CHAPTER 22
Caroline
The week of Christmas vanished like breath against cold glass - there, then gone.
It began in laughter and ended in fire. Steam-heavy afternoons in the spa, where time seemed to slide off my skin and disappear.
Coffee that tasted richer simply because I could afford to savor every sip.
Food that lingered on the tongue and in memory.
Smut novels I devoured without shame, because for once no one needed anything from me, and I belonged entirely to myself.
Quiet moments with Connor, stretched long and gentle when he wasn’t carving his way down the slopes. His eyes still carried sadness, but by the end of the week, something had shifted - settled. Not healed, but clearer.
And nights – God, nights that burned. Sweaty sheets, tangled limbs, and heat that left no room for thought. Mornings that erupted just as fiercely, leaving Edoardo and me breathless and wrecked. Bliss came in waves, consuming us and rolling over us again and again until there was nothing left.
For one week, I wasn’t a CEO. Not a daughter. Not a strategist. I was just… alive.
Nothing could have prepared me for the violence of returning. Reality doesn’t ease you back in. It drops you.
My first week of the year was in the New York office: board briefings, speeches, setting the tone. Celina agreed to come on board. That alone felt like winning a war. She’s staying with me while she searches for an apartment in London.
Now I’m back in London, sitting at the head of the table in our first major meeting of the year, and I can feel it - the scrutiny, the quiet doubt.
Some of the board members and regional leaders think I lack ambition. That I’m short-sighted for shutting down major channels in Spain and Italy.
My father was relentless when it came to expansion. But his era was different. The market was fragmented then. One bold acquisition could dominate an entire region.
Now? It’s a battlefield. Well-funded competitors clawing at each other for scraps of margin.
I’m perfectly content letting them hold the crown of market share while we quietly enjoy our pockets full of profit.
Most of the people in this room are loyal. That matters. George and his inner circle are not. But I know exactly how to handle them.
Connor’s analysts have been feeding me patterns from George’s reports - timing inconsistencies, allocation shifts. Roman’s team found something deeper. They didn’t tell me what yet, but Connor told them to keep digging. Not one stone left unturned.
Good.
“So,” Arthur says, leaning forward, “You’ve gone through my annual recap?”
“Yes,” I say smoothly. “Impressive work. Warehouse operations and cross-border logistics are precisely what we need for broader European coverage.”
George jumps in immediately, praising his direct report. “Art and his team have been working extremely hard.”
I smile wide and polished. Inside, I want to rip his tongue out.
“I can see that,” I reply, lifting my glass slightly. “Strong leadership, Art. Keep it up.”
Then I pivot. “Noah. Settled in?”
Months ago, I moved Noah from San Francisco to London after digital cross-border shipments exploded here. A Californian through and through. He hadn’t wanted to leave. But once Noah commits, he doesn’t do anything halfway.
He grins. “We’re settled. Lizzie got her transfer approved. She starts in two months.”
“That’s wonderful.” A genuine smile blooms as I remember Lizzie’s infectious enthusiasm during the relocation process. “Thank you, George. And thanks Lawrence for making Noah’s relocation happen.”
Lawrence, our HR head, nods quietly. Humble. He built this office’s culture. Collaborative. Disciplined. Ethical. He served my father for years and chose to stay when I took over. George can’t get his claws into him. I made sure of that.
George, meanwhile, beams as if every success at the table was his personal victory. He forgets how hard he fought me on employee roundtables. How quickly he scurried out when I dismantled his arguments in front of the board.
I scan the table, smile steady, gaze warm.
Ravi, finance - honest, straightforward, but too easily guided, like water flowing wherever George directs. I need to toughen him up.
“Have you given more thought to expanding back into Italy and Spain?” George asks.
The question snaps me back.
“I’m still evaluating,” I say slowly. “The investment required is substantial.”
“If we don’t reclaim those markets, we’ll be boxed in,” he presses. “Italy and Spain were once our signature regions. Closing the flagship stores destroyed our omnichannel presence and consumer confidence. That’s why remaining stores are underperforming.”
George says it smoothly. Rehearsed. What he doesn’t say is that I owned the decision to close those stores because they were draining cash like open wounds. I signed the paperwork knowing the backlash would be mine.
Cash flow is more important than your mother, my economics professor used to say. Cold. Crude. Correct. I’ve lived by that ever since.
“It’s true,” I reply evenly, holding his gaze. “The absence of flagship stores has impacted performance.”
His shoulders ease slightly. Poor snake. He has no idea how deep the ground beneath him is giving way.
Celina and I reviewed the latest expense reports last night. Patterns. Vendor overlaps. Return on investment discrepancies that don’t reconcile cleanly.
Her conclusions mirrored mine exactly.
“I’ve just received updated financials for Italy and Spain,” I continue, calm as a drawn blade. “Let’s review them together before making any decisions. I’m not opposed to reopening - but capital lock-up requires extreme caution.”
George exhales, slow and controlled. I hear it anyway. He needs money. Soon.
Marie, head of retail development, sits nearby. Pleasant smile. Sharp eyes. If stores are bleeding and George is pushing expansion, she is already positioned to benefit. Already in his pocket.
“Marie,” I say lightly, “your twins just started college, didn’t they?”
Her face brightens instantly. “Yes. Empty nesters now. I cried the entire drive back from Cambridge.”
“Cambridge,” I echo warmly. “Impressive. I hope they love it. College holds some of my favorite memories.”
“I wanted them to study abroad,” she says, pride glowing. “But both insisted.”
For all her maneuvering, she is fiercely devoted to her children. I catalog that carefully. People are rarely only one thing, and I am very clear of the good and the bad in people. Marie is a good mother but a dangerous executive.
Then there’s Arjun, head of sales. Veteran. My father respected him deeply. With me, he’s distant - not rude, just… indifferent. It scrapes my nerves raw. Is it loyalty to my father? Or doubt in me?
We move through agenda points, recently lost and narrowly recovered key accounts. I pushed the board hard to secure the spending required to win those clients back.
Arjun’s responses are clipped. Detached. No acknowledgment of the team’s effort. No recognition of my fight.
Is it deliberate? I’ll know soon.
At the far end of the table, Jill watches quietly. Alert. Observant. Concealing her sharpness.
Let them underestimate me. My father built an empire by expanding. I will protect it by knowing exactly which fires to start and which ones to let burn.
***
I check the time. Five p.m.
My phone buzzes.
“Where is Cara, where is Cara?” Edoardo’s text reads.
He’s been silly lately, turning that old children’s rhyme “Where is Thumbkin?” into his own private refrain, my name tucked into it like something small and precious he doesn’t want to lose.
Sometimes he sings it under his breath when he thinks I’m not listening, voice low and warm, and every time it feels like being chosen in the quietest way.
We also discovered a shared love for handwriting - ink on paper, imperfect loops and slants. Most mornings, I wake to a note on my nightstand - “Good morning.”
“Thinking of you.” “Kitty Cara.” Once, just a tiny sketch of a coffee cup and a heart that looked suspiciously like it had been redrawn three times.
And sometimes, when I open my work bag in the middle of a long day, a slip of paper will fall out “Found you.”
I do the same for him, slipping notes into his coat pockets, tucking them under his pillow, leaving them on the kitchen counter where I know his eyes will land first. We’ve even passed notes across a table while sitting face-to-face, trying not to laugh like idiots.
For the record, my handwriting is definitely better than his. He argues his has “character.” I argue it looks like the pen was running away.
It’s been a week since we last really saw each other, me in New York, him drifting through galleries across Europe.
I was supposed to meet him last night, but by the time I finished my New York calls and back-to-back meetings with Connor’s analysts and Celina, the city had already exhaled into night.
Add the cross-continent flight the evening before, and whatever was left of me simply…
gave out. I crawled into bed face-first, still dressed, still wired, and woke up this morning in the exact same position.
Except Edoardo was there. Peacefully asleep beside me.
He hadn’t woken me. I hadn’t woken him. When I slipped out for my early meetings, I let him keep that quiet.
I’m midway through typing a reply when there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Jill steps inside, carrying a bottle of cold sparkling water and a juice. “You didn’t even touch your lunch.”
Oh. Right. The regional leadership meeting had dragged from morning until two. Lunch was served. I remember the plates but I don’t remember eating.
“Thanks, Jill.” I take the bottles from her.
When I look up, something flickers across her face, too fast to pin down, but sharp enough to register. A shadow, quickly smoothed away.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently.
“I…” She hesitates, discomfort settling into her posture. Then the shutters come down. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s just been a long day.”
It doesn’t sit right, but I don’t push.
“Okay. Call it a day and get some rest. Take it slow tomorrow. I’ll handle the eight a.m. meeting myself. I’ve got all the materials.”
Relief flashes through her eyes. “Good night, Caroline.”
The door clicks shut behind her. I watch the space she leaves behind, frowning. The way she walked away - too rigid, too careful. Something’s wrong.
“Hi, sorry for not waking you this morning. You looked too peaceful to disturb.” I text Edoardo back. “I’m still at the office. You?”
His reply comes almost instantly. “Admiring new pieces of art I barely have any knowledge about. Want to grab dinner together?”
What I really really want, desperately want is to go home and hit a punching bag until my thoughts go quiet. Or run until my lungs burn. Or sink into water and swim lap after lap until my body remembers how to let go.
And Celina will be back at my place in a few hours, from meeting old college friends in London. She needs new people. New energy.
And I still feel guilty for last night. “I don’t really feel like going out,” I type. “Could we order in? Maybe eat at my place or yours?”
“Perfect,” Edoardo replies. “I’ll have my cook make carbonara and grilled veggies. Pick you up in about an hour?”
“Lovely. See you then.”
A relaxing evening. The words settle into me like a promise. Maybe we’ll even do a few laps in his pool. Muscles stretching, breath steady, tension dissolving inch by inch.
I roll my shoulders, already craving the release, and drag my gaze back to the towering stacks of documents on my desk.
What the fuck is this with the first month of the year?
One hour. Just one clean, efficient hour and then, finally, I can exhale for a few hours before diving back to work at home later.
Eyes sharp and mind clear, I take the first stack of presentations.