Page 99 of Mr. Wilde

She pauses, appearing to gather her thoughts as she takes a sip of water. So I try to hold my tongue and give her the space to say what she needs. Even if I want to blurt, I’m completely in love with you and will do whatever I can to keep you safe.

Her shoulders stiffen, and she sits taller in her chair. “And what’s more, I don’t need a man to swoop in and save me. I refuse to rely on anyone who can let me down again. I can fight my own battles.”

The statement has me teetering on the edge here. Do I go there? I’m an idiot. Of course I do. “Do you mean, Henry?”

Her eyes flick up to mine, and she leans back in her chair.

Shit.

“You found out about Henry? You must’ve been doing a lot of exfiltrating to come up with that little tidbit. No one knew about him.”

“Oh, people knew,” I correct. “And no. I told you I didn’t invade your privacy, and I meant it.” I let go of her hand in case I accidentally crush it. My tone is admittedly a bit terse now. It was a hard fight keeping my normal tendencies at bay. And despite the unrelenting need to protect her, I didn’t hack her.

“Anthony told me about him. I may not have dug into your history, but I have no idea what Anthony and Gianni may have found.” I lift my hands in mock surrender. “But don’t get too upset with them. It may have been something they discovered during their background checks. There’s no doubt they are thorough. They have a lot on the line if they hire the wrong people.”

Her shoulders seem to relax a bit.

I nervously reach for her hand again. “I know I’m a fucking mess, Cass,” I say, the honesty tearing out of me. “I pushed you away because I didn’t know how to be the man you deserved. But I’m trying. I swear I’m working on it.” I look at our joined hands, the pink light of the roses reflecting off her skin. “You’re important to me. You deserve a good man. Not the one you met at the club. Like I said, it’s the biggest project of my life.”

Her head springs up, her mouth open in shock.

“I need you, Cass.”

She reaches for my other hand, grasping both of them tightly in hers. “I’ve waited a long time to hear someone say something so sweet. But I’ve lived through severe trauma. It’s easy to allow yourself to cling to someone else who can ease your pain. Holt, Gianni and the club, Sebastian and Isabella… they’ve all stepped up when I needed them. But my healing has to be about me. And yours has to be about you.”

“It is. I promise. Just give me a chance to show you I can be a better man, a better friend, and hopefully, one day, a better boyfriend,” I beg, my voice barely a whisper. “I’ve been seeing a counselor again. There’s so much I need to tell you. I’m still fucked up. There are some broken pieces that may never be made right. But I’m determined to tackle this. For both of us.”

I see the weight of my words settling over her, and for a second, I regret pushing so hard, so fast. The intensity in the room is thick enough to choke on. While I need her to understand the lengths I’d go for her, I also need to feed my dinner companion.

I catch a glimpse of the waiter through the small glass pane in the private door. He’s hovering, waiting for a signal that we haven’t descended into a full-scale argument or a breakdown. I give him a sharp nod. “As much as I need to lay my soul bare, Cass,” my voice softens as I slowly release my grip on her hand, “I did invite you here for dinner. And Luigi would never forgive me if I let his signature Bolognese get cold while I was busy listing my flaws.”

She lets out a laugh, the sound a reset button for my frantic nerves.

I’ve been holding back on the dinner service, wanting to break the tension before we sat down to eat. But looking at her now, framed by a sea of pink roses and the soft glow of candlelight, I find myself yearning for something simpler. A few quiet moments in her company.

The door opens, and the aroma of herbs and rich sauce fills the room. Luigi’s staff moves with practiced silence, setting down plates of steaming pasta and pouring a fruity Chianti in each of our glasses.

I watch her as she takes her first bite, the way her eyes light up, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I’ve spent so much time since my sister disappeared waiting for the next tragedy. But sitting here with Cassidy, I feel a rare sense of stillness. I want to tell her about Isla. I want to explain that my need for control, my obsession with security, and my tendency to shut myself off from the world all stem from the day I couldn’t protect her. But that’s a conversation for after dinner.

“You like?” I ask, extending my hand toward her plate. “I can ask him to bring something else.”

Cassidy nods, her mouth full, and holds up a finger to tell me to wait. When she finally swallows, she grins. “Max Wilde, if you try to take this plate away, I’ll be forced to use those self-defense moves Holt taught me.”

“Duly noted.” I chuckle, tucking into my food. “I’ll stay on my side of the table.”

For a few minutes, the only sound is the clink of silverware and the distant, muffled music from the main dining room. It’s a fragile peace, but it’s the most honest thing I’ve felt in so long.

The last of the Chianti sits dark and heavy in our glasses, the remnants of Luigi’s world-class meal cleared away. It’s time. My pulse escalates into an erratic rhythm. I look at Cassidy and realize I can’t keep the firewall up any longer.

“I haven’t been entirely honest about why I built Secure Sphere,” I begin. “It wasn’t about the cybertechnology or the money. It was basically a search engine. One I built to scour every dark corner of the web for a girl who disappeared ten years ago.”

I share everything. I explain the details I gave Loretta and my billionaire friends. I tell her about Isla—my sister, and my biggest cheerleader. I describe the way her disappearance fractured my parents until there was nothing left but jagged, painful edges and constant silence. Secure Sphere didn’t start in an office space. It began in a house full of missing person posters and a brother who refused to believe the trail had gone cold.

“I’ve spent a decade living in a digital abyss,” I rasp, my eyes fixed on the tablecloth. “Praying for just one clue I can chase, but constantly coming up empty.” I reach for my water, trying to push down the feeling of sand in my throat.

“Every time I enjoy something, whether it’s a walk on a beautiful day, a trip to a new city, or a decent meal it feels like an affront to her. Like I’m betraying Isla by continuing to breathe while she’s... lost. Or worse.”

The survivor’s guilt is like a leaden pressure on my chest. “I’ve told myself for years that I don’t have the right to a relationship. Why should I have access to such things when she can’t?”