CHAPTER 27
Edoardo
“Wow. That’s one hell of a party.”
Clive’s voice screeches through my phone speaker like airplane wheels biting into a runway, all static and disbelief, while Stefano swings his camera around, giving us a dizzying tour of chandeliers, champagne towers, and a sea of perfectly dressed people.
“What the fuck are you getting yourself into, Stefano?” Clive goes on. “Gigi’s family is what - extreme wealth?”
That, coming from a man whose family owns half of London’s prime postcodes, says plenty.
“Easy,” Xander cuts in, laughing at Clive’s theatrics. “Stefano’s old money too, remember? He’ll survive.”
“Right,” Clive says, zeroing in on me instantly like a bloodhound who’s caught a scent. “But is Caroline Gigi-level rich? Edoardo, are you diving into a goldmine?”
I snort. “You’re impossible. Planning to take your diamonds with you to the afterlife?”
Stefano and Xander both laugh. I’ve seen enough O’Hara estates to know the word absurd barely scratches the surface.
I’ve seen some of the Hammonds’ world too.
But how do you even measure wealth at that altitude?
Even among the four of us, who really knows how deep Xander’s, Clive’s, or Stefano’s wells go?
Xander leans closer to the screen, asking me. “You serious about her?”
“I am,” I say. “Stefano, you on speaker?”
“Nope,” he replies. “And I like Caroline a lot, bro. The more I know her, the more I like her. But I’ve got to run, Gigi’s calling. Edoardo’s planning my bachelor party, not you, Clive. I’d like to stay engaged.”
Clive feigns shock but we all agree instantly. When Stefano drops, the call settles into that quieter rhythm the three of us share.
“That’s never been the question, right?” Clive says, softer. “Caroline’s incredible. Even my inner menace would retire for her. The question is… is she into you the way you’re into her?”
“If Connor, the emotional brick wall, can fall in love,” Xander says carefully, “then Caroline, his best friend, definitely can.”
“I don’t know what she thinks,” I admit. “I want to be serious. I am falling for her. But she hasn’t given me anything clear.”
Clive lets out a short laugh. “Since when are you hesitant?”
“I’m not hesitant,” I say, though the words don’t feel as solid as I’d like. “I’m giving her space and time to sort out her things out.”
“Yeah,” Clive scoffs. “You don’t even believe yourself, mate. Get yourself back together.”
“Give him a break,” Xander says. “I’m in London in two weeks for my mum’s birthday. We should meet up.”
I could kiss Xander for the topic change. “Absolutely.” I answer.
“Give me the date and I’ll make reservations, if I can be trusted.
” Clive says, mock-offended, lips curling like he’s been grievously misjudged.
People who don’t know him see flash, arrogance, the easy swagger of a man who expects the world to make space when he walks into a room.
We see the machinery underneath - the strategist, the loyalist disguised in sharp suits and sharper humor.
The man who outmaneuvered his own siblings to become heir to London’s largest real estate empire, then turned around and quietly helped run his mother’s jewelry business even though it would never be his to inherit.
Loyalty is stitched into him, not as a performance but as instinct.
We agree, they both sign off, and the line falls silent.
I stay where I am, staring at the marble statue in my Vienna gallery like it might suddenly lean down and offer counsel.
Like the carved stone might understand the strange, tightening knot Caroline has become in my chest, pulling a little tighter with every passing day, never painful, just inescapable.
Everything else in my life is solid. Ordered. Good.
Elena finally left her job after years of learning and proving herself, and joined the family business with a confidence that makes me proud in ways I don’t say out loud.
She’s not doing it alone; my parents guide her, I do when she lets me, and Stefano’s family have folded her into their orbit as if she were the daughter they never had.
She laughs more now. There’s a lightness in her I hadn’t realized I’d missed.
My parents, for their part, have finally stopped ambushing me with Isabella updates or the latest list of eligible daughters and nieces from their social circle.
I drew the line politely and firmly. They know I’m seeing someone.
They don’t know who. Not yet. I’m not ready to share her with their expectations.
Work is steady. The galleries are thriving, critics generous, sales strong.
My inner circle, zone directors, gallery directors, senior curators, and finance heads, are all capable and steady hands.
Of course there are always fires: last-minute calls, tense negotiations, the constant hum of urgency that never quite fades in this world.
But compared to what others juggle, I know I’m fortunate.
And then there is Caroline.
Being with her is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, which is perhaps the most surprising part.
Home isn’t a place with her. Her homes are New York and San Francisco, mine is Milan, yet in London or Vienna or any hotel suite, if she’s there, gravity feels aligned, like the world finally decided which way is up and which down for both of us.
I sleep deeper beside her. Our bodies find each other instinctively, as if they memorized a rhythm long before our minds caught up.
My attention, my instincts, circle back to her without effort.
We plan trips with an unspoken coordination, arranging meetings so we land in London the same weeks, the same days, stealing time like it’s currency only we understand.
And when we’re apart, the world feels like it’s on pause until she’s back.
We’re still explosive, still electric. It’s still impossible to get enough.
There are mornings when we’re both dressed, polished, ready to walk out the door—and then one look, one shared breath, and everything unravels into laughter, heat, and the delicious surrender of being late to a world that can wait.
Time folds when I’m with her. The rest of life pauses politely at the edges. Wanting her feels as necessary and automatic as breathing.
And still, beneath the ease, I feel something brewing. In the air between us. In the quiet moments when she goes still, when her gaze drifts somewhere I can’t follow. In me, too.
Ask Gigi, Elena had said when I confessed how deep this had gone. She wanted to help, but she doesn’t know Caroline well enough to translate her silences. Maybe I will ask, next time Gigi and I are in the same room.
Caroline mentioned therapy once, almost in passing. I waited, giving her space to continue, but she didn’t. I know better than to push. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, on her timeline, not mine.
And I will be patient. Because she isn’t just someone in my life. She’s my person. The one my mind reaches for without permission, the one my days quietly orient around.
And yet, there’s a feeling I can’t quite name.
A faint signal flickering beneath the surface, like static before a storm.
One instinct tells me to slow down, to move gently, to protect her and whatever fragile thing is growing between us.
Another urges me forward, to risk everything, to say the words that hover constantly at the back of my throat.
I don’t know which instinct is wiser. Or which one I’ll listen to when the moment finally comes.
Maybe I’ve gone mad. Completely, irreversibly mad.