HER ITALIAN BODYGUARD

11.THE CHARITY GALA

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE CHARITY GALA

It’s strange, really, how quickly your world can fall apart. One moment, you’re standing on solid ground, the perfect life you’ve spent years molding resting in your hands. And the next? It all crumbles.

All it takes is one f*****g tiny crack. One moment of weakness, one betrayal, and the illusion shatters like glass underfoot.

The charity gala is still going according to plan. The chandeliers glitter above us like nothing’s wrong. I’ve already delivered my speech with the kind of poise that wins headlines and admiration. Now, I stand off to the side, draining one champagne flute after another, my gaze locked on the stage where Mark and his father speak to the crowd, charismatic smiles perfectly rehearsed.

Just a few feet back, Evelyn hovers, so poised, professional, and just distant enough to keep up appearances. Dressed in an emerald green pantsuit that matches the color scheme I picked. If I didn’t know the truth, she might’ve fooled me too.

“You might want to slow down on those,” a calm, velvety voice cuts through the fog of my fury. “The media is around. The last thing we want is them running a headline on whether there is trouble in paradise between you and Mark, ”

I don’t even have to look. I already know it’s Mrs. Washington. Of course.

I raise the glass to my lips again anyway. “Isn’t it enough that I have to stand next to him, smile beside him, and pretend he didn’t rip my heart out?” I mutter, grabbing another champagne flute from a passing tray. “How do you do it?”

She turns to face me with the kind of elegance that can’t be faked. “Do what?”

“Live with a man who cheats on you,” I snap, quieter this time, the weight of my words wrapped in polished venom. “And still manage to look so perfectly put together that people think your marriage is something to envy?”

She glances toward the stage, the corners of her lips curving upward just slightly. “My marriage is solid,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Because I make it solid. I keep it standing. People always believe what they see,”

I stare at her, stunned for a second. She turns to me fully now, lowering her voice so only I can hear.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, eyes glinting like cut glass. “Put down the glass. Smile. Finish the night with grace. And when all this is over, we’ll drink champagne straight from the bottle. Just the two of us and you can fall apart then if you want,”

Her smile grows composed and radiant with a touch of deadly.

“You did good tonight,” she adds. “You’re finally learning what it means to be a Washington woman.”

With that, she turns and glides back into the crowd, blending so seamlessly with the sea of gowns and pearls that it’s hard to believe the same woman just offered me a masterclass in emotional warfare. I’ve honestly unlocked a new level of respect for her.

I swallow hard, the bitterness lodged in my throat like a stone. The guests are enchanted by her. She plays the role so flawlessly that people applaud her mere presence. And yet, I wonder how much has she swallowed over the years? How many betrayals has she painted over with lipstick and charm?

My gaze dances over to Mark and his father, smiling so radiantly that you’d not believe they cause the women in their lives so much misery. Like father, like son. They never know what they’ve got, not until it’s already gone.

The gala winds down gradually, like the last notes of a song that everyone knows is about to end. Guests begin to slip away one by one, laughing softly as they head for waiting town cars and sleek black SUVs. The media has started packing up, cameras clicking less frequently now, microphones being unplugged, lighting rigs being dismantled.

For the first time tonight, I allow myself to exhale. I slide onto a velvet-covered barstool tucked into the corner of the venue’s sleek mini bar. Away from the lights. Away from the forced smiles. I grab a flute of champagne from the bar and press the cold glass to my lips.

“Congratulations,” a familiar voice slurs behind me. “You fooled me.”

I glance up to find Ron sliding onto the stool beside me, the scent of cologne and regret clinging to him like glue.

“Ron,” I say evenly, setting my glass down. He’s clearly already had too much to drink tonight judging from glossy his eyes are, his smile lopsided, the kind that masks bruised pride.

“You know,” he says with a bitter laugh, waving a hand toward the floor, “she actually had the f*****g nerve to suggest we give it another shot. Like she didn’t break me into pieces and throw me away.”

He orders a neat whiskey, then tilts his head slightly in the direction of the floor near the stage where Evelyn is talking to Mark and a few other members of the company. They’re smiling like none of this ever happened. Like everything’s fine.

“Just look at them,” he mutters.

I do. I study Mark the way I’ve been doing all evening. He is so f*****g charming, careful, composed. Evelyn stands too close to him, laughing at something someone says, and the way she leans in sends something sour crawling up my throat.

But it’s Ron I turn back to. Really look at this time. He’s unraveling quietly, in a tailored suit and cufflinks. He tried to clean up for this event. I mean his tie is straight, his hair combed back but he can’t hide the exhaustion in his eyes. The grief of the betrayal is still fresh and jagged.

“You can’t let her win,” I say softly, the words falling out before I can second-guess them.

He scoffs. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it? She already won. She knew I could never love anyone as much as I love her,”

Then he pauses. Looks straight at me.

“Did you know?” he asks, voice suddenly too clear. “That she’s carrying his baby?”

The words hit hard, even though I’ve heard them before. I swallow, my throat tight. Slowly, I nod. Ron doesn’t push. Doesn’t offer sympathy. Maybe he knows I wouldn’t take it.

“How about some tequila?” I ask, shifting the mood before the pain sinks its claws in again. I can’t talk about the pregnancy. Not right now. It still feels like acid under my skin.

He grins bitterly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Just then, a smooth voice cuts in.

“Make that three,” says Mrs. Washington, placing her clutch on the counter and sliding onto the stool beside me with the elegance of a seasoned diplomat.

Ron looks surprised. I try not to. By now, the room is mostly cleared out. The string quartet has stopped playing. The last of the photographers are packing up. What’s left is just the wreckage of champagne flutes, napkins, half-finished desserts and us. Of course, Mrak, his father and the attending company staff.

“Most of the vultures have flown off,” she remarks casually, signaling the bartender. “Now we can drink like real people.”

Ron chuckles dryly. “I didn’t think Washington women drank tequila.”

Mrs. Washington glances at him, unbothered. “Washington women do what needs to be done, Mr. Thompson,”

We fall silent for a beat as the bartender pours three shots. When the glasses are placed in front of us, I raise mine slowly.

“To appearances,” I say, voice low.

“To damage control,” Ron adds.

Mrs. Washington’s smile is slow, dangerous, and almost maternal. “To surviving with style.”

The three of us clink glasses and down the shots like we’re sealing a pact. A strange, bitter, powerful alliance. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel alone in this mess.