CHAPTER 45
Caroline
“Why do you insist on boxing tomorrow night?” I sigh, the reluctance written all over my face.
“Why don’t we do Friday or Saturday instead?
” I am picturing the end to my perfect Thursday night, on my couch, in my pajamas, a crème-filled donut after a good carbonara, and something deliciously steamy on TV.
“Because I have a date on Friday,” Anton says, leaning closer so only I can hear.
“Even better. All the more reason to box Saturday then. That way your face and your ego stay intact for your hot date on Friday.”
“You’re cocky, Caroline. You think you could take me down?” Anton shrugs. “I read your moves like the Financial Times, baby girl.”
“Ouch. Baby girl? Ouch.” I laugh.
“Of course, what’s wrong with being a baby girl?
” Charlie, Celina’s junior editor, drops into the seat beside me, sliding a whiskey into my hand before lifting his own.
“Caroline, every single one of us, including you, is exhausted from pretending to be indestructible all the time. Sometimes you need to let yourself be taken care of. Sometimes you need to be somebody’s baby girl for a minute. ”
Charlie clinks his glass against mine before greeting Anton, and the sound rings soft and warm between us.
I catch myself smiling at him. Weeks ago, he looked hollowed out by his own life.
Tonight, there’s color in him again. He looks different now, like sorrow and sadness finally eased their grip on his shoulders.
“I know you hate hearing this,” he says, leaning back into the chair, “but seriously. Let yourself want something soft for once. Take Edoardo back. I still think the two of you belong together.”
“Oh, you’re a therapist now?” I take a slow sip of whiskey, masking the hitch in my chest. “I’m definitely not paying for that kind of terrible advice.”
I dodge the conversation effortlessly with the polished instinct of someone who has spent months surviving questions she doesn’t want to answer.
Everyone thinks Edoardo and I were good for each other. And that’s exactly the problem.
Because I don’t want Edoardo back. I want him gone.
I want to erase him so completely that hearing his name doesn’t feel like someone dragging a knife down the center of my ribs.
I want to forget the warm velvet of his voice brushing over my skin in the quiet nights when it was just the two of us.
I want to forget the clean, woody scent of him that lived in my lungs for months after he left, the phantom trace of it that still lingers in my room, still reminds me how it once wrapped around me, only me.
For one awful second, I forget how to breathe. I hold the breath there, trapped in my chest alongside the thought of him. I hold it suspended, because one careless mention of Edoardo is enough to splinter every wall I’ve spent months building around myself.
I’ve only run into him three times in the past few months - the result of careful scheduling, too many calls from my assistant, and quiet coordination to make sure we never landed on the same guest list.
Last Saturday didn’t count. Connor flew in unexpectedly and dragged all of us out together - Gigi and Stefano, Celina and Connor, Edoardo, and me. No avoiding it.
I rehearsed for hours after Connor started the text chain.
I practiced how to sit across from Edoardo without reaching for my glass every five seconds just to steady my hands.
I practiced sounding untouched, unbothered.
I practiced how to smile and laugh without the quiver in my voice or the tremble in my lips.
I practiced how to look at him without looking wounded.
And I practiced not getting lost in his eyes.
It was all useless.
Because the moment I saw him, the moment my traitorous eyes landed on his face, I fell apart somewhere deep inside.
He was still devastatingly handsome in that effortless way of his. His eyes met mine, soft and familiar, and my heart lurched so violently I thought everyone at the table might hear it.
But something about him has changed.
After he ended things, something in him calcified, like a distance, a restraint, like a door pulled almost but not quite shut. Saturday, though, he looked lighter and easier in his own skin.
Maybe that’s what moving on looks like up close, when he finally files me away into the past tense. Maybe that’s what it feels like when someone finally survives losing you. The thought tightens in my chest until breathing feels deliberate.
And the worst part was that I couldn’t escape him all night.
There were only six of us at the table. Two couples folded naturally into each other, leaving him and me stranded across from one another like unfinished business nobody knew what to do with it.
There was nowhere for his attention to go that didn’t eventually circle back.
Every time I looked up, he was already looking, like we were caught in some quiet gravity neither of us acknowledged out loud.
It’s only been a few days, but I still feel it. I still feel the unbearable weight of being seen by him, and the sharper ache of knowing it doesn’t mean the same thing anymore.
And that hurts. That hurts badly. That hurts more than I want to admit.
On the outside, I’m composed. Inside, I’m unraveling.
I’m screwed, completely and royally screwed. Because seeing him, hearing him laugh, and existing too close to him woke something I’ve worked so hard to bury. Something I’ve locked away months ago with shaking hands and brute force.
And it became alive again in the last few days.
It’s felt like Edoardo is standing outside the locked door of my chest, pounding against it with both fists.
Heat slips through the cracks every time I think about him, building pressure and threatening to surge back to life and burn straight through my last line of defense.
I need distance. I need silence. I need to get him out of my bloodstream before he becomes part of me again.
And more than anything, I need to fight back before I lose whatever is left of myself.
***
“Do you need anything else, Caroline?” Charlie asks.
Celina flew to Milan with Connor for the weekend, so Charlie and I have been keeping each other company in the margins.
“No, I’m good. Thanks, Charlie.” I tighten the wrap around my knuckles, pulling the fabric snug across my palm. “But where is Anton? I’m about to hunt him down if he makes me wait another five minutes.”
Here I am on a Saturday night, standing in his private gym, hands cocooned in cotton and elastic, sliding my gloves on. At least, I’ll sweat out the fish and chips. Small victories.
“He’ll be here,” Charlie says, already turning away. “I’m claiming the reading room. Drink. Book. Heaven.”
“Enjoy your smut,” I call after him.
The door clicks shut. I grin to myself. Honestly, a glass of whiskey and a filthy novel sounds heavenly. The steamier the better.
The door opens again.
“Anton, if you’re not dressed and ready to drag your…”
The words dissolve as Edoardo steps into my view.
I shoot to my feet so fast the bench screeches.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“What do you think I’m here for, Cara?” The word lands low in my stomach.
“Don’t call me that. Where’s Anton?” I try to calm the tornado that is building up too violently in my chest.
“He had something come up. I’m available to substitute.” He lifts his wrapped hands slightly, gloves tight, and mouthguard already in. “So, I’m boxing you.”
“I scheduled Anton.”
“I’ll take his rounds.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “I don’t want to box you.”
“Because I’m your ex?” His tone is calm, but his eyes search my face like he’s looking for the real answer.
“No.” My jaw tightens. “Because I didn’t plan to.” Heat climbs fast beneath my skin, sharp and unwanted.
“You said we shouldn’t be strangers,” he says softly. “But you keep stepping back.”
“I’m not…”
“You’re not avoiding me?” A faint challenge.
“I don’t want to box you. That’s it.” The words crack out of me, harder than I intend.
“I’m here for you, Cara.” His gaze pins me in place. “I want to talk. About us.”
“There is no ‘us.’” The anger hits fast and sharp, burning through my chest. “You’re my ex. That’s all you are.”
Edoardo steps into my path, close enough that I have to hold my ground or give it up entirely. His eyes don’t flicker away. “Then you’ve got two options tonight, Cara. We box, or we talk.”
I drag in a slow breath, forcing control back into my body. “Fine. We box. But I stop when I want.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Always.”
We step into the ring. The canvas hums under my feet as I settle into stance, weight balanced, chin tucked, gloves high. Across from me, Edoardo rolls his shoulders loose, eyes steady, breathing already measured.
He nods. We close distance.
Edoardo starts with precise and sharp probing jabs, testing the distance. I answer with my own, gloves snapping against his. The rhythm builds: tap, block, breathe. Leather on leather. Footsteps whispering over canvas.
He circles right, light on his toes, and then plants his feet and fires a jab-cross right down the center. I slip under the cross, feel the wind of it skim my hair, and drive a tight hook into his ribs. Solid contact. Bone and muscle giving under my fist. I pivot out before his counter fires.
We orbit each other, striking and gliding.
I land a few more mean punches and a brutal left hook that snaps his head sideways.
I don’t even feel winded. I know my strength.
Years of training packed behind every shot should’ve knocked the breath out of him by now, but Edoardo’s stubborn as hell. He refuses to quit.
He cuts the ring with small, patient shuffles, right hand twitching with feints, his left flicking like a metronome. Pressure without haste. Control. Precise. He’s dangerous in a way that crawls under my skin.
Then, a feint twitches from his shoulder. I bite just enough and his left hook whips out, slamming straight into my side. Pain blooms bright and hot. I answer on instinct, a hook toward his jaw, but he leans back a fraction, my punch grazing air.
And I catch it, a hint of a smile flickers.
Bastard. He’s studied me.
Fine. I change the tempo. I’ll end this quick.
I switch levels, stepping in with a jab to his chest to disrupt his rhythm, then a tight upward hook before sliding off at an angle. My feet stay light, pushing off the ball, never plant long enough for him to trap me.
He tries to steer me toward the ropes, edging in behind a double jab. I pivot hard off my right foot, brushing past his shoulder, forcing him to turn, to reset.
Then, I see it. Every time he jabs, his right guard dips a fraction. A window.
I start circling tighter, baiting the jab.
There. The drop. Lightning quick, I launch a cross and land a perfect strike, crisp, powerful, right below his eye.
That kind of punch can end a sparring session.
He wobbles for a moment, but I have to admit, he’s pretty and tough.
He shakes it off, adjusts his mouthguard, and advances.
The pace between us climbs. Breath louder. Sweat slick on skin.
He doubles his jab and drives a right straight down the center. Air explodes from my lungs. For a split second the world narrows to impact and ringing ears.
I fire back before the space closes. Jab, cross, left hook. The last smacks hard into his gloves and forcing him a step back. Just enough.
We collide at center ring, trading in tight quarters with short hooks thudding into arms and ribs, gloves brushing skin, forearms knocking. Our foreheads nearly touch as we fight for inside position, each tiny shift of weight a battle for leverage.
He nudges space open with his forearm and snaps a compact uppercut, lifting my chin just enough for a jab to follow. My vision sparks white for a split second, but I plant my feet and answer with hook–cross, refusing to give ground.
Then momentum folds us together. We fall into a clinch, less a hold than gravity and exhaustion pulling us into the same place.
My gloves brace against his shoulders. His hands settle at my sides, steady and firm.
Our chests rise and fall in sync, sweat and breath hanging heavy between us, the fight dissolving into heat and proximity.
For a second, the world narrows to the sound of our breathing.
He smiles. A soft, almost disbelieving smile. And I forget we’re supposed to be hitting each other.
He feels the shift, loosens his grip. We step apart, eyes still locked. I stare at him, lower my gloves, then turn away before whatever is building in my chest can find words.
I strip off my gloves, peel away the gear, and walk out without saying a word.