Mr. Wilde (The Billionaire Boys Club #2)

Prologue

CASSIDY

Two Years Earlier

Beep.

Beep.

Beep beep.

The mechanical sound bleeps constantly. Like a flat, robotic heartbeat. It’s not particularly loud. In fact, it often appears to echo as if I’m hearing it from under water.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep beep.

A hollow synthetic chirp slices through the room at steady intervals. A relentless metronome inside my skull. Is it trying to reassure me that something is still ticking? Is that noise attached to someone I care about?

Or is it me?

I try to open my eyes to no avail. My lids feel glued shut, as if weighing a thousand pounds. I manage a twitch, and light leaks in around the edges. It’s too bright. The pain with it too sharp, causing my eyes to burn.

I flinch, or at least I think I do. My body doesn’t respond the way I expect it to. However, the beeping stutters. Then speeds up.

Oh. That is me.

I grasp this fact slowly, like the thought has to swim through a dense fog in order to reach me. Yet I’m almost certain. That beeping sound is connected to me. To whatever is inside my chest.

I try to breathe deeper and something tightens around my ribs. Pain pierces, sudden and vicious, radiating outward like shattered glass. A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.

Or at least I think it does. But it could be all in my mind. I don’t know for certain that any sound leaves my mouth.

What is happening?

Attempting to slow my breathing, I make a mental note of my surroundings. Beyond that incessant beeping anyway. The air smells odd. It’s cool. Slightly pungent. My mind sorts through various settings where I might recognize such an aroma until a vague memory matches.

This scent feels distinctive. It’s not like when I’m outside.

Not like a car or a subway. My apartment doesn’t seem to fit.

It’s sterile and cold and faintly metallic, layered with a chemical odor that stings the back of my nose.

Bleach maybe? Plastic? Is it alcohol wipes?

Yes. That makes more sense. Like a hospital. The word drifts up through the fog.

That’s a hospital smell.

Panic begins to surge, but it’s trapped within my body. Like the fear has been wrapped in protective layers of itchy wool. My heart beat speeds up. And instantaneously, that persistent beeping responds.

Beep beep beep.

“Easy,” a voice murmurs.

Or am I imagining it?

It sounds far away, distorted, again like I’m hearing sounds below sea level. A woman, I think. Her voice soft but firm. I can’t make out the words that follow. Only a reverberation that floats above me without meaning.

I try to focus on them. But I can’t. My head throbs, a deep ache behind my eyes. When I attempt to turn my face toward the voice, pain lances through my neck and shoulder so sharply it steals what little breath I have.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” my inner monologue shouts. Yet this is in response to the pain, rather than a memory. My body knows something my mind doesn’t.

Something bad happened.

The room hums under fluorescent lighting and machines that whir and click.

And there’s a strange, automated breathing that doesn’t match my own.

A faint rhythmic whoosh near my head. Is that oxygen?

Forcing my mind to concentrate, I realize that something is touching my face. A mask or some sort of tube.

Panic spikes again. I try to lift my hand. The action causes instant agony. It’s like fire under my skin, as if my muscles are tearing instead of moving. My fingers twitch uselessly, numb and heavy at the same time.

I feel restraints. Not like handcuffs exactly, but the gentle resistance of blankets tucked too tightly, of wires taped to my skin, and my own body refusing to cooperate.

I’m trapped.

The thought lands with terrifying clarity. Where am I?

My mouth feels dry, like I’ve eaten a bowl of sand. I try to speak. Yet nothing comes out.

Not even a whisper. Hot tears leak from the corners of my eyes instead, sliding back into my hair. I can’t wipe them away. I can’t really feel my face, only a distant pressure and the faint drag of moisture against my skin.

Suddenly, something brushes my fingers. A hand? Am I imagining this, or is this real this time? No. It’s warm, solid. Human.

My heart stutters again, the telemetry monitor echoing it with frantic little chirps. The hand tightens slightly, like whoever is there knows I’m scared.

“You’re safe,” the voice says. At least I think it says something like that. The words blur, losing their edges before they reach me. I only catch fragments from above me. Words like: safe, rest, wake up soon. Merely soft syllables drifting past like leaves on water.

I have no idea who this is, but cling to the pressure of the hand anyway. It feels as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the world.

I try to remember. I was… somewhere. I mean, I had a life before this moment. A job, a home, a phone… a name.

My name.

It hovers just out of reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue. The harder I strain for it, the worse the pain becomes, a crushing, unrelenting pressure inside my skull, like my head is being cracked open from the inside.

Then the world seems to darken at the edges.

No, no, no! I don’t want to go back under. I don’t want the emptiness again. I fight it, clinging to the beeping, the hand, the smell of antiseptic and plastic and something faintly floral. Hand lotion, maybe? The hand holding me smells like flowers.

Is that important?

But my body is sinking anyway. The voice fades. The beeping slows. And darkness folds over me like a tide pulling me under.

The next time I surface, it’s to pain. Pure, blinding pain.

Every nerve feels raw, exposed. My chest burns. My throat stings. My limbs feel bruised and swollen. There’s a dull pounding in my skull that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

I’m floating between awake and gone, trapped in the in-between where nothing makes sense and everything hurts.

Where am I?

The question loops endlessly. What happened? Yet no answer comes. Only the machines and that distinctive smell. That, and the weight of my own body, unfamiliar and fragile, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

I try to open my eyes again. This time, they flutter. The light is still too bright, but I catch vague images. A white ceiling, blurry shadows, movement near the edge of my vision. Someone is there. More than one person, I think. Their indistinct voices overlap. It’s a low murmur I can’t untangle.

“She’s stable…”

“She’s lucky…”

“… severe…”

The words float past without meaning, except the tone. It’s careful and controlled. The way people sound when they’re trying not to scare someone. Yet that thought alone scares me more than anything.

I want to speak. To ask them all of the things.

What happened to me?

Why does my body feel broken?

Why am I afraid of my own memories?

But my mouth won’t move. My thoughts seem to slide apart. And the darkness pulls me under once more. It’s tugs are gentle but merciless.

The last thing I feel before I disappear is that hand returning to mine. Holding on. Like I might slip away if it lets go.