She laughs, but there's little humor in it. "You have no idea. Sometimes I feel like I created a monster that's slowlyconsuming me. Like there's less and less of the real me left every year."
"The real you, huh?” I ask, not really expecting a response. “What matters most to you?" I ask suddenly, surprising myself with the directness of the question.
She glances up, clearly caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
"In life. What do you value above everything else?" I keep my focus on the pasta, giving her space to consider the question without the weight of my gaze. "What principles guide Nova Wilde when no one's watching?"
She's quiet for a long moment, and I worry I've overstepped. But when I look up, she's not offended or retreating. She's thinking, really considering the question as if no one has asked her something so fundamental in a very long time.
"Authenticity," she says finally. "Being true to myself, even when it's hard. Even when it would be easier to be what everyone expects." She traces patterns on the countertop with her fingertip. "My grandfather used to say that at the end of your life, the only opinion that matters is whether you can look in the mirror and recognize the person staring back."
I nod, understanding the weight of those words more than she might expect. "Smart man."
"He was." Her smile holds both sadness and warmth. "What about you? What does Finn McKenna value most?"
I consider deflecting, giving some professional answer about security or preparedness. But something about the genuine way she answered deserves equal honesty from me.
"Integrity," I say as I drain the pasta. "Doing what's right even when no one would know if you didn't. Standing by your word, even when it costs you." I pause, measuring my next words carefully. "And protection. Not just physical safety, but... guarding what matters. People. Principles. Places."
"Is that why you built this fortress on a mountain? To protect what matters to you?"
Her perception is unsettling. Most people see the security systems, the isolation, and assume I'm hiding from something. Few recognize I'm actually preserving something.
"Can I ask you something a little personal?" she says, leaning against the counter.
"You can ask."
"Why did you leave the CIA? You were at the top of your field."
I measure my response carefully. "I was good at what I did. Too good, maybe. It changes you after a while, living in that world. I started to forget who I was outside of the job."
I realize as the words leave my mouth that I've just described exactly what she said about herself. Her eyes widen slightly, recognizing it too.
"So you came home," she says.
"I came home."
The simple truth sits with us for a bit. We're more alike than either of us expected. Both of us lost in the identities we've created, both seeking something real to hold onto.
"Do you regret it?" she asks. "Leaving?"
"No." The answer comes without hesitation. "I miss the adrenaline sometimes. The clarity of purpose. But I don't miss what it was turning me into."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "That's why I've been thinking about taking a break. From all of it. The tours, the albums, the acting. Just... stop for a while and remember who I am when no one's watching."
"And who is that?"
"I wish I knew." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe that girl who spent summers with her grandfather in the woods. Maybe someone else entirely."
I drain the pasta, thinking about her revelation. A celebrity at the height of her career, contemplating walking away from it all. It's not what I expected from the woman whose face launches a thousand magazine covers.
"What would you do?" I ask. "If you took that break?"
"I don't know. Travel somewhere no one recognizes me. Read books that aren't scripts. Learn to make furniture, garden, or something real with my hands." She looks around my cabin. "Maybe build a life more like this. Something authentic."
"Authentic is overrated," I say, surprising myself with the honesty. "It comes with its own complications."
"Like what?"
