Chapter 1 Mask Made of Gold
CHIARA
“Stupid bitch!”
My cheek snapped sideways from the contact. My eyes stung, but I didn't cry. I hadn't cried in months. Ever since I realised, my lack of reaction only made him angrier— which made me happy.
He was panting hard. Face, distorted by hatred and anger at the smile on my face.
But that was this morning.
Now, the loud speakers sounded like this:
"CHIARA MORETTI. GOLD IN SHANGHAI FOR THE 3RD YEAR IN A ROW"
And the press like this:
“Over here!”
“Please smile for me!”
“Look here, principessa!”
My cheeks hurt from all the smiling, and I was sure the skin was still red underneath the makeup, but I couldn’t afford to stop.
Blinding flashes, fake smiles, sore muscles were all a permanent part of my life.
A billionaire walked up to me. I didn’t know his name. It had gotten lost in a sea of names I should remember, or perhaps Marcel hadn’t told me at all. I could not tell. But I knew he was a billionaire, hence an ‘important person’.
“My dear girl, you were amazing out there. The country is very lucky to have you,” he exclaimed boisterously, throwing his arms around me.
His expensive oud was strong enough to make me gag, and his loud voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the overcrowded room, which was crawling with my countrymen who had come to support me.
“Grazie, Signore,” I replied courteously.
He finally let me go, and I ignored the once-over his beady eyes gave me.
“Mia Moglie, she is a matron of the arts. What better art is there than gymnastics?” he remarked, and his entourage laughed. I laughed too, even though there was nothing funny.
“So, figlia, while gold at the Asian-Pacific Invitational is an amazing achievement, should we be expecting gold at the real thing next year?” One of the big man’s associates hinted.
Ah, of course. The real thing, better known as the Olympics. Months of training put into FIG championships and Invitationals were nothing but silly placeholders: I wanted to say, but I wasn’t insane.
So instead I bit my tongue and flashed him a charming smile, ready to give a perfunctory non-answer as usual. But I didn’t even get to say that before a strong arm wrapped across my shoulder.
“Of course, Signore. Chiara here has been practicing very hard to go all the way this time. She certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint fine gentlemen like yourselves,” Marcel interjected smoothly.
His deep voice ran a chill down my spine, but I didn’t—couldn’t—react.
“Marcel, we were wondering when you would appear,” the billionaire exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. But I noticed his beady eyes remained on Marcel’s face instead of over his body.
“My apologies, Signore Constranzo. I was speaking with the Matron of the Belevetti’s. You know everyone is here to celebrate dear Chiara. Chiara, who I told to inform anyone who wondered about my absence,” he said, his voice taking on that patronizing tone I knew all too well.
His hand on my shoulder tightened just a fraction. From afar, it looked like nothing, but I knew what that meant—violence.
I wanted to defend myself. He didn’t tell me anything of the sort. But the words got caught in my throat.
Signore Constranzo, in his ever boisterous nature, chuckled and said: “Don’t be harsh on the dear girl. We had barely spoken a minute before you appeared—”
Suddenly, his watch beeped, cutting him off. A faux somber look covered his fat features.
“Scusa, Marcel. It seems we have to be on our way now.”
He leaned in for air kisses with Marcel and gave me very real kisses that left saliva that I dared not clean off.
A satisfied expression formed on his face. He turned to his associates as if looking for validation, but I knew better. Men like this didn’t need validation.
The skinny one handed him a fat envelope, which Signore Constranzo presented with smugness, not to me, of course. To Marcel.
“A little gift from my wife and me for making the nation proud.”
Marcel's eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store as he grasped the thick envelope tight.
“There is certainly more where that came from. But only if you win. Only champions are rewarded.”
Only champions are rewarded.
Immediately, they walked away; the mask dropped. The charming look of Marcel’s face dissipated, replaced by his usual look of irritation.
“Let’s go. We don’t have all day. I want you to meet Madame Rossi, then talk to the…”
Drowning out the rest of his speech, I followed behind him, making sure not to slouch my back or let my smile falter.
Faces started to melt into each other the longer we waded through the crowd. Marcel was pointing out a few people, but I couldn’t hear him. It felt like my head was in water. I just wanted to go home.
Suddenly, I felt a small tug on my shirt. It was a little girl. No older than 7, eyes still bright and untainted. She had a mini plushie of me and was wearing an Italy jacket.
“Hi! I’m your biggest fan. Please can you sign my plushie?” she requested enthusiastically.
A real smile appeared on my face for the first time that day, and I squatted down to her height.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marcel had paused walking. He must have noticed I wasn’t behind him. He shot me a warning look, probably for keeping his ‘valuable audience’ waiting.
But I didn’t care. I knew my agent very well. Marcel was many things, but he lived for public validation. He would never pull a stunt in front of all this paparazzi.
Like clockwork, the flashes intensified. Everyone wanted to capture this interaction.
“Really? You are my biggest fan?” I asked.
The cute little girl nodded her head so fast, I was afraid she would get whiplash.
“Yes. I love you so much. I practice all your moves.”
My smile widened as I brought out my pen to sign the plushie.
“That’s amazing. I love your blonde hair.”
She seemed like she would combust at the compliment. I signed the plushie but was in no rush to leave.
“Chiara…” Marcel started, a smile that didn’t reach his angry eyes on his face.
I ignored him. I didn't care what Marcel thought. He could choke on his schedule.
The little girl seemed fixated on the gold medal on my neck. I held it out to her. “Would you like to touch it?”
She gasped so loud and tentatively touched it. Then exploded into a bundle of joy, dashing to tell her father all about it.
A weight lifted off my chest as I laughed for real. The flashes, Marcel’s anger, nothing mattered to me in that moment. Until Marcel subtly but painfully grasped my arm.
Flashing a charming smile at the paparazzi, he said: “I’m so sorry, we have to leave now. Chiara is behind her schedule. We all need our champion to rest.” Then dragged me away.
In the hallway, away from the bright lights, he switched. An angry look appearing on his face.
“Are you crazy? How dare you disobey me?!” He twisted the skin of my arm, making me cry out.
“I told you important people were waiting to see you and you decided to stop for some girl?” he seethed.
“It was a fan. Did you expect me to ignore her? In front of the paparazzi?” I cried, trying to get my arm out of his vice-like grip.
“I don’t care. Next time, you just sign the damn thing and leave there. And never ignore me again. Is that clear?” he demanded, his grip tightening.
“Crystal,” I cried, just wanting him to stop.
He suddenly let go, making me stumble back a few steps. He took a deep breath and adjusted his blazer. His anger gone. Replaced by something that almost looked like regret to the untrained eye. I knew Marcel. He wasn’t sorry.
“I hate when you make me act this way, Bella. I just want what is best for you. I’m sorry. About this morning as well. You just make me lose my mind sometimes. But you’ll change. You’ll do better, won’t you?” he said sweetly, cupping my face, his blue eyes flat.
I just nodded. He let go. Seemingly over his tenderness.
“Next week, there is a gala in London. A big one. Hosted by the Premier League Football Association, but everyone who is someone in world athletics is expected to be there. You will be there,” he stated.
“Next week is my sister’s graduation,” I protested weakly.
“I wasn’t asking.”
Resentment bubbled up my throat.
One day, I will be free from you, Marcel. One day soon.
But for now, I did what I could—nod.
