THE ITALIAN HUSBAND'S LIE

Chapter 1:The Contract

My name is Ama. I am 24, a nursing student from Accra Ghana. And I was foolish enough to believe a CEO on Zoom could make me a model in Europe.

"Your waist beads, Ama — very sexy. Very African," said Mr. Marco Rossi from his glass office in Milan. CEO of Rossi Models — one of the biggest modeling agencies in Italy. 35, rich, dangerous handsome.

"You have the hips for Milan. I will make you famous," he said. "I will fly you, house you, give you a modeling contract. One condition."

My mother was listening from the kitchen and shouting, "Ama, no!"

"The condition is you wear OUR agency beads," he continued. "Not your village beads. Our black and red beads. It means you are signed. You are owned by Rossi Models."

Owned? I should have ended the call.

But I wanted to be on billboards in Italy.

Three days later, DHL came. Inside: a plane ticket, Accra to Milan, one-way. And a small black velvet box.

Inside were waist beads. Black and red. Heavy. Cold glass beads, not like my soft, colorful Ghana beads my mother prayed over for me.

And a printed contract with a handwritten note: _Wear these and NOTHING else for your first photoshoot. For your new CEO husband._

HUSBAND? He said modeling contract!

I called him, hands shaking.

"Mr. Marco, your note says husband. This is modeling, not marriage!"

He laughed. "In Italy, CEO calls his top model his wife. It's business tradition. Don't be so Ghana, Ama. Wear my beads. Show me you are loyal."

I packed my own beads anyway. I flew.

Milan Malpensa Airport. He was waiting in a black suit with two security men. He didn't hug me. He stared at my waist.

"You disobeyed me. You are not wearing MY beads," he hissed, grabbing my arm. "Do you know how many Ghanaian girls beg for this contract?"

His mansion outside Milan was white, cold, silent. No photos of family.

"Give me your passport, Ama. And your Ghana beads. My agency keeps them safe for all our models."

That is when my heart stopped. My mother told me: any man who takes your passport and your waist beads wants to bury you.

I said I needed the toilet and ran upstairs.

First door. I opened it.

It was not a bedroom. It was a display room.

A whole wall of Polaroids. 20 African girls. Nigerian, Ghanaian, Kenyan, South African. All wearing the SAME black and red waist beads. All with model numbers on their chests like prisoners. 001, 002, 003.

And under one photo, written in red marker: _AKOSUA — GHANA — 2021 — TRIED TO RUN._

My phone vibrated. Unknown number:

_If you are in the bed room, RUN NOW. He is not a CEO. He collects girls. He takes their passports and beads so they can never go home._

Downstairs, his voice was coming up the stairs, angry.

"Ama? Why are you in my collection room? And why are you still wearing your Ghana beads instead of MINE?

"Ama? Why are you in my collection room? And why are you still wearing your Ghana beads instead of MINE?"

His voice was right behind me.

I turned. Marco stood in the doorway. He was not shouting. CEOs don't shout. He was smiling. That was worse.

"I... I was looking for toilet," I whispered. My voice was shaking.

He locked the door. Click. The sound was final. He walked slowly to the wall of Polaroids and touched AKOSUA's photo. Under it, red marker:

_AKOSUA — GHANA — 2021 — TRIED TO RUN._

"Akosua also said she was looking for toilet," he said softly. "You Ghana girls lie too much. You come to Italy, you eat my food, you sleep in my house, and you still hold your village juju."

He opened the drawer. Passports. At least fifteen. Ghana, Nigeria, Kenya, Uganda. And small plastic bags with beads inside. Each bag had a name written on it. Their mothers' prayers, now in his drawer like trophies.

He picked up one bag. "This one cried for three days when I took her beads. But after she wore MY beads, she was a good girl. She walked for Gucci."

"Take off your Ghana beads, Ama. Wear MINE now. Be a good girl."

My hand went to my waist. My mother's beads felt warm under my dress, like they were protecting me. My mother tied them herself the night before I left Kotoka. "As long as you wear these, no evil will hold you," she said.

"No," I whispered. It was the first time I ever said no to Marco.

His eyes changed.

My phone vibrated inside my skirt. Bzz. Bzz.

I hid it and turned slightly, pretending to adjust my dress, and read quickly with my heart beating like a drum:

_Don't take them off. If you wear his black-red beads, you can never leave. He did it to 7 girls before you. Pretend to obey. Nod. Smile. I'm outside your window right now. I can get you out. Leave your bag. Just jump. — A Friend_

A Friend. No name. Just an Italian number. +39...

My hands were sweating. Who could it be? How did they know about the beads?

Marco grabbed my wrist. Hard. "Who is messaging you?! Give me that phone!"

He snatched my phone from my skirt and read the message. His face changed from smiling to pure confusion and anger. He looked at the door, then at the window.

"A friend? Someone in MY house is betraying me? WHO? Who is helping you? My security? My driver? My housekeeper? WHO IS IT?!"

He had absolutely no idea who it was, neither did I. He didn't suspect anyone specific. He was looking at everyone as a traitor. To him, it was just an anonymous enemy inside his own mansion.

He threw my phone at the wall. It cracked. The screen went black.

Then he pulled out the black velvet box. Inside, heavy, ugly black and red beads that looked like dried blood.

"I make girls choose, Ama. Wear my Rossi beads and walk Milan Fashion Week tomorrow, $10,000 dollars cash. Every Ghana girl dreams of that. Or keep your village beads and go back to Accra tomorrow morning and pay me $5,000 dollars for your flight from Ghana to Italy which you don't have for breaking the contract. Choose."

He knelt down with a small scissors to cut my Ghana beads from my waist.

My mother’s voice was screaming in my head: DON’T LET HIM CUT IT.

Tink! A small stone hit the window.

Marco jumped up.

On the glass, from outside, someone had written with white chalk in big letters, backwards so I could read it from inside:

*JUMP NOW. FERTILIZER BAGS BELOW ARE SOFT. DON'T TRUST HIS BEADS.

My heart stopped. My passport copy? Only Marco had it.

Marco ran to the window screaming like a madman, "SECURITY! WHO IS OUTSIDE? WHO WROTE THIS? CHECK THE GARDEN! CHECK THE CAMERAS NOW!"

He was shouting, sweating, opening the window and looking down into the darkness of his big garden. He was searching everywhere because he truly had no clue who was helping me. He was completely confused.

He left the door for one second to shout into the hallway, "MARIO! COME HERE!"

That was my only 3 seconds.

I didn't think. I pushed him hard with all my strength from behind, grabbed my Ghana Card from the table, and with my mother's beads still tight on my waist, I climbed the window and jumped into the darkness — trusting a completely anonymous stranger I had never seen before.

The wind was cold. I was falling.

*Did Ama survive the 3-storey jump? Who is the anonymous person who stole her passport copy from Marco's drawer?