THE ITALIAN HUSBAND'S LIE

Chapter 9:Mr And Mrs Rossi's Arrival

The live was too much.

We didn't just thank them for one million. We went viral again.

In one hour — ONE HOUR — Marco and I live hit almost three million likes. 2.8 million likes, 89k viewers at the same time, comments moving so fast you couldn't read them. Gifts flying on t****k. Roses, lions, universes.

Brands were not just calling. They were begging.

Michael was shouting behind the camera, "2.5! 2.6! Marco, it's going crazy! We are going to hit three million!"

Marco was screaming, kissing my head, kissing my cheek, shouting "WE LOVE YOU GUYS! THREE MILLION COMING! WE LOVE YOU!"

I was smiling. Smiling until my cheeks hurt. My jaw was locked from that fake perfect smile, but I had to keep it. The camera was still on me.

When the live ended, Marco jumped up. He picked up his phone and saw his follower count — 1.2M now. In four hours. He had grown by 200k just during the live.

"THREE MILLION LIKES!" he shouted. "AMA! WE DID IT! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? PRADA WILL DOUBLE THE MONEY! DOUBLE! WE ARE RICH!"

He hugged me tight, spun me around in the living room, while Michael filmed. He was sweating, excited, alive.

Then just as fast, his face changed.

He let go of me. He looked at me up and down. Cold. His eyes went from loving to judging in one second.

"Go change," he said, his voice flat. "You are sweating. Your makeup is oily. You looked tired on live. Your face was shining too much. Next live, you need to look fresh. Go fix yourself."

Just like that. From one million queen to you looked tired.

That was Marco. Hot and cold in the same minute. One second you are his everything, next second you are a problem for his aesthetic. One minute he loves you for the camera, next minute you are not good enough.

I went upstairs. I didn't cry. I was used to it. My feet were heavy on the stairs.

Downstairs, I could hear him on the phone with brands, laughing loud again, like I didn't exist. Like I was not the reason he had three million.

I was in my room, taking off the pink lounge set, my body tired, when I heard the big black gates open.

A car horn. A deeper horn. A big SUV horn.

Then I heard Marco shout from downstairs, his voice full of surprise, "MOM!DAD!.

My blood went cold.

I ran to my window and looked down, my heart beating fast.

Luca's car had just entered. Luca was driving. And from the back seat, his mother and father were coming out. They had luggage. Two big boxes.

His mother — Mrs. Rossi. Small woman, but shoulders back like a general. Black dress, gold jewelry, dark sunglasses even though the sun was not that hot. Hair tied tight. Lips tight. Red lipstick.

His father — Mr. Rossi. Tall, big belly, white beard, wearing a white native caftan. Calm face. He was smiling and waving at the house.

Luca came back. But not alone. He came with them.

"Marco! My son!" His mother hugged Marco hard. She was proud. So proud. She held his face and kissed both cheeks.

"One million! I saw it! Two million! Three million likes! My sons are making us proud! The whole Italy is seeing you!" she shouted, her Italian accent thick.

Mr. Rossi hugged Marco too. "Good job, my boy. Good job. You are doing well."

Luca stood behind them, quiet, carrying their bags inside. He looked up once towards my window. Our eyes met for half a second.

I quickly fixed my hair and ran downstairs. I had to. I couldn't let her say I was rude.

The whole house changed when Mrs. Rossi entered.

Sofia, Chiara, Bella the three girls who were always loud, always half-naked, always dancing they suddenly became small. They stood in a line by the kitchen wall, hands folded, heads down, like punished children.

"Good afternoon, Mother," they said together, scared.

Mrs. Rossi looked at them up and down, nodded once, like a principal inspecting students.

"Girls. You are still keeping my son's house clean. That is good," she said. Her voice was bossy. Every word was an order. No smile.

Michael came out of the pool house, took off his cap when he saw her. "Good afternoon, Ma am. Welcome."

Then she saw me.

I was at the bottom of the stairs, breathing hard.

Her eyes went over me slowly. From my hair to my feet. Judging my dress, my skin, my everything.

"Ama," she said. No smile. Cold. Colder than Marco. Like ice.

"Good afternoon, Mother. Good afternoon, father," I said softly, trying to be respectful.

Mr. Rossi smiled at me a little. "Ama, how are you, my daughter? You are glowing."

"I'm fine, sir," I said.

Mrs. Rossi didn't smile back. She walked past me into the living room and sat on the main couch Marco's couch like it was her throne. Everyone followed her. Marco sat next to her like a small boy. Mr. Rossi sat opposite. Luca stayed standing by the door, leaning against the wall.

"Sit," she commanded.

I sat, my hands shaking on my lap.

"So," she started, looking at Marco, then at me, then at Marco again. "One million, three million. Good. But where is the child?"

The room went silent. Nobody breathed.

I froze. My stomach dropped.

"Mom?" Marco said.

Mrs. Rossi turned to me fully now. Her sunglasses off, her eyes sharp. Her eyes were like Marco's when he is angry.

"Ama, you have been married to my son for how many months now? The fans are asking. In the comments I read — when will Ama give us a baby? It's time. A real couple, after one million, must give a child. That is what keeps fans. That is what keeps a family. When are you giving my son a child? When are you getting pregnant?"

My mouth was dry. I couldn't speak.

Sofia and the other girls were looking at the floor, scared to breathe.

Mr. Rossi cleared his throat, trying to be cool. "Anastasia, easy, easy. They are still young. They are still building career. Let them breathe."

"No! Career with child is bigger!" Mrs. Rossi snapped at him. "Look at other influencer couples! Child brings more brands! Pampers, baby clothes! More money! And I want a grandchild from my first son! I need a grandchild!"

She looked at me again. Cold. Bossing.

"You need to eat better. You are too small. You need to stop wearing these small clothes around the house seducing my other son —" she glanced at Luca quickly, "— and you need to start acting like a wife. A mother. A real wife."

My heart stopped when she said my other son. Luca didn't move. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark.

Marco, to my shock, didn't defend me. He just nodded, like a puppet.

"Mama is right, Ama. We need to think about baby content soon. Fans will love it. Maybe in two months we start trying, okay? For content, for our brand," Marco said, like he was discussing a photoshoot.

I just nodded, swallowing everything. "Yes, Mama."

Mrs. Rossi finally leaned back, satisfied.

"Good. Now, we all go out tonight. Prada invited us to their private fashion show in Victoria Island. Product launch. They invited the whole Rossi family. Because of the three million. Marco, Ama, Luca, me, your father. We go as a family. They want to see the wife. The mother. The successful family."

Marco lit up. "Prada fashion show? Tonight? Let's go! Ama, go wear the red dress! The Dubai red dress! You will look hot for Prada!"

Mrs. Rossi stood up. "Everyone, get ready. One hour. We leave at 7pm sharp. I don't like African time. Girls, you stay and clean this house. Michael, you come with camera."

She was bossing around the house like she owned it. And she did. In her mind, this house was hers.

Everyone scattered to get ready.

I was about to go upstairs when I felt someone brush past me in the hallway.

Luca.

He didn't stop. He didn't look at me. But he whispered, so low only I could hear, as he passed:

"Don't worry. I'm here tonight. Nothing will happen to you. Stay near me."

And he kept walking to his room, his hand brushing mine for half a second.

I went to my room to wear the red Dubai dress again.

Tonight, we were going to a Prada fashion show — me, Marco, Luca, and his mother who hated me and wanted me pregnant, and his father who was the only cool one.

And I had to smile like the perfect wife, while sitting next to the man I actually wanted, in front of the whole world.