CHAPTER 41
Edoardo
Sixty two days. One thousand four hundred and sixty-four hours.
That’s how long it’s been since I last heard her voice, since I saw her smile soften at the corners, since I pressed my lips to her hair and held her close enough to believe the world could be quiet.
It feels like an eternity in hell.
Not being by her side is suffocating, like a slow death. Every moment feels dim, like the light has thinned out, like the air has been replaced with something heavier. My chest feels packed with concrete, my veins thick with it, my heart beating against weight instead of space.
Caroline hasn’t shown up to any London events these past two months. I know she still moves within the same orbit, our mutual friends, our shared circles, but she has avoided every possible collision with me with surgical precision.
Except once.
Gigi and Stefano were in town a few days ago, and I saw her from a few feet away. Close enough to recognize the way she tilted her head when she listened, close enough to feel the familiar pull in my chest.
But her gaze never lingered on me. Her eyes never met mine, no matter how hard I willed it.
We exchanged a polite and gentle nod when we greeted. She stood behind that careful armor of courtesy she wears when she doesn’t want anyone to see through her. I couldn’t read her. I couldn’t reach her. It felt like trying to touch someone through glass.
“It’ll pass. I’m here anytime,” Stefano told me. He flew in for a weekend right after I told him, and dragged me out of my apartment, kept me moving, talking, drinking, anything to keep my mind from circling the same place.
I miss Caroline in a way that feels almost humiliating. It’s raw, overwhelming, and impossible to contain. I know what it would have turned into if we’d stayed together: me reaching, asking, waiting for something she wasn’t ready to give. I know how exhausting that would have been for both of us.
Being with Caroline had been easy in the simplest ways, like breathing without noticing.
But loving her when something unspoken was gnawing at her felt like driving through thick London fog, on the wrong side of the road, while everyone else knew exactly where they were going.
I was lost, guessing, bracing for impact I couldn’t see coming.
I didn’t know where I stood. I didn’t know if I stood anywhere at all. That’s why I stepped back. I had to step back before I lost the ability to, before I fell so far there would be no way back.
Because I loved her. I do. I had known it for weeks before I ended things, but I kept it locked away, buried deep where it couldn’t complicate the inevitable.
What would it have changed? My heart was already cracking.
If I’d said it out loud, what would she have told me?
That she didn’t feel the same? That would’ve shattered me into pieces.
And still, every instinct in me reaches for her.
I want to see her. I want to speak to her. I want to stand close enough to memorize her again, to let my heart react just to prove it’s still alive, still capable of that kind of damage.
Sometimes I rehearse what I’d say if we cross paths again. A simple greeting. Something light. Something that might open the door to a conversation I know would lead nowhere.
What would I want from it? A polite exchange? Closure?
And what would it give us? Nothing.
I let out a hoarse laugh. Wasn’t that the reason I broke us in the first place? To stop walking toward a future that didn’t exist?
I kept every note we ever wrote to each other in a small box.
I read them more often than I’d admit - little fragments of mornings, random questions, half-jokes in ink.
Somehow, they’ve become my lifeline, proof that what we had was real, tangible, something I can still hold in my hands even if I can’t hold her.
But it’s over. Isn’t it?
The moment I chose to step back, I broke us. And yet, if I hadn’t, she would have, sooner or later. She would have handed me her own version of goodbye, written in that careful, honest way of hers.
So, the ending was mutual, even if I was the one who spoke first. I just had to take the inevitable step for the both of us.
It’s time to move forward. To focus on my business, which is barely holding together. To try to repair things with my parents after two months of distance and anger, after the damage they caused her.
Elena once said I always wanted something solid, something real, something more than an easy, happy relationship.
And Caroline… she could never give me that. Not because she didn’t care, but because she wasn’t built to live there with me. I understand it. I accept it. I know, with a painful clarity, that we would never have worked.
And still, it’s her face that lives behind my eyes. Her smile. Her gaze. Whether I’m asleep or awake, distracted or alone, she occupies every quiet corner of my mind.
I miss her with a kind of intensity that borders on madness.
And I love her. I love her like a man slowly losing his grip on the world, like someone who knows letting go is the only way to survive, and still can’t unclench his hands.
***
“How’re you doing, mate?” Clive pats my shoulder as he drops into the seat beside me.
“Can’t complain. You?” I give him a sideways grin. “Why do you look so indecently happy this early in the day?”
Arms loop around me from behind before he can answer.
“Because I gave him good news.”
I grab the forearms across my chest and squeeze. “God, what good news? And welcome back, Xander.”
He circles around, hugging Stefano before sliding into the chair across from me. “I’m moving back to London.”
“Woohoo!” The cheer bursts out of me before I can stop it, too loud and probably too boyish. “That’s bloody brilliant.”
Clive is already flagging the waiter down for shots while Stefano makes a face. “Seriously? It’s barely eleven. We’re doing shots?”
“Why not?” Clive waves a hand dramatically. “You’re old and practically married. We,” he gestures to the rest of us, “… are single and young.”
Stefano just laughs, shaking his head, and for a moment it feels good and easy to sit here surrounded by them, like nothing has shifted, like my world is still holding together.
“So when’s the move? Permanent?” I ask Xander.
“I’m still sorting things out. Another year at least,” he says, shifting his chair as the server sets down a line of shots and a spread of small plates Clive apparently ordered for the entire table. “I’ll try it for a year or two. Then decide.”
“Enough talking,” Clive declares, lifting his glass. “Let’s toast.”
“To London.”
“To the four of us in one place again.”
“Wait, I’m not even here,” Stefano protests.
“Milan is two hours away. That counts,” Clive laughs.
“Fine,” Stefano says, raising his glass higher. “To being together more often.”
We cheer like idiots, loud enough that a few heads turn. The shots burn down my throat.
“And why,” I ask, wiping my mouth, “was I the last to know?”
Clive narrows his eyes. “You seriously just asked that? You’ve been in mourning for months. Proper buried. Like an Egyptian pharaoh in a tomb we couldn’t crack open.”
“I’m sorry, mate,” Xander says, softer now. “I’m here all week if you want to grab dinner, drinks, whatever. We can talk.”
“Edoardo’s a vault,” Clive scoffs. “Everything goes in, nothing comes out. And the password is Caroline, which is useless.”
“Leave him alone,” Stefano cuts in.
“I’m fine, guys,” I say, though the words feel too rehearsed, too forced.
Xander leans forward, voice gentler. “Look, I know Stefano and Clive have been here for you. But one thing we’re terrible at as men is talking. We don’t, and then we wonder why we’re all falling apart inside.”
“Here he goes,” Clive groans. “Professor X with the mental health sermon. But he’s not wrong. This one,” he jabs a finger toward me, “if he doesn’t open up, it’s going to eat him alive.”
“You ever opened up?” I shoot back.
He shrugs. “Have I ever been in love enough to be that wrecked?”
Xander studies me. “You’re in that deep?”
We’ve spoken more lately, but between time zones and work chaos I’ve never said it plainly.
I don’t answer. The silence answers enough for me.
Xander exhales slowly. “You should talk about it, Edoardo. When Celina turned me down, it sucked but it was just a crush. I didn’t realize you were… there.”
“I’m doing okay,” I say, not even convincing myself.
Stefano rubs the back of his neck. “We’ve talked, but I don’t know how much help I’ve been. Tell me what to do.”
“Can we not turn brunch into a therapy session?” The irritation rises too fast, too sharp. “We’re here to have fun. Let me have that.”
Clive leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Because she’s moved on, and you’re sitting here, stuck. I want my Edoardo back, the one who never had to chase, who walked into a room and women came to him.”
“Nah,” Stefano says with a snort. “He’s never been that guy.”
“True,” Clive concedes. “But still, look at you now.” He gestures at me like I’m a rare exhibit. “You look… dull. Wrecked.”
“Clive,” Xander warns, “that’s not helping.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you what might help,” Clive says, ignoring him. “I saw Anton Leka with Caroline at the bare-knuckle fight. They arrived together, with some friends. Left together. Then I saw them at dinner, looked comfortable. She’s not hurting the way you are.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “You don’t need to tell me.”
Stefano frowns. “You knew she was seeing Anton?”
“They might just be spending time together in the last few weeks,” I say, voice low. “I almost ran into them at a dinner in Spain a week or two ago. She was there for the flagship store.”
The table goes still. I can almost hear their collective exhale.
Seeing her with Anton had felt like swallowing glass. Of course, people are drawn to her. How could they not be? But loving someone is one thing. Loving someone who can’t meet you there is something else entirely. That’s why I stepped back.
“Another round,” Xander says to the waiter. “Whiskey. Keep it coming.”
Despite everything, I can’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth. “Straight to whiskey before noon, huh?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “No point pretending we’re civilized.”
Xander leans back. “After this, we go straight out to my country house. Horses, fresh air, no city noise.”
“Stefano, you good with that? Gigi’s here?” I ask.
He nods easily. “She’s buried in wedding plans. I’ve got you. Besides, I’m in San Francisco and New York for three weeks from next week.”
“All right then,” Clive says, raising his glass again. “Tonight at Xander’s. Call ahead. Tell them to prepare for greatness.”
We toast, drink again.
“Why San Francisco and New York?” Xander asks.
“For the trials,” Stefano says quietly. “The attempt on Connor’s life and their parents’ accident. It’s been… hard on Gigi.”
“I’m sorry, mate,” Clive says, sincerity cutting through his usual bravado.
“I met Connor after it happened,” Xander adds. “Seeing what he went through… On top, their parents’ accident. I can’t imagine what it was like for Gigi. Be strong for her.”
I squeeze Stefano’s shoulder. He’s always shown up for me, no matter the hour, no matter the continent, despite his own personal matters.
“Caroline will be there too, I assume,” I say, trying to sound casual. “She and Connor are inseparable.”
Stefano nods. “She’ll be there during the trial week. Before that she’s here holding things down here while Celina stays with Connor.”
His words settle somewhere deep and restless inside me.
I want to be there for her. I want to sit beside her, to wrap my arms around her and steady whatever weight she’s carrying.
I know how deeply she feels the pain of the people she loves—I’ve seen it up close, watched it like something under a microscope.
Caroline gives herself without hesitation.
Fierce. Loyal. Fearless in the way she shows up for her people.
I just wish I had been one of them.
I know she cared about me, maybe she still does. But I needed more than care. I needed to know I belonged somewhere in her heart, in that fierce, selfless, protected circle of hers.
And maybe that was the one thing she could never give me.
Not because she didn’t feel or didn’t care, but because her heart simply didn’t open to me in that direction.
“Keep it coming,” I tell the server and raise another glass. “To a great weekend.”