CHAPTER 19
Caroline
I spent three days buried in work at my New York headquarters, capped it with our holiday party, then flew to San Francisco last night. The fatigue still clings to me as I step inside Connor’s house.
“How are you holding up, Con?” I ask quietly, pulling him into me.
The whole crew is here, and his San Francisco house looks unreal - lifted straight from a winter dream.
Massive Christmas trees rise through the foyer on every level, heavy with silver and gold ornaments.
Deep reds and warm golds melt into soft whites, candlelight glowing in every corner.
Love has been poured into this place deliberately, room by room.
“We get through this together,” I murmur against him when he doesn’t answer. “I love you, Con.”
“Wow.” Adam grins as he approaches. “Look who finally showed up. Looking good, Kitty.” He wraps me in a tight, familiar hug.
“What are you wearing?” I ask, hugging him back, one brow lifting at his suit.
“He dresses like James Bond,” Ethan cuts in as he steps forward to hug me too, “if Bond made deeply questionable fashion choices.” He squeezes me. “You missed the New York party.”
“I did.” I sigh. “The storm grounded us for two days.”
Those two days turned into an unexpected pause. Michael and I drove back to London instead, indulging in gossip, spa treatments, and far too much food. No shopping, I warned him. My closets were already casualties of his enthusiasm. Also two more nights with Edoardo.
“Dude, it’s Italian wool,” Adam protests dramatically.
“Well, don’t say that in front of Stefano,” Gigi’s voice comes from behind me as she pulls me into another warm hug.
I love my people. We know each other well enough to tease mercilessly without ever crossing a line. We’ve weathered enough storms to know where the ground is solid. They’re my second family. I trust them with my life.
“Hi, baby girl. Hi, Deba.” I hug Gigi, then Ethan’s fiancée, before returning to Ethan’s statement. “Sorry again, the storm was insane.”
Deba turns to Adam. “Where’s Megan?”
“Her firm’s gala thing,” Adam answers.
Ethan adds dryly, “His girlfriend decided to do herself a favor and stay away from him and his James Bond costume tonight.”
“She kissed me and said, ‘Don’t let them bully you,’” Adam scoffs. “You’re all monsters.”
Then, he makes a face like he’s just been handed a glass of sour milk. Two years younger than the rest of us at Stanford, he weaponizes that pouting face whenever he can, leaning into that “baby of the group” role like it grants him diplomatic immunity from our endless teasing.
“Lovely monsters,” I say, slinging an arm around him.
“Festive monsters,” Gigi adds.
“What am I missing?” Stefano appears with two champagne flutes, handing one to Gigi and one to Deba before pulling me into a greeting hug.
I ask, “and where’s mine?”
“Whiskey’s on the way,” he winks. There’s a glint in his eye I don’t miss.
“No more whiskey for you, CJ,” Gigi warns Connor, shooting him a look.
Connor glowers. The shift is subtle but immediate. I stay close without hovering. We’ve been coordinating among Ethan, Adam, Gigi, and me so someone is always around, always pulling him out, always keeping the darkness at bay.
“So,” Stefano says gently, “holiday travel all set? Anyone want to come skiing with us?”
“Nah.” Ethan waves dismissively. “Thanks, but I’ve got enough snow coming my way to last months.”
“I’d love the resort,” I say easily. “Just not the skiing part. I go to ski resorts to sleep, eat, spa, and repeat. Actual skiing would be a waste.”
“What are you doing for the holidays?” Gigi asks. “Traveling with Michael?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll be with my parents, first here and Sonoma, then the Caribbean between Christmas and New Year.” I sigh. “Wish me luck.”
“Why luck?” Stefano asks.
“Because they’re going to deploy a small army of blind dates,” Ethan says solemnly. “And Kitty, you can’t avoid them forever. You also can’t keep using us as emergency excuses.”
“I’ve lied to your parents more times than I can count,” Adam snorts. “I’m definitely on a watch list.”
“I can handle here and Sonoma,” I say. “But the Caribbean with nowhere to hide and random dates? I shiver just thinking about it.”
The group groans in sympathy.
“Come with us,” Gigi suggests. “CJ’s joining us. Just us and Stefano’s family.”
“Yeah,” Stefano adds warmly. “Sleep, eat, drink, spa. Zero judgment.”
“Join me?” Connor says softly. His eyes are still heavy, still sad. “Don’t make me the third wheel to these two. Come stay with me. You’ve been away so much.”
My chest tightens. Two weeks ago, my best friend walked into a coffee shop Celina chose, carrying a fragile hope he might hold her again.
“Okay,” I say gently. “Let me think about it. I need to talk to my parents. But I’ll let you know.”
Reality didn’t meet his hope at the coffee shop. She chose differently, and she was right, but that doesn’t make it hurt less.
My best friend is a fool.
A fool for love.
And love, more often than not, only hurts.
***
“I already told you I’m not interested in settling down,” I say again, my voice flat, my gaze fixed anywhere but on my parents. “We’ve been circling this for hours. Hours.”
“Why do you have to be so stubborn, Caroline?” My father snaps. The name lands like a slap. Not Cara. Not anymore. “What does Brad do to you that makes you despise him so much?”
“I don’t despise him.” I draw in a slow breath, forcing calm. “I don’t want to get married. And there’s nothing wrong with Brad. There’s just no chemistry.” I lift my wine glass, watching the dark red swirl, as if it might open a door I can step through and disappear. “That should be enough.”
“Honey,” my mother says softly, but I hear the steel creeping in, the patience thinning at the edges, “we will set you up every month with a good man whether you like it or not. Until you find someone you’re interested in enough for a second date. And a third.”
My head snaps up. “Why?” I shoot back. “I’m not a piece of meat to be passed around to random men.”
She shrugs. “You’re not, but you don’t put an ounce of effort into seeing a man properly unless we force you to.”
“That is low, even for you.” My chest tightens. “It’s the twenty-first century, not some archaic era of arranged marriages. Why can’t you respect my wishes?”
“We did,” my father cuts in, his voice already burning. “We gave you years. Years to run around. To date whoever you wanted.” He leans forward. “You have every privilege in the world, and you choose to let our name end with you. No husband. No heir.” His eyes harden. “Just you. Alone.”
“Daddy, that’s enough.” My voice cracks despite my effort. “You don’t get to judge my life or my choices.”
“You dare talk back to me like that?” he roars. “We birthed you. We went through hell to raise you. William…”
“Stop it, Charles.” My mother cuts him off sharply. Then she turns to me, too late, softening her voice. “Cara, baby, go take a break. Ask the driver to take you for a massage. I’ll come get you later.”
But her words reach me only in fragments. The room tilts. My ears ring.
All I hear is William.
I turn and bolt.
I don’t know where I’m going, only that I can’t stay. I run until my lungs burn, until the manicured grounds blur into streaks of green. I trip over a stone I don’t see and crash face-first into the grass.
I don’t get up.
I let the earth hold me as tears spill freely, hot and relentless, soaking into the ground beneath my cheek.
William.
My little brother.
The other half of my soul.
He’s somewhere in heaven now, laughing that pure laugh that once lit up entire rooms. I can almost see him, looking down at me, smiling like sunlight breaking through cloud cover.
William.
I repeat his name until the pain dulls, until it turns into something heavier but quieter, something I can survive.
I loved him the moment I held him - one day old, impossibly small, impossibly perfect. The most beautiful, most loving, most kindhearted person I’ve ever known.
Years have passed. After his death, my parents moved us from London to San Francisco when I was just finishing elementary school.
No one in this house says his name anymore. Because they know. That I asked him to come with me that afternoon. That he never would have been near that pool if not for me.
I lie there a long time, long enough for my thoughts to empty, for my eyelids to grow heavy. Eventually, my mother finds me. She doesn’t speak. She simply lies down beside me, our shoulders barely touching, sharing the silence like a fragile truce.
When we finally rise and walk back toward the house, the sun is bleeding into the horizon. We don’t speak until we reach the foyer.
“Cara, baby.” My mother turns to me, her voice trembling. “You have to leave that guilt behind. You need to go back to therapy. I can’t watch my baby suffer like this.”
I really look at her then - the swollen eyes, red-rimmed and raw. The smear of makeup on her blouse. The way her face trembles as she fights to stay composed.
I step closer and brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mama,” I whisper, pulling her into my arms.
She melts into me. “You aren’t angry with Daddy, are you?” she asks quietly. “He didn’t mean it.”
“No,” I murmur, holding her tighter, breathing her in until my chest steadies. “I’m not.” I squeeze her once more. “I love you, Mama.”
“I love you too, Cara.” She pauses. “But don’t dodge therapy again. It helped you once. You’ve carried this for so long - it isn’t yours alone.”
“Okay,” I say, though I don’t know which part I’m agreeing with, if any.
After cleaning my face, I knock softly on the library door. No answer. I push it open.
My father doesn’t look up. I cross the room and sit beside him. “Daddy.”
“Cara, I’m sorry,” he says immediately, lifting his head. His eyes are tired. Regret hangs heavy there. “I didn’t mean—”
“No.” I move closer and wrap my arms around his waist. “You don’t need to say it. I’m sorry too.”
He exhales shakily. “Your mother… she must be hurting.”
That hurts more than anything else.
I do have wonderful parents - loving, patient, flawed. Connor once told me to try seeing things from their perspective. I don’t need to try. I understand why they want me to settle down. I just don’t have it in me.
“We all are,” I say quietly. “But talking about that,… it pulls old wounds open.”
He hugs me tighter. “We’re just worried about you.”
“I know.” My voice softens. “Let’s drop the boyfriend thing. Let’s just be together for a few days. I want to sleep. I want to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. Or we can bike around.”
A small smile breaks through his grief. “That sounds wonderful.”
He pulls me closer. “You’re our everything, Cara.”
My heart twists painfully.
Yes. I am their everything. Their only thing. Their whole world.