin Klein sweatpants, on FaceTime, surprised.

"Ama? What are you doing here this late? You never come to my room," he said, ending the call, eyes scanning me.

"I missed you," I whispered, forcing my soft wife smile, hands shaking. "You've been so busy with the three million likes. You haven't looked at me like your wife. You haven't touched me in weeks. Don't you want your wife anymore?"

That was all it took for Marco. His ego was his weakness. Tell him he's wanted and he melts.

He smirked that influencer smirk, locked the heavy wooden door, and pulled me inside by my waist, hard.

"Finally. My wife remembers she is my wife. Come here. Let me show you what you missed," he said.

I closed my eyes and let him think it was all his idea. Let him think he was in control.

I had to. I had to give my baby a father on paper. A last name. A cover. A life that would keep us safe.

By morning, sun coming through his blackout curtains, hitting the Fendi sheets tangled around us. We were under the duvet, sweaty, his heavy arm over my bare stomach, his leg over mine.

He was asleep, snoring softly, smiling like he'd won a trophy.

I stared at the crystal chandelier, my hand slowly, protectively, secretly over my still flat stomach, a single tear rolling down onto his pillow.

Inside me was Luca's baby.

And beside me was the man who would think it was his for the next nine months.

What had I done?