CHAPTER 4
Edoardo
Clive is running his mouth like a Lamborghini at top speed, all rev and no brakes. I can barely track half of what he’s saying.
“Damn, she’s hot. Stunning. Hot.”
I just smile as he barrels on, animated hands, bright eyes, spiraling into a monologue about Caroline and her physics. Didn’t he notice how ripped she was? How coiled with strength? She could drop him like an anchor and not even break a sweat.
“No, really. I’m so turned on,” Clive insists. “I’ve never been this interested in anyone. Anyone.”
He repeats anyone like I didn’t already clock how obsessed he was at the dining table earlier.
I snort. “Really? Didn’t you say the exact same thing about the guy in the Russian ballet sophomore year? And the track girl - what was her name - senior year?”
“For God’s sake, we were in college, mate.” He scoffs. “Girls and guys threw themselves at me, and my cock was way too active to stay quiet. I saw a challenge and went all in.”
“You and your addiction to conquest,” I say dryly. “Just remember - Caroline has ties to Stefano and Elena. Tread carefully. Otherwise, I’ll punch you myself.”
I’d only wanted good pasta tonight, so we chose that Italian place on a whim. After the girls and Stefano went home, we end up grabbing cocktails at a bar in the Edition hotel.
Clive laughs. “You fuck beautiful women left and right too, don’t you?”
“Well, when we were young and reckless,” I say. “But I’ve always leaned toward relationships. I like the homey feeling. Stability.”
“Relax.” He waves his hands helplessly. “I really think Caroline could be my final destination. I can’t take my eyes off her. I’m so turned on.”
He’s not wrong. Caroline is magnetic. Even I felt it. My eyes drifted toward her across the dining table earlier, drawn not by spectacle but by something quieter and softer. A version of her I hadn’t seen before. Less armor, more depth.
Then he groans. “Do something, dude. I can’t just sit around waiting for her to show up at your opening night.”
“I’ll think of something,” I tell him. “You’ve got the guest list, right? Highest society only.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” he says, then smirks. “By the way, our Stefano’s helplessly in love, mate.”
Stefano. How do I even describe him now?
The hardened, all-business friend I’ve known since boarding school has melted into something softer, almost unrecognizable. He’s turned into this affectionate, attentive version of himself, orbiting Gigi like she’s his center of gravity.
Gigi is stunning, I’ll give him that. But we’ve slept with women just as beautiful, just as sharp. There’s something about Gigi, though - something that made him dive in headfirst and keeps him happily captive. Something that makes him look… settled.
My thoughts drift to Isabella. She’s beautiful in a way that draws jealous looks from women and admiration from men wherever we go.
I love Isabella. I do. But do we have what Stefano has with Gigi?
Would I really fly across the Atlantic every single week for her if I opened a gallery in North America?
My parents aren’t pressuring me. Not outright.
But I hear it in the pauses, in the way conversations trail off, in the crumbs and hints they leave behind.
Their friends are becoming grandparents.
My parents light up when they talk about it.
We’re wealthy enough that closing a few galleries or not opening a new one would barely cause a ripple in our lives.
I value stability. I value family traditions. The warmth of a home that feels anchored and real. I want my parents to have grandchildren to spoil, to share in the joy their friends keep bragging about.
But is it my time? And is Isabella the love of my life? The woman I’d be certain about waking up beside every day for the rest of my life?
Or am I hitting something, an invisible wall that’s been dulling the excitement I used to feel, slowly, insistently, over the last year?
Why do I suddenly feel so… clueless about what I want next?
***
I wake up well before dawn despite going to bed far too late. After a couple of laps in my pool, I pull on my running gear and head outside.
It’s a beautiful London morning - humid but no rain, the sky its usual soft gray. Kensington is still asleep. The houses rest quietly, the trees motionless, branches holding their breath.
Running has always been good for me. It clears my head and calms my nervous system. There are plenty of well-maintained trails around my place. It’s still early, hardly anyone out yet.
I decide on the nearly five-mile loop along the outer edges of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Beautiful views, solid distance and then home, ready to head to the gallery site and observe construction.
Next time I’m in New York, I’ll need to run Central Park properly. I’ve done a couple of laps before, but never with enough time to actually see the city while running.
Last time in California, Gigi and her brother took us to Carmel, I ran along the beach.
Breathtaking. I’ve already asked my agent to look into property there.
I wouldn’t mind spending eight figures on a place by the ocean - Carmel, or somewhere nearby.
Waking early for a beach run. Or just to stand there and take it all in.
I’ll take Isabella there next. A quiet week. Just the two of us. Sleeping with her in my arms, waking beside her warm, soft body. Slow mornings, tangled sheets. I miss that. I’ve been too consumed by this project to be fully present. That’s probably why I feel dulled lately, I tell myself.
I pick up my pace.
After finishing the first loop, it’s still early, so I go again. There’s a runner ahead of me. The fog makes it hard to see clearly, but she has a steady rhythm and maintains a good speed. I use her to pace myself. Another double-lapper.
The sounds of the city begin to rise. I turn my music up and sprint. This run feels incredible.
I slow at a crosswalk ahead, jogging in place to keep my muscles loose. Runners are everywhere now, spilling out like ants in waves.
I glance right. A van is approaching at speed and after that, it should be clear to continue. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a runner jogs into the crosswalk from my left without looking.
I lunge forward, grab the runner, and yank us both back. I hit the pavement hard, flat on my back. The runner lands on top of me. And the van whooshes past.
“Ouch,” I yelp as my right elbow slams into the concrete.
“Shit.” The woman’s voice. “God, I’m so sorry.”
The voice is familiar. She twists, and I look up at the same time.
“Thank y-”
Our eyes meet. We freeze.
Caroline.
“Oh…”
For a second, neither of us moves. My hand is still tight around her waist, her face inches from mine. We’re flushed, breathing hard. I catch her scent, rose and something smoky beneath it. Warm. Intoxicating.
She recovers first, scrambling off me. She reaches out to help, but I’m already pushing myself up.
“Thanks so much,” she says, smiling. “Are you okay?”
“Sure, you?” I say, checking her instinctively. “Why were you crossing without looking?”
“I’m sorry. I was distracted, so stupid,” she says easily. “And we don’t drive on the left.”
Right. American.
“Thanks again.” Then she frowns. “You’re bleeding.”
I look down. No blood.
“There,” she says, pointing. “Your elbow. It’s scraped raw.”
“Just a scratch,” I shrug. “I’ll survive.” I glance back at her. “You run around here often?”
“I woke up too early, so I did a double lap.”
“Here? The five-mile loop?”
“Yep. I think there were only one or two other runners doing it with me.”
That was her in the fog. Strong pace. Clean rhythm. Of course. The girl boxes professionally.
Still, her body against mine earlier… I’d assumed she’d feel solid, carved, and unyielding the way a boxer is. Instead, she was warm and soft in ways I didn’t expect. The sensation lingers.
“My place is just around the corner,” she says. “Let me clean that up and bandage it for you.”
“I’m fine. My house is close too.”
“Oh.” She smiles. “Then we’re neighbors.”
The smile catches me off guard. I’ve seen her smile before, sharp, teasing, and competitive. But this, this one is natural, completely unguarded. It’s a version of her I’ve never seen.
What am I even thinking?
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Seems like it.”
“Please,” she insists. “I feel terrible.”
I nod before I can stop myself.
Her house is similar to mine, four streets over. Inside, she lowers her voice. “Stefano and the girls should still be asleep.”
“He stays here?” I ask before thinking.
“Yeah. Gigi wanted to stay with Celina and me.” She winks. “Girls win.”
Another smile. Flushed from running, eyes bright. She looks… beautiful. Like a flower opening in early light.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Come,” she says, leading me to the bathroom.
I roll my sleeve up, but her hands are already there. Gentle, feather light, focused. She murmurs something I barely catch as she cleans the scrape, careful with every motion, removing grit and soothing the raw skin.
“There,” she says softly.
She applies ointment, covers it neatly. I can’t stop watching her - those steady hands, that gentle touch, that quiet care.
“Thank you,” I say.
“No. Thank you.” Her smile is smaller now, but just as bright.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and my fingers itch with the urge to touch it. A sudden, alarming, and dangerous something courses through me.
Stop. She’s not my type. Isabella is.
I step back. “Thank you,” I repeat, sharper this time. “I should go.”
“Good mor—” Stefano’s voice cuts in. “Wait. Edoardo?”
He’s already coming down the stairs.
“Morning,” I say.
“What are you doing here?”
“He was my savior,” Caroline says without any of her usual sarcasm. “He scraped his elbow pulling me out of traffic. I cleaned it.”
“Are you okay?” Stefano asks Caroline, his eyes immediately scanning her.
“I’m fine. Edoardo hit the ground for me.”
“Coffee?” Stefano offers.
“I should get going. Have to be at the—”
“Just one,” he insists. “Sit.”
I sigh but follow Stefano into the kitchen. It is a huge area, warm, filled with plants, flowers, rugs from everywhere, textures layered thoughtfully. It feels lived-in and cozy.
We talk. I haven’t caught up with Stefano much lately. Our easy, comfortable catch-up keeps flowing. Time slips.
When I finally leave, Caroline is downstairs with Celina. Gigi wanders in half-asleep, and Caroline pulls her into a sisterly hug. She is soft and affectionate when she is not in public.
Caroline smiles when she sends me off. I don’t know why I can’t look away.