HER ITALIAN BODYGUARD

9. MIMOSAS, AMEX BLACK CARD & NEW CARS

CHAPTER NINE

MIMOSAS, AMEX BLACK CARD & NEW CARS

What’s the best way to win a game, especially when you know your opponent already has the upper hand?

You stay quiet. Stealthy. You make them believe they’ve got you exactly where they want you. You let them feel like they’re in control. That’s how you win. In my case, the edge Mark has over me, is the wealth and power his name holds.

For the past two weeks, I’ve played the part of the heartbroken wife. But not the pitiful kind, the sobbing-on-the-floor, mascara-running kind. No. I’ve played the kind who feeds the illusion. The one who offers just enough vulnerability to keep him hopeful. The kind who makes him believe that maybe, just maybe, he can still win her back.

Take three days ago, for example. He bought me a brand-new Lamborghini Urus, black on black, like he thought a shiny toy would erase the betrayal. And this morning? He casually left his Amex Black card on the kitchen island, told me to treat myself to whatever the hell I wanted. In his deluded little world, he's convinced love can be bought and he’s throwing money at the cracks, hoping it’ll seal them shut.

But the only thing lifting my spirits today has nothing to do with cars or credit cards.

It’s Diane.

She just landed, and I’m at the airport curb, engine idling, heart racing but not from nerves, but relief. Diane has been in Japan for what feels like forever, helping oversee her company’s new branch. I didn’t realize how badly I missed her until I saw her rushing toward me like a storm with heels.

“Aaaah!” she squeals, dropping her carry-on with zero care as she barrels into me, wrapping her arms tight around my shoulders. “God, I missed your face!”

I laugh, hugging her just as tightly. “You’ve been gone for three months, not three years.”

“That’s practically a decade in girl time,” she counters as she pulls back, her eyes already scanning the car behind me. Her jaw drops. “Gina Washington. I leave for a few months and you show up in a brand new Lamborghini? Girl, maybe I should marry a billionaire.”

“Mark thought I was due for an upgrade,” I say with a shrug, popping the trunk and grabbing the rest of her luggage.

“He spoils you,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat and eyeing the leather interior. “Like damn. I’d take emotional damage for a ride like this.”

I almost laugh. Key word, almost. Of course, I haven’t told her the truth. That this car is nothing more than an apology wrapped in horsepower. That Mark’s not spoiling me; he’s just trying to buy back time. Buy silence. Buy my forgiveness for getting someone else pregnant.

I slide into the driver’s seat and flash the Amex Black card from my purse with a smirk. “What do you say to a spa day, bottomless mimosas, and doing whatever the hell we want?”

Diane grins like she’s been waiting her whole flight to hear those exact words. “I say buckle up, bestie. We’re about to cause some tax-deductible chaos.”

I pull out of the airport lane, my foot pressing the gas a little harder than necessary. For a moment, I allow myself to enjoy this; to soak in the illusion. But deep down, I know what this is.

This is war.

And I’m playing it in heels without some powerful name or money to back me up.

The steam curls around us like lazy whispers, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus hanging thick in the air. We’re stretched out in plush white robes, reclining on heated lounge chairs in the private room of the spa’s VIP wing. Soft music plays somewhere in the background. It’s some tranquil piano thing meant to relax you, but all it does is amplify the loudness of my own thoughts.

Diane sighs blissfully beside me, cucumber slices over her eyes, face masked in some hundred-dollar organic miracle cream.

“I swear,” she murmurs, “if I die here, let them bury me in this robe. With this facial.”

I smile faintly, sipping on my infused water. “Noted. Lavender burial, cucumber coins instead of actual ones.”

She laughs, but then slowly peels one eye open, sliding the slice off just enough to look at me. Her gaze lingers. “Okay, spill.”

I blink. “Spill what?”

“You’ve been weird all day,” she says, sitting up slightly. “I mean, I love all this. The new car, the card, the spontaneous luxury day but something’s… off. You’re trying too hard to look okay.”

I let out a small laugh, careful, measured. “I am okay. Just treating my best friend, that’s all.”

She narrows her eyes. “Gina. Did Mark do something?”

I turn away, pretending to be fascinated by the tiny bubbles in my glass. “Seriously. Everything’s fine. Mark and I are fine.”

“Are you sure?” she presses gently, her voice softer now. “I know you. You hide things behind lipstick and sarcasm, but not from me. You don’t even sound like yourself.”

I pause just a little too long. Then, I exhale, setting down the glass.

“Alright,” I say, voice quiet. “You’re right. I have been off. But it’s not what you think.”

Diane straightens up, her concern practically radiating.

“I’ve just… been under a lot of pressure lately,” I continue, weaving the lie like silk between my fingers. “Mark’s parents asked me to plan this gala. It’s the first thing I’m doing alone with my mother in-law shadowing me. It’s a fundraiser for ALS research under the Washington name. Huge guest list, high-profile sponsors, press coverage. It’s all on me. And you know how his mother is. Everything has to be perfect or it reflects badly on the family.”

Diane lets out a low whistle. “Okay, yeah. That does sound stressful. But why didn’t you just say that?”

I shrug, forcing a sheepish smile. “Because it felt silly. I mean, who complains about throwing a lavish gala, right? But I’m barely sleeping. I’ve been pretending to have it all together and it’s catching up to me.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand, her touch grounding. “You don’t have to pretend with me, G. If you ever need help, or just a break, you’ve got me. Always.”

“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m so glad you’re back.”

She relaxes again, lying back with a satisfied sigh. “Well, after this facial and about six mimosas, we’ll take over that gala like the queens we are.”

I nod, but I don’t recline like she does. I just sit there for a moment, smiling faintly, letting the steam fog up the glass and hide the sting in my eyes.

Later that afternoon, the sun pours golden warmth into the living room as we sit cross-legged on the floor surrounded by thick cream-colored envelopes, calligraphy pens, and a few too many empty champagne flutes. Might be the drinks already in my system, but the idea of adding a personalized touch to the invites on the guest list seemed pretty good.

We’re both barefoot, laughing too hard over a poorly drawn heart Diane attempted to sketch beside someone’s name. One of the day maids glides in quietly with a fresh tray of homemade mimosas, pineapple this time, at Diane’s request and I mouth a grateful thank you as she disappears.

“You know,” Diane says, giggling as she tries to recover from her latest mistake, “if I mess up one more of these, you’re going to end up inviting the same three people twenty different ways.”

I smirk, flicking a stray petal from the floral arrangements on the table. “At least they’ll feel special.”

It’s peaceful. Too peaceful. The kind of peace that’s suspiciously temporary.

And right on cue, the front door clicks open.

Mark.

I hear the soft thunk of his keys hitting the side table in the foyer before his footsteps cross the marble floor toward the living room. My stomach coils like it always does now when I hear him enter, an automatic tension I try to swallow down.

“There’s the man of the house,” Diane teases, spotting him first as he walks in, loosening his tie. “Your wife’s been working me to the bone, Mark. Do you know how many envelopes I’ve ruined today?”

Mark freezes for a microsecond when he sees us; me, radiant and laughing in a silk lounge set, and Diane, cheeks flushed from too much bubbly, lounging like she owns the place. His eyes linger on me, trying to figure out if this is a trap.

I flash him a bright smile. “Hi, honey. You’re home early.”

He blinks. “Yeah. I thought you’d still be at the spa. The owner called me,”

“We were. But we had too many ideas for the gala and decided to keep the momentum going,” I say smoothly, patting the pile of half-written invites. “We’ve made excellent progress.”

Diane clinks her glass against mine. “And excellent mimosas.”

He hesitates, his eyes flicking between us, the tray of drinks, the elegant mess on the floor. He’s trying to read the room. I stand up slowly and move toward him, just enough to meet his eyes without making it obvious to Diane.

“Play along,” I whisper through my smile, brushing a hand gently against his chest. “I don’t want her knowing… not yet.”

Something passes through his eyes; guilt, confusion, maybe a sliver of hope. I don’t wait for a response. I just kiss his cheek lightly, then step back into the room like everything’s normal.

Like I’m still in love with him.

Like I’m protecting us.

“Come sit,” I say over my shoulder. “We could use a third pair of hands if you're not too tired. And maybe you can convince Diane that her handwriting isn't that bad.”

Mark hesitates again, then slowly walks over and sits down beside me. I catch Diane smiling to herself as she hands him a pen. To her, this must look like a happy marriage. Domestic, functional. Effortless.

And that’s exactly what I want her to see.

Because if I can convince Diane, then maybe I can convince him.

And if I can convince him… I can still win this game.