CHAPTER 8
Edoardo
And the night just keeps getting longer.
We pull up to the club and the line is already two blocks deep, an impatient, glittering snake of people in fancy evening wear waiting for the velvet rope to lift.
For us, there’s a private entrance with two bouncers in sharp suits standing guard and a receptionist poised and ready.
The moment our limos slide to the curb, the door is opened. No questions, just immediate access.
The ride here gave me exactly what I needed: distance.
Caroline was in the other car with Gigi and others, while I was wedged between Elena and another group of our chaos.
I took deep breaths the whole way, pretending it was about excitement, pretending I wasn’t counting the minutes until I’d have to share oxygen with Caroline again.
Because she consumes the air when she’s around. She just is, and suddenly the room rearranges itself around her, and I’m the idiot who can’t pretend not to notice.
We get to the reserved area. Everything is ready for my little sister, every last detail polished into something effortlessly glamorous, like a movie set built just for her special night.
Trays of drinks appear like magic, servers weaving through the crowd with practiced elegance. Then the birthday cake arrives - Elena’s request made real: a pink cake shaped like a handbag, yes, a pink handbag cake, dripping with edible flowers and sparkling edible jewels as if it’s wearing a crown.
Elena blows out the candle and the cheers erupt. Champagne glasses clink. Happy birthday shouts collide and echo. People lean in to hug her, to touch her, to share her glow, and my little sister looks like she could burst from joy.
“Come, all the girls first,” the photographer calls out.
The girls pull Elena to the other side, beneath a lavish pink-and-white backdrop with balloons floating like soft clouds above them.
Elena squeals in that full-bodied and unfiltered happiness and the girls swarm around her, smiling wide, posing for picture after picture, their laughter spiraling higher with each click.
“Come now, everyone,” the photographer calls again. “Everyone, including the boys.”
Gigi’s already back, dragging Stefano up by the hand. I grab his champagne glass and mine on instinct, trailing behind them toward the photo area.
“Come here, next to me,” Elena says, reaching out and yanking me into the middle of the group.
And fate, always a cruel and petty thing, mocks me as Caroline ends up right at my side.
We squeeze into the frame, bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, the crowd compresses us until there’s nowhere to put my hands, nowhere to lean, nowhere to breathe without noticing her.
Her hip brushes mine. Her arm presses along my sleeve.
Electricity detonates down my spine and spreads into every molecule like my body is betraying me from the inside out.
“Perfect. Great!” the photographer says.
Camera clicks. Clicks. Flashes. Flashes. More smiles. More silly faces. The room keeps moving, the music keeps pounding, people keep laughing, but I’m locked in the small, unbearable space of contact.
“Say cheers!” the photographer calls out, over and over again.
If he doesn’t finish this group photo in the next thirty seconds, I may actually punch him.
“Great. You all look gorgeous!”
Phew. Done. Finally.
I turn to Elena. “Happy birthday, baby sister.” I kiss her cheek.
“It has been so wonderful,” she says, kissing my cheek right back. “You nailed everything. Thank you.”
And that’s all we get, two seconds of us, before the music rises and the room explodes into motion, everyone spilling onto the dance floor. Elena grabs Gigi and Caroline both, pulling them with her like a magnet.
Everything is perfect, prepared down to the smallest detail. The tables, the décor, the elegant lines of small bites, fruit platters, champagne, signature cocktails, private bars staffed with bartenders who look like they belong on magazine covers.
“God, this is so fun,” Stefano says when he comes back to the table, reaching for a bottle of water. His breath is uneven, sweat shining at his neck from dancing. “But how many nights like this can we, old men, take?” He winks.
“Speak for yourself, old man,” I drawl.
The dance floor is a vortex of kinetic energy. The girls are losing themselves in the house music, bodies riding the tempo like they were born for it, ever effortless, ecstatic, and fearless.
“Big talk,” Stefano shoots back. “Who’s been sitting like a lame duck over here while the rest of us are dancing out there?”
“Who left me behind and went to sleep at two last night?” I fire right back, not letting him win that easily.
Then the bass drops and the crowd erupts with pure and unfiltered joy. Arms shoot up toward the laser-streaked ceiling. Heads bob. Bodies twist and jump. The whole room becomes a single organism pulsing to the beat.
That tonight’s gonna be a good night…
Neither of us can resist. Stefano and I are singing along to the I Gotta Feeling chorus like it’s a ritual. This is our class song, our celebration staple, the soundtrack to too many memories to count.
We push our way toward the center before the track peaks. The air is perfume and sweat and heat and electricity. And for the first time in weeks, something in me loosens like my chest finally remembers how to expand.
“You got some moves, Edoardo!” Gigi shouts over the music.
Hands up, bodies moving, we fall into the chaos with everyone else.
“He is getting old!” Stefano yells, loud enough for me to hear.
Then he bends his knees slightly while keeping the bounce, his shoulders and arms snapping into rapid, highly coordinated motions like electricity is running through his body, like his bones are wired to the beat.
Bastard. He’s challenging me.
“Keep telling yourself that, old man,” I smirk, and I answer with something that feels more aggressive than it should. I swing my arms with force, drop hard onto my knees, then pop right back up instantly.
Elena shrieks. She jumps in, stomping in sync with me and matching the accents in the rhythm with heavy steps. We slide one leg outward, pivot our knees inward to the beat, and the group around us hollers like we just performed a miracle.
“Wow, wow. Hidden talent,” Gigi laughs, joining in.
“Agreed,” a voice says at my side.
Caroline. She’s here, close enough that I can feel her presence before I fully register her word.
“That knee drop was crazy,” she adds, and for a second, my body forgets it’s supposed to be controlled.
“Ladies, don’t inflate his ego,” Stefano laughs, turning to me. “Show off.”
The dance floor is a beating heart. Our group moves side-to-side, bouncing, hips cocking in rhythmic, energetic sway. We dance, laugh, bicker through two more songs until biology forces a truce and bathroom duties call.
Stefano winks at Gigi as he steps off the dance floor with me.
And before I can stop myself, before I can filter it, my mouth betrays my brain.
“Dude,” I say, “you’re going to propose soon, aren’t you?”
Shit. That wasn’t planned. Stefano’s face flickers, not annoyance but something softer. Even in this dim, laser-sliced lighting, I can see it.
“Oh, holy shit,” I say, staring at him. “You’re going to propose. Holy fucking shit.”
He shushes me quickly, pressing a finger to his lips, then leans in as we stride toward the bathrooms. “She’s the one, my man.”
His eyes are bright. A grin spreads across his face like it’s been waiting there all along, like he’s been carrying this joy in his pocket and finally let it out.
“Oh man.” I pull him into a hug, tight and real. “I’m so happy for you.”
And then, shock and stupidity latch onto me and push me further. I pull him to the side, into a small corner where the music dulls just enough to talk.
“How do you know?” I ask.
He gives me a look.
He already knows Isabella and I broke up. He was there after - the drinks, the nights, the hollow stretch of time where I pretended I was fine and he didn’t let me get away with it. But this is the first time I say it out loud: how I loved her, and still couldn’t see a life with her.
Stefano listens without interrupting. When I finish, he squeezes my shoulder.
“You did the right thing,” he says simply. “If Isabella were the one, you’d know.”
“That’s vague as hell,” I mutter. “I need something concrete. How do you know Gigi is the one?”
“No one can tell you,” he shrugs. “Your heart will. I didn’t fall for Gigi at first. You’ve met all my exes. Gigi’s different.”
“I agree,” I say, exhaling hard. “Still not helpful.”
He pauses, then speaks slowly, like he’s choosing each word with care. “If you don’t wake up thinking about her. If you don’t miss her like you’re running out of air. If her smile doesn’t live in your head when you’re awake and when you’re asleep, then she’s not the one.”
I frown. “What the hell does that even mean?”
Stefano’s voice stays calm and certain, “Isabella is the past. Let it be. When you find someone like I found Gigi, you’ll know.” His hand squeezes my shoulder again. “I’ll be here for you, man.”
Then he pulls me toward the bathroom, leaving me with a pile of vague, philosophical nonsense echoing between my ribs.
Damn it. Since when did he get so wise? But I need answers, not poetry.
***
We come back to the table for water before rejoining the others on the dance floor.
And whatever composure I had left evaporates.
I don’t even have words for it. My mind goes blank. I become just so dumb, so overwhelmed, like someone reached in and pulled the plug. My eyes strain toward the dance floor, fixed so hard they almost ache.
Caroline. She’s swaying at the edge of the crowd, moving to a slow, sensual rhythm.
Elena and Gigi are with her, laughing, loose, and unguarded.
But it’s Caroline my vision keeps orbiting.
The way she tilts her head as she laughs.
The way her knees bend, unhurried, how her hips follow the music in a lazy, fluid arc.
It’s the dress. It has to be the fucking dress.