HER ITALIAN BODYGUARD

8. TERMS & CONDITIONS

CHAPTER EIGHT

TERMS & CONDITIONS

I’m not much of a drinker. Honestly, I’d rather be in my home gym, pounding the hell out of the punching bag whenever the weight of life starts pressing down. That kind of physical release; that’s my therapy. But tonight? Tonight, I’m three glasses of wine deep, and the buzz is creeping in just as fast as the cold, harsh truth of my reality. It’s setting in with every sip, like a tide I can’t hold back.

This is my life now. What a f*****g joke!

For the past hour, ever since my mother-in-law walked out of my front door and left me sitting in silence, I’ve been trying to deny it all. I even called my lawyer, desperate to find a crack in the prenup. A loophole, a technicality, anything that could help me crawl out of this mess with my dignity and wallet intact.

No such luck.

According to her, there’s only one way out of this marriage without handing over a cent: make him file for the divorce. If he does that, I walk away with a jaw-dropping fifty million dollars.

Fifty million.

It almost sounds like a joke. Except it’s not.

Right now, I don’t have a real plan. Nothing concrete. Just two doors in front of me. One leading to financial ruin, the other to emotional warfare. Either I come up with an impossible amount of money to pay him off... or I make him want out first. And the first option? Let’s be real. No one in their right mind is going to lend me that kind of cash; not without strings attached, and certainly not fast enough to save me.

So that leaves me with plan B. The cold, ugly one. Push him to the brink. Chip away at his sanity, his patience, his love; if there’s any of that left. Push until he’s the one who says he’s done. It sounds simple on paper. But in practice? It’s hell.

Because this isn’t just strategy. It’s heartbreak.

If I could take my heart out and shelve it somewhere safe, tuck it away until it’s healed, until I’m numb enough to act without feeling. I would. But you can’t do that. You can’t silence a wound that doesn’t bleed. There’s no bruise to press on, no cut to stitch. Just this invisible, relentless ache that lives in your chest and tightens with every reminder of what once was.

And through it all, I have to keep my head straight. Be rational. Calculated. Ruthless, even.

That’s the only way I win.

The lights in the study flicker on suddenly, flooding the room in brightness. I flinch, shielding my eyes for a second, disoriented by the abrupt shift from darkness to light.

Mark stands in the doorway, his expression morphing from confusion to surprise as he takes in the sight of me. I know how I must look; curled up on the couch, wine glass in hand, shadows still clinging to the corners of the room.

“W–What are you doing here in the dark?” he asks, stepping in. His eyes drop to the half-empty glass in my hand, and his brows knit together. “And… you’re drinking? But you don’t drink.”

“I don’t do heartbreaks either,” I say, lifting the glass in a mock toast. My voice is slurred just enough to betray the buzz running through me. “But here we are.”

A flicker of discomfort crosses his face. “Look… about earlier, she’s not my mistress, okay? I f****d up. I know that. But you…you're still the only woman in my life. That hasn’t changed. That will never change. And you know it.”

I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Oh, do I?” I murmur.

Then I say it. The words fall from my mouth like lead.

“Two months pregnant.”

The silence that follows is immediate and deafening.

His eyes widen, the color draining from his face. “Wait, what?”

He takes a step toward me, blinking as if he’s misheard. “Babe, this is- this is…”

I cut him off with a bitter chuckle, swirling the wine in my glass.

“‘And I love him.’” I mimic the words with theatrical sweetness, then look up at him, my eyes sharp. “Those were her words. Not mine. From her mouth to your ears. Or did you think I wouldn’t know?”

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like he’s searching for an explanation he doesn't even believe in.

“What… are you talking about?” he stammers. “Are you-wait. Are you really pregnant?”

I meet his eyes, letting the silence stretch out between us. He can’t run from this moment. Not anymore.

I rise slowly, my movements just a touch too fluid, thanks to the wine. I take a long, dramatic sip, letting the silence stretch between us before I drop the words like a bomb.

“I’m not pregnant,” I say, my voice clear, though laced with poison. “She is. Two f*****g months.”

Mark stares at me, blank for a beat, like his brain refuses to compute what I just said. But then, slowly, recognition dawns. Realization. Guilt. That look, the one I’ve come to loathe, flickers across his face. It’s all there in his eyes: the shame, the regret, the pathetic scramble to fix something that’s already shattered.

He runs a hand through his hair and lowers himself onto the couch like the weight of what I’ve said just buckled his knees.

“Babe-”

“Don’t babe me,” I snap, the words sharp and immediate. I won’t let him disarm me with his usual charm; not this time. My throat tightens, but I refuse to let tears win. Not here. Not now.

“Tell me the f*****g truth, Mark. Just once. When did this all start?” My voice cracks, but I push through it, whispering now. “When did I become background noise to you? When did I stop mattering?”

He looks up, mouth opening but nothing comes out. I see him scrambling for the right lie, the softened version, the rewrite of history that might make this easier to swallow.

“It’s not like that,” he finally says, weakly.

“Then enlighten me,” I demand. My chest is rising and falling fast now, my breath unsteady. I’m holding it all in by a thread, the fragile edge between fury and devastation. “Make it make sense.”

Mark leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like a man confessing to a priest.

“It’s true. I f****d up.” His voice is low. Hesitant. “Three months ago… you were constantly busy. Work, meetings, events. I felt like I was living with a ghost. We barely spoke. I-I was lonely.”

I laugh; sharp and disbelieving.

“You were lonely?” I repeat, incredulous. “So you filled the silence with someone else’s moans? That’s your justification?”

“No, it’s not like that,” he says again, pleading this time. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was a mistake. One f*****g mistake.”

“One mistake that turned into a pregnancy,” I say flatly. “That’s not a lapse in judgment, Mark. That’s a goddamn double life.”

He falls silent again. He knows there’s no defense. No card left to play.

The silence between us now feels permanent. Like it belongs here.

“I’m sorry,” he says and I hate it.

Taking a deep breathe, I tell the first lie, “Maybe we can fix this but I have my terms and conditions,”