CHAPTER 35
Caroline
“Another round?” Someone asks loudly.
I nod. Celina nods. Ravi nods. Arjun nods. Only Noah shakes his head, eyes still glued to his screen like it might blink first.
Moments later, a small army of steaming coffee cups lands across the table.
“What’s your poison, Noah?”
“Kombucha,” he says, not looking up.
I raise my voice toward the door. “Can someone bring Noah his fermented drink, please?”
Ravi and Arjun grab their cups and drift toward the screen wall while Celina slides her laptop beside theirs, the three of them comparing projections like surgeons over an open chest.
My neck aches from hours of hunching over spreadsheets. My throat is raw from debating. My brain feels like it’s been sprinting marathons with questions, answers, and counter arguments on repeat.
It’s five on Wednesday, and all I want is a shower and the illusion of a calm evening before my New York calls hijack it at nine p.m.
We’ve been here since eight this morning, because today we decide about Spain: wholesale-only entry, or full throttle with two flagship stores, retail and wholesale side by side.
Two months of work. One brutal week of pressure. And now the room smells like caffeine, stress, and the faint metallic scent of decision.
Oh God, I really want to go for a boxing session with my trainer. It would help release this mountain of stress in me. And maybe unlock some clarity.
“You all think this is feasible?” I ask, again, because I’d challenged and crossed out four different proposals already. The team has been at the latest round for three hours now.
Noah finally looks up. “I’m confident in the targets and delivery.”
“I kept the projections disciplined,” Arjun says, pacing as always. “Tight demand planning for the first two years. Wholesale accounts stay clean, no cannibalizing ecommerce.”
“Ravi,” I say, turning to him, “translate ambition into reality for me. Cash flow. Upfront investment. Breakeven. Conservative.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “With headcount and the flagships, twenty months. Worst conservative scenario, thirty.”
“So two to three years,” I say, leaning back. “Tell me why that doesn’t make you nervous.”
Celina answers on his behalf. “Spain was bleeding because of illegitimate rebates and bloated operating costs. Strip that out, keep discipline, and the math holds.”
The room hums with AC, keyboards, quiet confidence, and also quiet doubt.
“Okay,” I say, decision mode snapping into place. “Celina, sync scenarios with Noah and Arjun, latest numbers only. Ravi, run one more pass: good, worse, worst. Clear cash flow, clear upfront investment.”
I glance at the clock. “I want everything in front of me in an hour. Then we decide.”
Heads nod. Chairs roll back. The room shifts from debate to execution in seconds.
Analysts stream in and out. Coffee keeps appearing like a renewable resource. Someone replaces the pastries no one had time to eat.
The final leg.
I rub the back of my neck, staring at the wall of numbers that will decide whether we plant a flag or stay cautious.
No pressure. Just millions of dollars and a market re-entry strategy. My father built this empire, and I won’t let it fail because of some snakes poisoning our business.
I exhale slowly. This is my first turnaround effort and I need to land it. Then, Italy.
***
Craziness has officially stamped its logo across my life for the week.
I green-lit a multimillion Spain re-entry, with retail and wholesale side by side, full throttle, flagship stores and all, like that was a perfectly reasonable decision on a normal Wednesday.
I hosted an all-hands dinner on Thursday, personally thanking each and every employee of my London office for their hard work and dedication.
I didn’t keep the Spain decision to leadership level but presented it to our full teams, giving them a clear direction where we are headed and our commitment to growth, and my commitment to building a future together.
For the first time I spoke with my team, from warehouse to sales associates without any human resources facilitation or any supervisor chiming in.
Then I had my birthday dinner on Friday with my parents, who flew back to London just in time. Edoardo sat beside me as my official boyfriend, and let’s just say my birthday was not the primary topic. They’ve met Edoardo but this time, it was a full-scale audit of him.
And now?
Now, I’m standing at the head of a ridiculously long table at my birthday bash, running high on sugar and champagne, low on sleep, approximately three hours, and watching my worlds collide in high definition.
Edoardo arrives like a proper leading man, sister and cousins in tow. His parents’ reconnaissance team, obviously. They scrutinize me like I am in a gilded cage.
Then Ethan decides this is the perfect moment to roast me like it’s a competitive sport, and the entire table dissolves into hysterics.
So yes, if life were a product line, the label would be clear: Caroline, The Craziness.
My label is Caroline, The Wonderful Amazing Craziness for the evening until -
“Did Edoardo just throw a dart and decide to date Caroline?” Paolo asks Elena.
I’m turned away from them, back-facing their table, so they don’t know that I am close by.
And they assume, as most people do, that my Italian is decorative at best. That is a dangerous assumption because despite my bad speaking, my listening and comprehension is very good. Fluent Spanish fills the rest.
Elena scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I like Caroline a lot.”
A small, involuntary smile flickers across my face, then fades just as quickly.
“I like her too,” Paolo says. “That doesn’t mean she’s right for Edoardo.”
“It’s Edoardo’s girlfriend, not yours,” Elena replies, sharper now. “Drop it.”
I don’t need to hear the rest of what isn’t said. I can read tone as well as language. Elena likes me as a person. As her brother’s partner? She’s not convinced.
“Or is he dating her to spite your parents?” Luca cuts in. “You know, one last rebellion before settling down?”
Rebellion? Like I’m a phase that Edoardo would grow out of?
“Your parents won’t approve,” Paolo adds. “They’re traditional. They barely accept you speaking English at home. I’m still puzzled why Edoardo chose Caroline over Isabella. Isabella made more sense and I saw him heads over heels for her.”
Isabella. The name lands like a glass set down a little too hard. I don’t know her. I don’t know what she looks like, what she sounds like, or how she fits into the memories they all share so easily. But suddenly she feels solid in a way I don’t.
Elena exhales. “My parents are my parents. Edoardo has his own life. His choices.”
Her voice is calm and steady. But it carries the quiet distance of someone who’s already thought about that outcome and is bracing herself for it.
And that tells me everything I need to know.
“Would she even move to Milan?” Luca continues. “How would they raise kids? Your parents would want them there, in Milan, born and raised Italian, properly.”
Milan. Kids. Properly. The future laid out like a checklist I didn’t know I was failing to meet. I stare at my drink, the earlier joy vanishes into thin air.
The dance floor lights flicker on, bright and flashing. Perfect timing. A mercy.
I slip away before the conversation can carve any deeper, weaving through the crowd until I find Celina and Gigi. I hook my arms through theirs and drag them toward the music, toward noise loud enough to drown out the echo in my head.
Across the room, I see Edoardo laughing with Ethan and Deba, his head tipped back, easy and unguarded. For a moment, I just watch him. Then I look away.
This isn’t his fault. Elena and the cousins like me. I know they do, as a person. Just not for him. Not for the role that comes with his name.
And the worst part is how familiar the conversation feels, like hearing my own private thoughts spoken out loud by strangers.
I’ve asked myself all of it. Every cultural difference. Every logistical reality. Every quiet fear about where I fit in his life. I just didn’t expect to hear it out loud so soon, in voices that know him better than anyone else. I just didn’t expect to feel so… exposed by it.
They grew up with him. They know the rhythms of his family, the gravity of their expectations. They know the version of his future that’s been laid out.
I don’t know Isabella. Only that she was someone he once loved. Someone who belonged to his world in a way that didn’t require translation.
Her name shouldn’t matter. But comparison has a way of hollowing out confidence, leaving just enough space for doubt to echo.
Edoardo hasn’t said he loves me.
And I haven’t said it either, not because I don’t feel something growing, but because love, for me, has always come with conditions.
Certainty. Safety. The quiet assurance that someone sees all the complicated corners - the ugly, the bad, the parts I’d rather keep buried - and still chooses to stay.
I don’t know if he would. I don’t know if anyone would.
We’ve had months together, easy months, happy months. And that felt solid until now, when something inside me shifts. It is just a slight shift, and I’m already losing my balance.
Does he love me? Or am I just… right for right now? Will I still feel new when life stops being exciting and starts being ordinary? Would he choose me if choosing meant disappointing the people who shaped him? Are we building something, or are we just enjoying the illusion of it?
Rational Caroline lines up facts, probabilities, timelines. Spiral Caroline slides down worst-case scenarios with Olympic-level commitment.
Between them, my chest feels crowded. I feel… suffocated, drowned, exposed, sad, angry, mad, stupid. I feel anything and everything I shouldn’t feel on my birthday.
I breathe in, slow, steady, like I’m trying to anchor myself inside my own body.
It’s my birthday. My friends are here. The music is loud. The night is bright and fleeting.
I pull my friends closer, let the bass swallow my thoughts, let laughter do what it does best - patch the cracks, at least for tonight.
I’ll think about it later. When it’s quiet. When I’m braver.
Tomorrow.
Next week.
Maybe.