CHAPTER 5
Caroline
I groan inwardly at the thought of sitting through dinner with the senior leadership team from the UK regional office.
Groan isn’t even the right word. I’d rather punch a few of them in the face and tell the rest to sharpen their eyesight and their thinking.
But tonight, choice is a luxury I don’t have.
“Dinner is at 6:30,” Jill says, running through my calendar one more time, efficient as ever.
It’s already four in the afternoon. I haven’t eaten all day. The lunch sandwiches are still untouched, sitting neatly in their little paper box, as if mocking my discipline and unrelenting schedule.
“Thanks, Jill,” I say. “Any update on Spain and Italy’s financial statements? Did they break it out?”
She nods. “Yes. They’re working through two more line items and will send everything over within the hour. I’ll have it for you before dinner.”
“Good.” I pause, then add, “Are you joining us tonight?”
“No, this dinner is only for senior leaders,” Jill replies.
“You’ve dealt with most of them already,” I say calmly. “I need you there to listen, to think, and to tell me afterward what they really mean.”
She hesitates.
“I’ll handle it,” I continue. “Sorry to keep you from resting tonight, but this will be good exposure for you.”
I pick up the phone and call the office manager, instructing her to arrange an additional seat for Jill.
Once she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her, I down an entire bottle of cold water and let the chill drown my exhaustion for a moment. Let it reset me.
I close my eyes just for a minute. And somehow unhelpfully and irritatingly, my mind drifts to last night and to this morning.
To the way I caught Edoardo’s eyes on me, that softened look, nothing like the challenging stares we traded weeks ago. It wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t careful. And it sent an unwelcome warmth sliding through my body, slow and unmistakable.
And then this morning. The collision of sweat-damp bodies. Brief and accidental. I didn’t react, but I felt it. A sharp, lightning-quick awareness of exactly where we touched.
And then I was even more stupid for offering to clean him up. Just a brush of my fingers along his elbow and his arm sent something strange slide down the back of my neck, settling low and persistent, refusing to dissolve.
I’m clearly exhausted. I’ve never fixated on a man. I’ve dated enough good-looking, devastating-in-bed men to know better than to give this much mental space to anyone.
I need to focus.
The European regional leaders don’t particularly like me. I shut down major channels in Spain and Italy after months of underperformance. I chose smaller and profitable over larger and bleeding. Market share means nothing if it’s hemorrhaging cash. Growth without profitability is just vanity.
I don’t need to justify my decisions to these leaders. But I do need to make them work for me.
So, I plaster on a smile, lift my chin, and walk into the glossy Mayfair restaurant - expensive, ornate, and guaranteed to serve mediocre food over an excruciatingly long dinner.
At least most of them are loyal to the company and ethical. That matters. What I need now is for them to be sharper, less confined by the imaginary boxes they insist on drawing around themselves. As for George and his inner circle, I’ll decide how to uproot them once I recover the company’s money.
George has deliberately placed Jill as far from me as possible, stranded at the end of the table. He takes the seat beside me.
Fine. He can have that seat. But pushing Jill aside won’t go unanswered. I’ll teach her how to harden her spine and claim the space, sitting where she belongs.
Another thing to add into my notebook for later.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, unwanted and unresolved, a quieter thought lingers. If I’m this distracted now… what happens the next time Edoardo looks at me like that again?
I bury the question violently and turn my attention back to the table. I don’t have the time or the bandwidth for questions like that.
Focus. This is what I’m good at.
The discussion starts.
The calm settles in.
***
Edoardo
It is hell to sit here - no, to be trapped here - with Clive in this suffocating Mayfair restaurant, flanked by two of our mutual acquaintances: Amina, heiress to a sprawling food empire, and Nadine, the youngest daughter of a shipping tycoon.
We were all shipped off to boarding school together, sealed into the same polished misery, though Amina and Nadine were two years behind us.
“You can’t miss the Bakers,” Clive says, tapping my screen. “Here, Elise’s contact. Their daughter.”
I know both girls, though we never truly moved in the same circles.
Nadine once had a very public crush on me when we were in Boston.
Public in a way that left no room for interpretation.
She told our friends and even Elena. I never returned it.
Not because she wasn’t beautiful (she was, and still is), but because I was always attached to someone back then, orbiting relationships like a bad habit I refused to break.
And Nadine… she was a little uncontained for my taste.
“Add the Browns too,” Nadine says, leaning in. “Here’s their address.”
Speaking of taste - mine is clearly questionable these days. I already had my assistant ready my jet for Saturday afternoon. Then, I moved it up a full day earlier, to tomorrow noon. I need to be back in Milan as soon as possible.
This morning rattled me more than I care to admit. Just her touch, brief and unintentional, sent my pulse skidding off its axis. Sharp. Immediate. Unreasonable. I can’t afford that kind of distraction. No, I can’t afford that kind of stupidity.
“The Patels should be on the list too,” Amina adds casually. “I haven’t seen Rahul in months, but I can call him later if you want.”
They’re genuinely helpful, both of them. I nod, appreciative. My MacBook sits open between us, its glow reflecting off crystal glasses and manicured hands. Names. Contacts. Affiliations. My opening night reduced to rows and columns, influence distilled into logistics.
“How about leaving this one out?” Nadine points at a name. Amina nods immediately.
“Why?” Clive asks, fingers lazily circling the rim of his dirty martini.
“She just broke off her engagement with a Bonney guy,” Amina says, sipping slowly. “Putting them together is too fresh of a wound for both.”
Amina seems to survive on finger food and dirty martinis alone.
Tiny bites. Few calories. Watching her weight, she said.
I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s cultural because for an Italian like me, I want my lover fed, satisfied, alive.
How does anyone have energy for anything else, let alone sex, when they’re constantly starving themselves?
“When you’re done with the list, I can review it once more,” Nadine says between bites of veal. “It’d help even more if you draft a seating chart. I can tell you who absolutely cannot sit together.”
I study her then. Really look at her. Nadine has changed. The sharp, reckless edges have softened into something deliberate. There’s confidence and maturity now. I haven’t spoken much with her tonight as we’re both so focused on logistics, but she’s nothing like the girl I remember.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “That would be incredibly helpful.”
I reach for a grilled asparagus just as Clive’s eyes widen.
“What?” I ask, already turning.
And then I see her. What the hell is this? Why do I keep running into Caroline?
She doesn’t notice us. Sharp in tailored business attire, heels clicking decisively against the floor, she moves straight toward a table at the far end where a group is already waiting. A business dinner. Of course.
This is the Caroline I met weeks ago. Controlled and focused. All edges and intellect. A woman who looks like she belongs to motion, not interruption.
Clive doesn’t even give me time to breathe. “Mate, it’s inevitable. I’m destined to date Caroline.”
“Who?” Amina asks lazily, lifting her martini.
“Caroline Hammond,” Nadine answers smoothly. “She’s been here a while. That table. She stepped out earlier to take a call.”
Clive turns to her sharply. “You know her?”
“Barely. Her team negotiated with one of our family companies for European shipping. I don’t know her personally. But she’s tough. Very business-driven.” Nadine says.
“That’s exactly my type,” Clive says, eyes lighting up like a child spotting fireworks. Then he looks at me and grins. “You’re useless.”
“Enough,” I snap, sharper than intended. “It’s been twenty-four hours since you ran into her. I have a gallery to open. Back up.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I was just saying.”
“Let’s get back on track,” I say, dragging Clive back from his impatient pursuit. “I’ll finish the list and draft the seating chart and send it to you. Still, we should get back together to finalize things. More efficient than emailing ourselves into madness.”
“Agreed,” Nadine says easily.
Clive and Amina nod as well.
“I’ll call the people I mentioned,” Amina adds. “Clive and Nadine can handle the other key ones. Once they confirm, the rest will follow. You’re guaranteed a successful night, gentleman.”
“How about the invitation?” I ask. “Do you know anyone with exceptional taste? Design and print. I don’t want to use my Milan or Paris agencies, one less logistical knot.”
“I’ll send you two contacts,” Clive says. “Old-money design houses. Absurdly expensive but worth every penny.”
“Deal,” I say easily. “Money isn’t an issue.”
“What else do you need, Edoardo?” Amina asks.
“I think we’ve covered the…”
Before I get to finish my sentence, Clive stands abruptly and pulls Nadine with him.
Straight toward Caroline’s table.
I release a long breath. Fine. Let them create whatever chaos they’re about to unleash.
Still, I turn. My eyes follow them despite myself.
Clive is already shaking hands. Nadine stands beside him, graceful and composed. Caroline’s back is to us. She doesn’t look our way. Not even once.