CHAPTER 7
Edoardo
“Chop chop,” I shout, projecting my voice so it ricochets through the entire house. “We’re Italian, but we’re in London. We cannot keep people waiting.”
“I’m nowhere near ready!” my little sister yells back from her room.
“You’ve got thirty minutes, max, sis,” I shout over my shoulder.
I grin to myself. I’ve already built in an extra hour. Girls lose all concept of time the second makeup comes into equation.
“What’s that smirk about?” Stefano asks, stepping out of his room.
“The time-management smirk. What else?” I laugh.
“You sneaky bastard,” he says, shaking his head. “What time did you get home last night?”
“Dawn,” I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “The girls went completely feral after you guys left.”
“Oh boy,” he groans. “Good thing we bailed at two. My principessa could barely walk. She had way too much fun with Elena.”
My princess. Of course. My best friend is so deeply, unapologetically in love that it’s almost disorienting. Watching him with Gigi makes something in my chest twist, not with envy exactly, but with awe.
“Are you staying here next week?” Stefano asks.
“Yep. Some important deadlines to meet.” I shrug. “Though honestly, I stay mostly because being back in Milan is a headache all on its own.”
“You avoiding Isabella or your parents?” he asks gently.
“Both,” I answer, because there’s no point pretending otherwise.
I’ve been avoiding Isabella for weeks now. She’s called. She’s texted. I don’t answer her calls but I reply to the messages sparingly. Because I don’t know what to say or how to explain something I barely understand myself.
“You did the right thing,” Stefano says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, grounding me. “Isabella will understand. And so will your parents. Just… give them some time.”
“Thanks, man,” I murmur as he heads down the hall to check on Gigi.
My parents are still furious. We barely speak. When I’m back in Milan, I stay in my place. At family dinners, Elena plays mediator.
The only real bright spot lately is the gallery. Progress is solid. Invitations went out last week. Opening night is set for three months from now. We might not be completely finished by then, but whatever state we’re in will have to be enough.
The socialites we’re courting live in a constant collision of events stacked on events, and they don’t make room easily.
In that world, three months’ notice is already late.
Most wouldn’t have accepted at all if it weren’t for Amina, Nadine, and Clive calling in favors, dialing private numbers, pushing my name through doors that don’t open for just anyone.
I must have really been lost in thought, because suddenly Elena is standing in front of me, both hands cradling my face. She’s clearly been calling my name.
“Oh boy,” I smile. “Trying to impress someone tonight, sis?”
“Nope,” she smirks. “Just living my life.” Her eyes rake over me approvingly. “You cleaned up nicely too, brother.”
We only speak Italian when it’s just us in my apartment or when we’re with our parents. Otherwise, it’s English. Maybe because we were shipped off to boarding school too young. Maybe because we’ve stayed orbiting that international circle for too long to ever fully come back.
“Thank you,” I say, bowing slightly with exaggerated gratitude.
“You two are ridiculous,” Stefano laughs from the doorway. “Let’s go.”
We are heading to dinner first, then clubbing - private areas already secured in the most coveted club in the city.
“I’m so excited for this Japanese restaurant,” Elena says, looping her arm through mine. “I heard it’s even better than Nobu.” She kisses my cheek. “Thank you, brother. This weekend has been perfect.”
“I’m starving,” Gigi murmurs at Stefano’s side.
I didn’t organize any of this myself. Amina did. Absolute godsend. She hooked me up with a top-tier event manager, and everything since Thursday has been seamless. Elena’s been glowing nonstop, like this city has poured light straight into her veins.
“Beef tataki. Sake. Here we come,” I say, lifting Elena’s purse and handing it to her.
“Yes, let’s goooooooo.” Elena shrieks, already halfway out the door.
That’s right.
Let’s get the party started.
***
Caroline sits directly across from Stefano and me, her delicate fingers circling the rim of her sake glass.
Those fingers are slender and almost fragile looking.
They do not belong to a seasoned boxer. They do not belong to someone who fights bare-knuckle, who steps into rings where pain is currency.
I still cannot reconcile them with what I know of her.
The contradiction pulls at me now, not merely fascinating. It lodges somewhere beneath curiosity, somewhere more dangerous, somewhere that refuses to let go.
She’s talking. I know she is, because her lips move and her voice reaches me. But her words arrive in fragments and never quite form meaning.
My attention is elsewhere entirely.
It’s in the way her expression shifts when she listens. The subtle dip of her lashes when she considers something. The slight purse of her lips when Stefano says something she disagrees with. I don’t look away. I can’t. The pull feels like gravity tightening its grip.
“Edoardo,” Stefano clears his throat. “Could you pass the udon, please?”
It takes me half a second longer than usual to react. Before I can reach for the plate, Caroline moves.
“No, no, wait,” she says, tugging the entire dish closer. “I like this udon.”
She scoops a generous portion onto her plate and still doesn’t let go. Her eyes flick back and forth between the noodles and Stefano, torn.
Finally, she sighs in surrender. Stefano seizes the moment and lifts the plate from her grasp.
She flags down the waitress immediately. “May we get one more noodle? Either another udon or a soba that’s as good as this?” She gestures toward her plate and adds, almost as an afterthought, “And maybe two more orders of beef tataki. And a Japanese pancake.”
Then she smiles at the waitress, not the polite, obligatory curve of lips but something warm and personal. The gesture hits low, quiet, and unexpected.
For a brief, treacherous moment, her eyes flick to mine as if she feels the weight of my attention pressing against her. I look away half a heartbeat too late.
“I used to work in restaurants and wait tables,” Caroline says softly.
Both Stefano and I pause mid-bite, turning to look at her. And fuck. Was I that obvious? Caroline’s just read me perfectly.
“You waited tables?” Stefano raised his brows.
“Yep.” She confirms.
“Caroline drifted through the world,” Gigi cuts in brightly. “CJ told me she backpacked through Asia, Latin America, and Africa for months at a time, working her way through her trips.”
“Yep. That I did.” Caroline leans over and presses a gentle kiss to Gigi’s cheek. “But don’t listen to all the stories from your brother, baby girl. Con has a wild imagination.”
“Like the time you competed in a traditional dance in a tribal village in Chiang Mai?” Gigi snickers. “Or when you drove yourself alone without a guide to the Masai Mara in Kenya knowing there would be lions around?”
“You and Con - both snitches,” Caroline laughs softly. Her attention snaps to the fresh dishes as they’re placed on the table, eyes lighting up. “Beef tataki and Japanese pancake, okonomiyaki. Dig in, guys.”
“So, you really traveled the globe like that?” Stefano steers us back, still incredulous.
“I did. A few months at a time.” Caroline shrugs. “I wanted to see the world without all the presumptions. Of course, there were moments I wanted a suite in a five-star hotel, but those moments were very few. I ate the most authentic food. I lived with people from all walks of life.”
I would stare at her for the rest of dinner if she hadn’t caught me earlier, if she hadn’t seen the awe laid bare on my face.
“Incredible,” Stefano says, shaking his head slowly. “I would never have imagined Caroline Hammond washing dishes.”
Of course, another entry on the growing list of versions of Caroline I never knew existed. The contradiction tightens something low in my chest. Fascinating. Impossible to ignore.
And my thoughts just drift to that short drive, to the back seat of my car two nights ago.
I’ve replayed it so many times it feels like a private obsession I can’t stop touching.
Every detail is etched into me, sharper with every repetition.
I was mid-sentence when I realized Caroline had fallen asleep, completely gone.
Her face softened and relaxed into something unguarded and vulnerable, beautiful in a way that felt private. Too private.
Her phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor. When I leaned down to retrieve it, her body followed, tilting and yielding until her head came to rest on my shoulder.
I froze. Then adjusted myself with a care I didn’t know I possessed. I told Freddie to keep driving another twenty minutes just so she could sleep. Work had been brutal and she’d been exhausted, she’d said.
And suddenly, the razor-edged and untouchable Caroline dissolved into something gentler. Fragile, almost. For a moment, I wondered if I’d invented it. If my mind had shaped her into something I wanted to see.
Then her head slid further into the crook of my neck, her warm breath brushing my skin. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I remember holding myself rigid, acutely aware of every point where she touched me and every place I wished she wouldn’t stop.
I carried Caroline to her bed that night. She slept so deeply that when I tried to wake her, she only moved closer, her nose brushing my neck, her body curling instinctively into mine.
My thoughts turned useless, chaotic. I had to tear myself out of that spiral and lift her into my arms before I did something irreversibly stupid.
Her staff recognized me and guided me to her room. I carried her carefully, her arms tightening reflexively around my neck, her face pressed against my chest. She never woke.
I nearly lost my footing more than once, would’ve gone down with her if not for her staff catching me. I stood there longer than necessary, long enough that someone had to say my name.
And now, sitting across from her, my hands itch with the memory. With the way she wrapped around me that night without knowing. With the way I haven’t been free of her since.
Memory presses hard against the present and the restraint I’m clinging to suddenly feels too thin, too frayed. I am painfully aware of how close that restraint is to snapping.