Punch Out (All Out For Love #2)

CHAPTER 1

Caroline

“How’s your love life these days, Kitty?” Connor grins through the screen. “Still running that Calvin Klein model ragged?”

“Shut up, Con,” I hiss. “And stop calling me that.”

Connor laughs. Of course he does. I want to punch my best friend square in his stupid, beautiful face.

We grew up together. Middle school, high school, Stanford - every milestone shared, every phase overlapping.

Connor is the most loyal person I know, the kind of friend who stays when things rot and burn.

We even broke up with our first loves at the same time - me with Brandon, him with Kelly.

After that, we stayed single together, like it was a pact.

Every step of my life has his fingerprints on it. Every step of his has mine.

“Which crowd do you like better?” he asks, clearly enjoying himself. “New York, full of bankers? Or San Francisco, crawling with nerdy geeks?”

“I’ll let you know once I’ve worked my way through the list,” I say dryly, glaring at him. “I need a larger sample size.”

He laughs harder. The bastard. Right into the camera.

“I swear,” I tell him, “I’m going to punch you into a puddle next week when I am back in New York. So bad Celina won’t even want to fuck you for a week.”

“Oh, don’t go there,” he shoots back, smug. “My Celina always wants me.”

And that’s the problem.

He’s found her, the woman who wrapped him around her finger and turned him soft in all the ways I didn’t think he could be. His hand is always in hers, his attention locked on her like the rest of the world faded out.

I love Connor. And I am so happy that he’s found her. Celina is such a sweetheart and he knows that, too. Out of everyone I’ve ever known, Connor deserves it. He deserves to be loved, to be happy.

And I hate him just a little, too.

Why am I the only one left standing alone?

“Gotta go,” I say finally. “My parents are waiting.”

“Yeah,” Connor says knowingly. “Say hi to them for me. And enjoy dinner. Be ready. They’re definitely going to bring it up again.”

“Of course they will,” I mutter. “I already had a drink just to prepare myself.”

“Love you, Kitty,” he says, softer now. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Love you too, Con.” I pause. “Bye, Celina. See you guys next week.”

I hear her gentle goodbye before the call cuts off. The screen goes dark and my hand immediately reaches for my whiskey.

It’s going to be a long, miserable dinner. Why didn’t I stay in New York? Why did I drag my ass across the pond to be tortured?

***

“You can only delay the inevitable, Caroline. How young do you think you are? Twenty-four?”

My father uses Caroline, not Cara. That alone tells me his rage is barely leashed. He doesn’t need to slam his glass against the table; the restraint in his voice is louder than any noise.

“Don’t pressure Cara, please,” my mother says softly, smoothing the air, trying to pull him back from the edge of his thinning patience.

Why do most of our family dinners end like this these days?

This must be the hundredth time my father has dragged the subject to the table, dissected it, and laid it bare.

Why don’t my parents understand? I have always been clear, so painfully and brutally clear, that I’m not built for settling down.

I’m not built for marriage or for a life that folds in on itself and calls it “stability”.

I know my mother is trying to protect the peace, but later she will corner me and repeat the same argument in a quieter, more persuasive tone. So, I cut through it head-on.

“I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to settle down.”

My father’s jaw tightens. “Why? Because it would take your freedom away?” His voice sharpens. “A marriage wouldn’t change a thing. It would give your life balance. It would make it better.”

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice deliberately flat. “And I don’t care to find out either, Dad.”

My mother shoots me a sharp look. “Cara, Daddy is right. I haven’t pushed you, but you know you can’t just drift through life with lovers who lead nowhere.”

“I am enjoying my life,” I say, lifting one shoulder. “And there is nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course you should live your life,” my mother replies, her tone shifting.

I’ve learnt enough to recognize it - the pivot from peacemaker to persuader.

“I’ve met one or two of those boys who were serious about you.

They cared about you, not like that Brandon shithead.

And you dumped them without any mercy.” She pauses, choosing her words.

“Baby, if you keep doing this, all you’ll have left is a collection of good-looking playboys. ”

“And you carry the Hammond name,” my father adds relentlessly. “If only…”

Another brick slams into the pile already crushing my ribs, grinding the air from my lungs. I remember exactly what I did, the mistake that hollowed us out and forced us to uproot our lives, fleeing to San Francisco under the guise of a fresh start.

“Honey, let’s stop there. Let’s eat.” my mother cuts in firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. Then, lighter, carefully casual, “It’s not your burden to carry the name, Cara. But please maybe see Dr. Briney again.”

Yes, yes, my long-time therapist.

My father doesn’t say anything else. And when my mother says stop, it means stop. He may have built an empire, but she is the one who holds the real power, the only person to whom he has ever yielded.

I can’t deny that sometimes I wish I could find someone to share my life with the way my parents have done.

“Baby,” my mother says, changing course with practiced ease, “we’re going back to Sonoma for a few weeks. Will you come spend some time with us?”

“Tell me the dates,” I reply, neutral. “I’ll let you know.”

I already know what Sonoma means. Someone will be waiting.

Someone curated, approved, presented like an offering, who I will inevitably sacrifice in the fires of my wanton heart.

My parents fell in love in Sonoma, in the soft golden light of wine country, two hours from San Francisco.

They keep hoping the same magic will trap me the way it trapped them.

I stay quiet and sip my whiskey, a habit Connor passed on to me. I should have stayed in New York, boxed with him until my knuckles burned. Instead, I flew to London for this, for another reminder of how heavy expectations can feel when they sit on your chest.

“Long time no see, mate. Jesus, two years at least. And you look the same.” A voice carries over from the table beside us.

“Good to see you, Clive. It’s been far too long.” The response is soft, deep.

I know that voice.

I turn. And there - an Italian I met through mutual friends a few weeks ago.

I turn back and refocus on my glass. My appetite is gone. The conversation about relationships has scraped me hollow.

Tonight, I’ll box. I’ll hit the bag until my body aches enough to quiet my mind. That’s how I sleep whenever I visit my parents these days.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

I look up. Our eyes lock.

Edoardo. That’s his name.

“Hello,” he says, “Caroline?”

“Hi, Edoardo.” I push my chair back and stand. “Good to see you.” I gesture toward the table. “These are my parents - Liz and Charles.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says easily. “I’m Edoardo.”

They greet him politely, but I catch it - that flicker in their eyes. Interest. Hope.

Nothing, I warn them silently.

We exchange a few meaningless pleasantries before Edoardo returns to his table. The rest of dinner drags by. When we finally step outside the restaurant, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

Parents. I love them. I do.

I just don’t know how to make them understand that for me, love doesn’t feel like something that lifts. It feels like something that pulls me under.

***

Monday arrives and I’m in a much better mood. Work always sharpens my focus, makes my pulse jump in the best possible way. I love the control and the precision. I love knowing that my life, at least here, answers to me.

My parents have always been understanding.

After my undergrad, they let me live out my fantasies - travel the globe, drift through cities for months at a time.

I saw the world with my own eyes and worked whatever jobs came my way: galleries, random start-ups, high-end restaurants as a hostess, luxury boutiques as a sales associate.

No one knew I was Caroline Hammond, the heiress to the multi-billion-dollar Tradetex Retail empire.

“What do you think about opening more doors in Spain?” George Rubin, head of my Europe regional office, asks.

“The business isn’t performing well there,” I say, tapping my fingers lightly against the table, thinking.

“We need to expand our footprint and reclaim our market share,” George pushes.

“What does our cash flow look like?” I ask.

At a wave of his hand, his office manager brings over a copy of the business report.

“Oh, great. Thank you,” I say, offering a polite smile to the staff member that makes his face light up.

The board of Tradetex would have warned him, if they had the chance. Three years working across different functions as an analyst taught me this business inside and out. Even my father, the ever-clever fox, shut his mouth when I exposed weaknesses in our operations.

I officially stepped in as Vice President of Strategic Planning after that, and the months that followed were brutal. The board threw every obstacle they could at me. I took them all on and came out on top each time. After two years, they learned not to fuck with me.

I skim the report, and anger begins to simmer beneath my skin. “Could you explain this?”

I ask, my eyes flicking up quick enough to catch the smirk on his face. I’m going to enjoy butchering this asshole. He thinks I’m a spoiled, daddy-made baby he can bulldoze.

“It’s the P&L for our region,” he says, misplaced confidence dripping from every word.

Profit and loss, P&L, the clearest window into where money has been spent, where effort has been wasted. And he has the audacity to test me with it.

I don’t mind rolling up my sleeves and showing people how things are done. And I certainly don’t mind reminding him exactly who he’s dealing with.

Still, before I cut him down, I need to understand how they bled our cash flow, where his claws are buried, and how to recover what’s ours.

“Oh,” I say mildly, “I thought you were going to update it. But anyway, today we’re discussing Southern Europe - Spain and Italy specifically. So, show me the P&L for Southern Europe. Then show me the individual breakdowns for those two markets.”

My father stepped back completely three years ago when I took over as Chairman and CEO. My father taught me business - brought me into meetings, showed me the machinery. But it was my mother who taught me how to negotiate, how to hold my ground, how not to let men run over me.

I couldn’t have asked for better parents.

And George Rubin just signed himself up for the chopping block. Disrespect me and steal my money? That earns him a fast track to hell.

I plaster on a diplomatic smile and keep the meeting moving. Fuck with me, and you’ll learn exactly what that costs.

I brought the board to heel, and you won’t be an exception, George. Just wait for it.