CHAPTER 34
Caroline
“This is Caroline.” That’s the introduction I’ve always lived with - just my name, clean and unattached, no labels trailing behind it. So, hearing “This is Caroline, my girlfriend,” lands like a small, bright shock to the system.
We’d barely made it ten steps toward brunch before we ran into two of Edoardo’s business partners, and there it was, said so casually like it had always belonged there.
Weird. Good weird.
“So,” Edoardo says, turning to Stefano with a grin, “when’s the wedding? You two got a timeline or are we all just emotionally preparing forever?” Under the table, his fingers lace through mine, warm, steady, grounding.
“We’re in the romantic denial phase,” Stefano says, glancing at Gigi who’s practically fused to his side. “No dates. No spreadsheets. Just vibes.”
“Yes, the honeymoon phase of being engaged,” Gigi adds cheerfully, talking around a bite of crostini. “Low stress. High carbs.”
“My parents, though?” Stefano groans, tipping his head back.
“They have a shared Google doc called Our Children’s Wedding.
They update it daily. If you ask about dates in front of them, they’ll turn you into a customer service hotline.
One minute you’re predicting the weather, next minute you’re choosing peonies and debating ivory versus eggshell. ”
Laughter ripples around the table.
“At least your parents have a mission,” Xander says, swirling his coffee. “Mine nag recreationally. It’s like cardio for them.”
Sitting across from Xander feels strange.
He was, still possibly is, into Celina. And with everything tangled between Celina and Connor, conversation with Xander feels like walking across thin ice.
He’s easy, polished, kind, but I don’t want anyone standing in the middle of my best friend trying to find his way back to the love of his life.
Good thing is that Xander lives in San Francisco, and he is only here for a few days for his parent’s party.
Edoardo snorts. “Don’t start. My mother probably has two secret Pinterest boards, one for me, one for Elena. Neither of us are even engaged.”
Gigi tilts her head toward me. “Please. Your parents are chill compared to hers. Her parents run blind dates like a military operation. Every weekend she’s in town… boom, new candidate.”
Clive gasps in exaggerated horror. “Wait, seriously? That aggressive? I thought you and I had the same deal - parents who gave up years ago.”
And yes, there’s Clive. Still the strangest piece of the morning.
Months ago, he’d flirted with me like it was a competitive sport, words spilling out at McLaren speed whenever we crossed paths at parties. I’d braced for awkwardness, for leftover static. Instead -
“Nope,” I tell him. “You have siblings. That buys you immunity. I’m an only child.”
Xander perks up instantly and extends a mock-serious fist across the table. “Only-child alliance.”
I bump my fist to his. “Finally, representation.”
“Hey, I’m an only child too,” Stefano protests, leaning in for his own fist bump.
“You don’t count anymore,” I laugh. “You’re with Gigi. Your parents think they adopted a second kid.”
“That’s accurate,” he admits. “Bought me breathing room, until the grandkid campaign begins and suddenly we’re a production facility.” He points his fork at Edoardo. “You’re next, mate. Your parents will be on you and Elena with stopwatches.”
Edoardo shrugs. “They like a roadmap. Marriage first. Then babies. Sequential panic.”
Marriage talk doesn’t faze me. Kids, though - that word moves through me like a cold draft I can’t quite locate.
“Lucky me,” Clive cuts in. “My parents skipped the roadmap and went straight to grandkids. ‘Just bring us one. Or two. Bulk discount preferred.’”
“That’s because of your terrifying brain,” Xander says. “They want brilliant grandchildren.”
Clive lifts a shoulder. “Who am I to argue with the shareholders?”
Edoardo points at Clive. “You joke, but that’s why you never settle. You haven’t met someone gorgeous and clever enough to humble you yet.”
Gigi smiles. “I’d love kids someday. More than one. I grew up with you, Caroline and CJ, siblings make the world bigger.”
“Agreed,” Stefano, Xander, and I say in unison. “Only-child life is brutal.”
William flickers across my mind. The ghost of a sibling life I only tasted. My parents and I always speak about me being an only child, as we never wanted to bring up William because it used to hurt so bad. Now, it still hurts but it is a soft, small ache that doesn’t crush. It just lingers.
Clive snorts. “Try being the ‘successful’ sibling. You lot had sibling affection. Mine just compete with teeth.”
For a second, something real slips through his grin. I’ve heard Edoardo on the phone with him, bickering, laughing, leaning on each other. Underneath the charm, he’s steady and loyal, a friend who always shows up.
Conversation drifts, bouncing from work gossip to travel disasters to who owes who drinks. And it hits me how different this feels sitting across from Clive as just… friends.
He cradles a dirty martini in one hand, the other painting the air as he tells some ridiculous story about Xander losing a bet. He’s still witty, still magnetic, but the energy has softened. Easy instead of electric. Warm instead of charged.
Edoardo leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. Clive catches it, grins, and mouths quietly, Lucky bastard.
I snort, and he winks - playful, kind, no edge left. And I realize I genuinely like him. Not as a what-if, not as a complication. Just as Clive.
Around the table, laughter overlaps in bright, messy layers. Edoardo and his friends are just like me with Connor, Adam, and Ethan. The thought settles warm and slow in my chest.
After brunch, the boys want to go back into the wild for their important male bonding, which is a very polite way of saying a group of grown men will be cackling like hyenas within minutes over the dumbest jokes.
Gigi and I exchange a look, the universal let them be idiots shrug, and peel away from our respective fiancé and boyfriend, leaving them to their unofficial Idiot Committee.
Our afternoon becomes a beautifully unserious rampage, from popping into any shop that so much as winks at us to hoarding accessories for my Latin-themed birthday party like fashionable magpies.
We try on hats that should be illegal, earrings heavy enough to double as self-defense, and face masks that promise spiritual rebirth.
Every dessert shop is treated like a moral obligation.
By the time we land at high tea, we’re floating on sugar and poor decisions.
Porcelain, tiny spoons, and a tower of pastries and biscuits stare back at me.
I grew up in a household where biscuits were practically a belief system, yet I remain a reluctant follower. Still, I sip, I nibble, I judge.
Naturally, we then book a spa because nothing says balance like indulgence followed by aggressive muscle kneading in a eucalyptus-scented sanctuary.
Mid-massage, Edoardo and Stefano text: the boys are at some estate outside London, allegedly doing “countryside fun.”
I stare at the message. What does that even mean? Shooting clay pigeons? Drinking whiskey while pretending to understand land ownership?
Celina joins us for dinner, and from there the weekend tilts delightfully off its axis.
Two girls who’ve known each other forever become three who’ve known each other long enough to be merciless.
The volume rises, the jokes get sharper, and by midnight we’re laughing so hard our voices are hanging on by threads.
That’s when Charlie, Celina’s literary agent, arrives, slipping into the chaos with a brave smile and heartbreak still clinging to his shoulders.
“Look at you,” Celina says, eyeing him. “I thought you’d nap, then go clubbing.”
“No,” he shrugs, trying for lightness. “I wanted a night in with you ladies.”
His energy is brave, but brittle. The manuscript he’s editing with Celina, a tragic faerie romance, has ripped open his own fresh heartbreak.
He financed his ex through business school, watched him land a shiny banking job, and got repaid with cheating and a “It’s not you, it’s me,” breakup speech.
That cheating bastard truly had the audacity.
So obviously, we refuse to let Charlie wallow.
Instead of sinking into reality TV and wine, we mobilize.
Gigi and Celina storm my closet like it’s a department store closing sale, while I have my butler arrange an emergency Saint Laurent run for slacks and a crisp shirt for Charlie.
His earlier outfit looked like grief had a dress code.
Everyone fresh out of heartbreak deserves a reset, something bright enough to pull them, even briefly, out of the gravity well. We all know that from experience. It’s science.
When Charlie steps out of the guest bathroom, Celina pounces, wrapping him in a hug. “You look good, baby.”
“Do I?” He spins, tentative.
“Yes, fabulous.” Gigi beams. “I’m finding you a hot date tonight, Charlie.”
“You look amazing yourself,” Charlie tells Gigi.
Celina and I slowly turn our heads toward him like synchronized villains. Gigi freezes.
“Oh, no… I mean… you all look amazing, it’s just… ” Charlie flounders, eyes ping-ponging between us.
We collapse into feral laughter.
“Darling, we’re messing with you,” I manage between breaths, tears prickling. “We’re hazing you back to life.”
He blinks like a man who’s just survived a surprise pop quiz. Gigi pats his shoulder in sympathy while we continue losing our minds.
“Okay,” Celina says, dabbing at her eyes and checking her reflection. “Mascara intact. Let’s go terrorize London.”
Sweet, quiet Celina - fiercely loyal, endlessly tender - goes full ringleader mode for Charlie. It’s one of the million reasons I love her.
Our car pulls up to a club with a line wrapping the block. Saturday night, everyone glittering like they’ve got secrets to keep.
“How long is that line?” Celina asks.
“We don’t queue, darling.” I say, already walking toward the velvet rope.
Michael’s voice echoes in my head, his relentless updates, his darling this, darling that. Apparently, I’ve caught it like a social disease.
Gigi slips beside me, grins sharp. “Stand back. I’m about to flirt professionally.”
Two smiles, a few honeyed words, and the rope lifts like we’ve just performed a minor miracle. We sweep inside, three women dressed to the nines and Charlie looking freshly resurrected, and walk straight to a table I claim with the confidence of someone who has never once been told no.
“Caroline,” Celina murmurs, nodding two tables over. “Shipping empire.”
I glance. Anton Leka, heir, future tycoon, and one of my European partners, is laughing with his friends.
“I’ll say hi in a minute,” I say, sliding into my seat. “Right now, we celebrate survival.”
Champagne arrives in dramatic fashion - buckets, bubbles, unnecessary flair. Celina eyes the flutes like they’ve personally offended her and hugs her whiskey instead, as if it might try to escape.
The table dissolves into overlapping stories, scandalous commentary, and the kind of gossip that should probably be classified as a sport.
I swing by to greet Anton then drift back to my people, to the bass humming through my bones, to the dance floor where the night feels reckless, glittering, and entirely ours.
We don’t make it home until… honestly, time loses all meaning somewhere between the third round and a song I’m pretty sure I screamed instead of sang.
We wake up at one in the afternoon on Sunday, sunlight slicing through the curtains like it’s judging us. Espresso shots for me and Celina. Cappuccinos for Charlie and Gigi. We shuffle around, brushing ourselves back into humanity, then tumble out into the soft afternoon glow.
I look around the brunch table – messy hair, sunglasses still on, laughing like maniac, armed with orange juice, fizzy drinks, and the fragile dignity of the mildly hungover.
Next weekend. My birthday weekend. It’s going to be a hundred times worse. Which is to say - perfect.