CHAPTER 2
Edoardo
“Is that the girl who you went to say “hi” to a few nights ago?” Clive cocks his head to the side as he asks me.
I turn and follow his line of sight.
Caroline.
She strides in like she owns the space - razor-sharp tailored designer suit, heels clicking, ramrod straight posture like she was strutting in a fashion show. An executive assistant trails behind her, struggling to keep pace.
What the hell is she doing at a bare-knuckle fight?
Is there some deranged corporate event happening here? Because that would be absurd. Who in their right mind entertains corporate guests in a place like this?
Unless… she’s here to watch the fight. Is she that bloodthirsty? Watching this kind of brutality isn’t exactly a hobby you expect from most women.
“Anyway,” Clive says, already settling back into his seat.
I follow suit. Clive and I go back, way back.
We survived boarding school in Switzerland together, then college in Boston.
Now, I’m in London to open a new gallery, and somehow, the years fall away the second we’re in the same room.
Same shit-talk. Same bets. Same dynamic. Like time never stood a chance.
The fight kicks off and pulls me in despite myself.
I box decent, but not great. Tanin, my head of security, enjoys it and trains with me sometimes.
But bare-knuckle fighting is a whole other level of bloodlust. I appreciate the technique, the strategy, the chess match beneath the violence, but I wouldn’t choose to spend my Wednesday night here.
Clive’s partner is fighting later, so we sit through the earlier bouts before cheering his guy on.
“Oh shit, on your right!” Clive yells, as if he’s the fighter’s manager.
I watch the footwork. Defensive stance. Sloppy. Amateur tells are everywhere.
“It’s over,” I mutter.
Soon enough, the amateur slips. He throws a heavy punch meant to end things, but the experienced fighter reads it perfectly. Precisely, he crouches, pivots, and snaps a ruthless counter jab.
“Oh Jesus,” Clive breathes. He sees it now, the inevitable win of the veteran fighter.
The bait worked. The amateur misses, coordination unraveling, and the veteran follows with a brutal left hook, then a savage combination that drops him flat.
“Damn,” Clive exhales. “That was a game-stopping jab.”
“Alright,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. “Pay up, mate.”
He groans, digs into his pocket, and pulls out a neat stack of a hundred-pound notes. “Here. Why do I always lose money whenever we meet?”
“Because you love the underdog,” I say, grinning as I pocket the bills. “I only bet on what I can win.”
Clive shakes his head. “It still doesn’t make sense that you, one of the most ruthless people I know, ended up an art manager. It’s unsettling.”
Coming from a man who owns half of London’s real estate, I take that as a compliment. Money means nothing to either of us. But taking Clive’s money? That’s tradition. A public service. A bruise to his ego that he’ll remember.
Two fights in, I scan the crowd again. No sharp suit in the crowd, Caroline is nowhere to be seen. I almost laugh at myself for assuming she’d stick around. She probably showed up, stayed thirty seconds, and vanished back into civilization.
“Alright,” Clive says, suddenly energized. “Time for Brad.”
I glance at him. “What kind of partner is Brad?”
He arches a brow. “Does it matter?”
“Well,” I say lightly, “I’ll cheer differently. If he shares your bed exclusively, I’ll cheer harder.”
Clive snorts. So just one of his interests, not exclusive.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. I’m way too amused by my own commentary. But Clive has always been fluid - men or women, it doesn’t matter as long as he finds them attractive.
“Too many questions,” he says, standing. “Private ring.”
“Private?” I echo.
“Brad fights in the small circle. Invitation-only.”
You really do learn something new every day.
We head upstairs into a smaller room - no, a smaller arena. Serious setup. No frills. This isn’t for show. Whoever’s fighting here is the real deal.
“There,” Clive says, pointing. “He’s getting ready.”
But my eyes don’t land on Brad.
They lock onto a fighter with her blond hair piled up, body slick with sweat, sitting on a stool by the ring.
No business attire. No heels. A trainer and an assistant help strip off her gear as she removes her mouthguard and unwraps her hands.
Even from far away, I can tell her breathing is heavy, labored, but controlled.
Caroline didn’t come to watch. She came to fight.
Holy. Shit. She fought.
Another fighter approaches. They shake hands.
My eyes must go wide enough to scare a clown because Clive follows my gaze.
“Oh my God,” he whispers. “How… what? Oh God.”
Then, immediately, “Oh boy. I think I’m in love. Come on. Introduce me.”
He grabs my arm, but Caroline already pushes herself upright. A bodyguard appears instantly, one arm around her waist, helping her walk.
“Damn it,” Clive snaps at me. “You made me miss my chance. Make an intro!”
“I barely know her,” I say.
He stares me down. “You’re not fucking her, are you?”
“No,” I say flatly. “She’s not my type. I have a girlfriend.”
“Then introduce us,” he bulldozes. “Not just her number. Arrange drinks or dinner.”
“I don’t know her, Clive,” I say, letting the honesty land. “She’s a friend of a brother of a coworker of my little sister, that co-worker also being Stefano’s girlfriend. You see how many links?”
“Oh,” he says, deflated.
“Clive!” A guy waves at us.
“That’s Brad?” I ask.
“Yep.” Clive waves back and then promptly ignores him. His entire focus is Caroline. “So, you really don’t know her,” he mutters. “Caroline what?”
“Hammond. I think. I’ll check with my sister.”
“Do that,” he says. “I’ll have someone look her up. See if we have mutuals in London.”
Then he smiles slowly and dangerously. “If not, I’ll use your gallery opening as matchmaking.”
“Nope. Absolutely not,” I warn.
“I guarantee, I’ll get every socialite and influencer in the city to show up,” he counters, “if you make sure Caroline shows.”
I sigh. An opening night guaranteed to succeed… and all I have to do is get Caroline there.
“Okay,” I say.
Clive grins, satisfied. He’s found his next conquest.
Has the dude ever failed? I don’t think so.
***
Isabella is already asleep when I get back.
Elena, my little sister, bailed on the trip last minute, so Isabella invited a few of her girlfriends instead. They went out for dinner earlier, while I followed Clive into that bloody underground of fists and bets.
I stand there for a moment, just looking at Isabella.
We’ve been together two years now. I’ve had girlfriends before that - longer, messier, louder.
Isabella is beautiful and sweet, and I’ve really enjoyed our time together.
Still, it’s starting to feel like a pressure to go up another notch.
Certainly, when I turned thirty, a switch flipped in my parents’ brains.
Now it’s marriage. Settling down. Grandchild.
Preferably grandchildren. As if life is a checklist they’re waiting for me to complete.
I shower quickly in the next room, careful not to wake her. The water does nothing to slow my thoughts. I check my emails out of habit but nothing new or urgent, then slide into bed beside her.
Her body is warm and soft like silk. I kiss her gently and pull her closer, fitting her against me.
And still, sleep refuses to come.
I’ve been in London almost a week. I’ve curated galleries across continents, built a client base people would kill for. I’m not worried about sales. This gallery won’t fail commercially - that’s never been the concern.
I want it to be splendido. I want it magnifico.
The kind of space people walk into and feel something crack open inside them.
The kind they talk about long after they’ve left.
I’m a businessman, not a romantic art dealer with paint-stained fingers and tortured instincts.
I know what beauty is, but I rely on my curators to define it.
Lately, though… something’s off. I feel… flat.
Everything is good, great even, but I haven’t felt that pull, that sharp urgency that drags me out of sleep and straight to my desk. No obsession. No fire. Just… momentum. A plateau.
My thoughts drift back to Isabella.
She’s the daughter of my father’s best friend. I’ve known her forever but we never really crossed paths. She went to private schools here in London, then Oxford. Years passed without us noticing.
She’s my type, smart, soft-spoken, gentle, but not fragile.
She knows how to stand her ground without raising her voice.
And she cooks for me. That matters more than I’d ever admit out loud.
Not extravagant dishes, just incredible homemade Italian food.
I fell for her a few months into the relationship, somewhere between pasta and shared routines.
So why does my mind keep wandering when my parents try to talk to me about marriage?
I groan quietly and roll onto my back.
Art. Gallery. Focus.
I need to call Elena tomorrow and ask her about Caroline. I didn’t come to London just for nostalgia or Clive’s chaos. I pulled him out of his insane schedule for a reason. My boarding school and college networks have always been gold when it comes to this kind of venture.
Money isn’t the problem. It never is.
Access is.
If I can introduce Caroline to Clive, I won’t even need to lift a finger for PR. The gallery would sell itself on Clive’s mix of old-money high-society and nouveau-rich strivers.
From a few earlier interactions with her, Caroline is sharp. I’ll give her that.
I was a debate champion at MIT again and again, and that week in San Francisco, when Elena and I tagged along with Stefano - who begged me to come for moral support because the man was shaking like a leaf over he and his girlfriend, Gigi, spending the weekend with her domineering brother - Caroline walked away from our arguments more than once.
She walked away with a smirk. The kind of smirk that says I just played out the chess match in my head and I have checkmate in four.
At first, I thought Caroline and Connor were a couple. They were always together, like shadows, inseparable. Turns out they’re just best friends. No explanation needed between them. A raised eyebrow, a flick of a hand, and they understand each other completely.
I hate how jealous that makes me. I value loyalty above all else and I have great friends. But I never had that.
I have a New York trip next month. I should make sure I see a few people while I’m there. Drinks with Gigi and Connor wouldn’t hurt. Connor is… useful. Cold as a glacier, that one, but I like him.
God, my mind is spiraling. I can feel it. I know I am exhausted. I force myself to breathe, to slow down. Thursday and Friday - I’ll use them to tie everything up before heading back to Milan.
And I need to get to Caroline. I need her at my opening night.
Priority - set.