Chapter 4 The Terms of Escape

CHIARA

SHANGHAI. 23:38

By the time I got back to my apartment, it was late at night, and my muscles ached badly from the long hours at the gym, but I didn't mind because I was finally alone and able to pick up my phone again.

I opened up my messages, making sure my phone was dim enough to be unnoticeable in the dark room, in case Marcel came to ‘check’ on me.

I had a heat tomorrow, so he might be interested in my sleep tonight. Hopefully, he drowned himself in work and forgot.

I looked at Raina’s contact. Still no response.

Sighing, I clicked on the message from the bank.

PETITION FOR ACCOUNTING AND SEVERANCE OF JOINT ACCOUNT

Dear Signora Moretti,

Mr Gnotti holds power of attorney on file for this account. We cannot process a change of this nature without either his consent or a formal revocation of the power of attorney, which would need to be filed with the bank and, in most cases, notarised.

Disappointment mixed with frustration washed over me as I read the words. Frustration at my parents for letting Marcel have Power of Attorney over me at 14.

He was supposed to hand it over at 18, but he refused, saying that I was ‘too young’ to manage such large assets and make decisions concerning them. As usual, my parents had no protests.

They wouldn’t want a teenager’s carelessness to mess up their retirement fund.

Now at 21, I still didn’t have POA over my assets despite multiple requests, which either ended with me gaslit or bruised.

One dinner a few months ago, I was finally brave enough to bring it up to my parents. But of course Marcel was there to convince them that it was best that their 21-year-old daughter not have any access to her own accounts.

And of course, they took his side and even scolded me for protesting someone taking such 'meticulous care' of my accounts.

That night, when Marcel and I got to my apartment, he laughed in my face for bringing it up. He told me my parents received 40 thousand euros a month from that account; why would they let power change hands?

That shattered any last illusion I had of my parents. They were supporting Marcel not even for my perceived good, but because they were getting paid? With my money? While I had to ask—beg— Marcel for allowances?

Marcel didn’t hit me that night, but he stripped me of my allowance for a month and left me penniless. I had to steal tampons from one of the gymnastics event bathrooms and hide some money given to me as a gift from one of my matrons, praying Marcel didn’t find out, which he thankfully didn’t.

But that solidified my plan to get out from under the thumb of this evil man by any means necessary.

I started looking up how I could gain control of my assets, and that’s how I ended up secretly sending this petition to the bank. Unfortunately, I had hit a roadblock.

Shaking off the disappointment, I researched how I could gain power of attorney now that I was no longer a minor.

Multiple results came up, and for a second, it felt like God was on my side as I saw I could unilaterally revoke POA now that I was 21, but then I clicked on it, and the disappointment returned with vengeance.

Apparently, Marcel still had to be notified, which I couldn’t risk.

Frustrated, I tossed my phone to the side and buried my face in my pillow, desperately trying to choke back tears.

It was in moments like this that I wished I had a friend to talk to, or my sister. But Raina hated me now, because I was an awful sister who was too weak to show up for her.

Weakly, I picked up my phone again and searched for abuse hotlines before I could change my mind.

I clicked on one and entered the chat, remaining anonymous.

My abuser controls all my money.

The response was lightning-quick despite how late it was.

You are not alone. Is he/she preventing you from working?

I responded.

No, but he holds my power of attorney.

Typing...

Is he a family member/ spouse?

No. He’s my manager.

Ok relax. How old are you?

21

Great. Can you contact your family to help you

revoke the power of attorney?

I thought of my parents and scoffed through the tears.

No. My family is on his side.

Typing…

Alright. Do you have a spouse, friend, acquaintance? Anyone who can stand for you?

No.

It took a minute for the typing sign to appear. The responder must be thinking What a hopeless loser*.*

Alright. Do you have access to, or would you like, a lawyer?

I considered it for a while.

Maybe.

Amazing. Now what is your name?

I immediately froze and closed the website.

What was I doing? Was I minutes away from typing in my name? Imagine that. It would be on the news before I woke up. Confidentiality be damned.

I knew whoever was responding would be cashing in on the newspaper learning about Chiara Moretti’s abuse before I could say jack.

And Marcel, with my parents’ support, would be just as quick to put out a statement calling me out as crazy or misguided. He would no doubt use his charm to confuse everyone, and I would be labelled a liar and would be pushed further under his thumb.

Taking a deep breath, I decided I needed a moment to think. I couldn’t give up. I wouldn’t give up.

The responder’s words began to play in my mind.

Do you have a spouse, friend, acquaintance?

Anyone who can stand for you?

No. But I could.

Marcel generally didn’t let me have friends. He called them distractions. But as I got older, his control over my life slowly and slightly eased.

A few years ago, I would have never gotten the chance to research this since my screen time was strictly monitored.

I wondered if it was because he thought giving me leeway would make me more pliant to his wishes, or if he was just getting lazy? Whatever it was giving crazy thoughts fertile land to grow in my head.

What if I got a friend who could help me get a lawyer under wraps? But how would I get such a loyal friend willing to tangle themselves in this mess for someone they just met?

What if I got a boyfriend? My brain interjected.

What? A boyfriend? It was almost laughable. I couldn’t even get a normal friend, not to talk of a boyfriend.

But the thoughts continued to brew. A boyfriend would be ideal. It didn’t have to be real. It could be an arrangement. Something mutually beneficial. I had heard the girls talk about it in the locker rooms.

A fake relationship where both parties benefited, mostly pr, but in my case it would be access to a lawyer, and whatever he wanted. He didn’t have to know about my plan either. I could just use him. We could use each other, and once I got Marcel out of my life, we would part ways happily.

Getting one shouldn’t be too hard. Men were lining up to date Chiara Moretti. Marcel couldn’t know till we were locked in, and he had to be influential enough that Marcel would be afraid to hit me into submission or force me to break up with him for fear of me opening my mouth. He, after all, would be no wiser that it wasn’t a real relationship.

But where would I get one?

That was the last thought before I fell asleep.

**

ZIZO

MANCHESTER. 16:38

My phone lit up as I dragged it out of my pocket. It was a text. I was ready to ignore whoever it was when I saw it was my mae. I clicked on her name.

Mamãe: I saw your last game. You played so well, filho! Your pai would be so proud. I don’t know why you didn’t play last week, but Hugo said it was tactics? Tactical? I don’t know. Hugo has been acting strange since he came back.

He was supposed to stay two weeks, but now he’s packed his bag and said he is going back to England. I was going to argue, but then he said it was lawyer duties for you. I love you and don't overwork yourself. I can't wait for your next game.

She attached a picture of her and Xena in my Manchester kit, watching my last game with some village kids.

I sighed again and tossed my phone aside.

How could I explain there might be no next game?

I thought about Don’s words and then Kaka’s, and picked up my phone again, scrolling straight down to my brother, Hugo, who was an agent, lawyer, and everything in between. Today, he was going to be my assistant.

Me: Irmao, please get me a suit for Saturday night.

He responded almost instantly, not asking any questions.

Hugo: You got it, little bro.

I locked my phone again, this time gently placing it on my bedside drawer, and sighed once more, collapsing into my mattress.

I guess I was going to the gala.

It was just a few hours of polite smiles, nods, handshakes, and forced laughs.

Then, I was out of the fire, at least for now, and I would not disappoint my mother.

How bad could it be?