The lingering scent of grape old wine now mixed with a phantom note of panic and embarrassment was the first thing Althea registered upon waking. It was barely 7:00 AM, but the profound, echoing silence of the house had already settled in.
Althea lay still, a triumphant, slow burn of satisfaction warming her chest. The memory of the previous night's confrontation Haven's furious retreat, the bright pink blush, and the admission that the photographs were too 'irrelevant' to face was a potent source of energy.
(Internal Monologue) Nailed it. The ruthless CEO who signs non disclosure agreements with her eyes closed is a complete disaster when confronted with photographic evidence of her own feelings. I knew it! Past Me was a psychological mastermind who figured out the Alpha's weak spot was her heart. Too bad Past Me was also a tyrant who decided to exploit that weakness and then forget about it. Current Me is just going to exploit it for answers.
She pushed herself up, her muscles protesting but her spirit determined. She grabbed her crutches, the cool metal familiar in her palms now. Her leg felt stiff but fully mobile enough for her investigation. Sushi, having observed the triumphant internal monologue, gave a quiet, knowing wuff and padded faithfully at her heels.
The Tyrant's Playlist
After a quick, solitary breakfast (the perfectly measured Darjeeling still contained its requisite mystery health supplement, which Althea drank without question), Althea decided to leverage her hard won mobility. She had found the photo album; now she needed to understand the lyrics.
She navigated her way back through the austere living area to the music studio. It was a space that screamed expensive, professional capability: soundproofing panels, a massive mixing board, and a gleaming black grand piano tucked into a sound dampened alcove. The layer of dust was heavier today, a thick, palpable silence clinging to the machinery.
Althea, gripping her crutches, maneuvered herself onto the plush, adjustable piano bench. She carefully positioned her legs and tentatively pressed a key. The note rang out, pure and resonant, startling Sushi, who sat down abruptly. Althea stared at the piano. She couldn't remember how to play a single chord, but the feel of the ivory beneath her fingertips was familiar, a ghost of muscle memory that refused to fully materialize.
I am a singer, she reminded herself, hitting another random key. An Omega phenomenon. I should be able to make music. But the keys remained lifeless under her command.
Frustrated, she opened the piano lid, running her hand along the felt pads. She noticed a slim, leather portfolio tucked into the sheet music rack. Unlike the corporate folders in the house, this one looked worn, used.
She pulled it out and opened it, revealing dozens of hand written sheet music pages not the clean, printed scores Haven must have managed for her public albums, but raw, chaotic compositions scrawled in her own looping, aggressive hand.
The musical notation was complex, almost violently structured, but it was the lyrics that seized her attention. They were written in bold, frantic cursive, entirely unlike the polished, witty lines of the album Dana had played. These were raw, dark, and utterly self damning.
She read the title of the first sheet: "The Iron Heart's Soliloquy."
"Let them kneel, let the masses worship the scent, My throne is built not on love, but contempt. I wear the crown of the one who must break, Every promise, every bond, for power's own sake. You offered the soft hand, the peace and the light, I chose the cold weapon, the endless, black night. I built these walls high, and I watch from above, Because needing you is the ultimate lack of my love."
Althea stared at the page, a profound nausea churning in her stomach. My throne is built not on love, but contempt. The words were a self portrait painted in bile. This was the person Haven and Dana had described the untouchable tyrant who was too powerful to love, too selfish to yield.
"Holy mother of all Dominant Omega clichés," Althea whispered, her voice trembling. (Internal Monologue) This isn't music; it's a supervillain's manifesto set to a surprisingly complex time signature. Past Me was a psychological horror movie! She didn't just act like a monster; she wrote theme songs for her monstrosity.
She flipped to the next sheet: "The Contractual Lie." It was clearly written during the period of her marriage:
"The Alpha's promise is paid in gold, not in truth, A magnificent cage for my desolate youth. The scent is a trap, the devotion a shield, For the weakness inside, that must never be revealed."
The Alpha in the photos adoring, protective, heartbroken was the Alpha she had scorned as a "contractual lie," using her devotion as a shield for her own fragility. The cognitive dissonance was immense, painful, and terrifying. The amnesiac Althea, frail and pleading for connection, felt genuine contempt for the cold cruelty of the singer Althea.
I despised her, Althea realized, staring at Haven's image in her mind. I married her because she was the best corporate asset and the most devoted Alpha who would tolerate my emotional starvation, and I wrote songs about how much I hated needing her. No wonder she runs away and blushes when I get too close. I gave her trauma.
The music sheets and the photo album, placed side by side in her mind, formed a narrative of catastrophic self sabotage: she had married the one person who saw her, loved her, and protected her, only to treat them like a tool and drive them to emotional ruin.
She spent the rest of the day immersed in the studio, cataloging the sheets, the terrible, beautiful lyrics confirming her worst fears about her former self.
The Unexpected Silence
The rest of the day was routine, a bland, necessary counterpoint to the emotional turmoil: Ms. Evelyn's encouraging therapy session (Althea managed four steps without crutches, fueled by spite and existential dread), followed by Mrs. Li's quiet care and perfectly measured meals.
Althea felt the familiar, gnawing curiosity about Haven's return time. The Alpha had fled the previous night, embarrassed and ordered Althea to put the photos away. Althea, naturally, had left them scattered across the table.
But this evening, exhaustion won. The emotional weight of the lyrics, combined with the physical strain of her therapy, finally eclipsed her need for confrontation. She didn't want to wait up for the elusive, agonizing Alpha.
Around 9:30 PM, Althea retired to the master suite. She managed the walk on her crutches to the bathroom, performed her routine, and slipped into the massive bed. She didn't call out for Haven, she didn't leave the light on, and she didn't arrange a trap. She simply pulled Sushi close, resting her head against his warm fur, and fell into a deep, heavy sleep.
The Blood and the Wine
She didn't know the time, only that the house was profoundly dark and silent. Althea woke abruptly, jolted from sleep not by sound, but by a sudden, violent shift in the room's scent profile.
The door to the adjoining suite had been opened.
Althea froze, instantly alert, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her eyes were still closed, the ingrained survival instinct of the last few weeks immediately taking over, compelling her to feign sleep.
The scent that flooded the air was the intoxicating, potent grape old wine of Haven B. Hartwell but it was different. It was raw, aggressive, and carrying a sharp, metallic note that tasted like copper and fear. It was powerful enough to cut through Althethrea's suppressants, sparking a deep, terrified response in her Dominant Omega core.
(Internal Monologue) Wait. That's not exhaustion. That's... what is that smell? It's acidic, sharp. It's like iron, but primal. Oh my God, it's blood.
The Alpha scent was spiked, volatile, laced with the sharp, coppery tang of fresh, exposed blood.
Althea clenched her hands beneath the sheets, terrified and utterly disbelieving. Her mind, now free of the initial amnesiac fog, raced. This wasn't the sterile blood scent of a medical ward; this was the raw, aggressive scent of injury, possibly violence.
Haven was moving slowly, stiffly. Her footsteps, usually silent and liquid, carried a faint drag, a visible strain on her injured leg. Althea felt the floorboards faintly vibrate as the Alpha moved past the foot of the bed, toward the en suite bathroom.
Blood, Althea confirmed internally, the word an ice pick to her chest. Fresh. Too much of it. What the hell happened at the Q3 performance review? Did the board members draw swords?
The contrast between the professional, stoic demeanor Haven maintained and the evidence now assaulting Althea's primal Omega senses was monstrous. This wasn't just corporate stress; this was physical trauma.
The bathroom door closed with a muffled click. The sound of the shower immediately came on, loud and urgent, trying to drown out the noise of rapid, frantic movement inside.
Althea, consumed by a mixture of sheer terror and morbid, protective curiosity, held her breath. She's cleaning up. She's hiding something catastrophic.
The question was no longer if Haven was lying about their marriage, but what she was lying about regarding her entire life. This scent, this aggressive mingling of Alpha pheromones and fresh blood, spoke of a confrontation far beyond spreadsheets and hostile takeovers. It suggested a world of physical danger, of secrets Althea's amnesiac mind couldn't even begin to construct.
Mafia? Business shakedown? Is she one of those business world assassins? Althea's imagination, freed by the lack of memory, veered into the dramatic and ridiculous, yet the fear was utterly real. Who are you, Haven B. Hartwell?
The shower ran for nearly twenty minutes, the sound a dull roar in the quiet fortress. When the water finally cut off, the residual steam carried the scent back into the room, lighter now, but still aggressively metallic, trying and failing to be masked by Haven's spiking grape old wine pheromones, which were now pulsing with a strained exhaustion that was almost visible.
Haven emerged from the bathroom. She was now dressed in her dark silk pajamas, but Althea could sense her stiffness, her caution. The light from the hallway was minimal, but Althea could tell the Alpha was favouring her right side, her left arm held tight to her ribs.
Haven paused by the foot of the bed. Althea kept her breathing shallow, even, perfectly mimicking sleep. The Alpha stood there for a long time, her eyes scanning Althea's face in the gloom.
Althea could feel the Alpha's raw, potent scent washing over her a protective, possessive blanket layered thick with the horrifying metallic tang. It was intoxicating and terrifying, speaking of a brutal strength wielded in the dark, and a fierce, immediate need to protect the fragile Omega lying before her.
Althea's Omega instincts the deep, biological drives she couldn't control were in utter conflict. They screamed Danger! Retreat! because of the blood, but they simultaneously screamed Mate! Anchor! because of the immense, possessive strength of the Alpha pheromones.
Haven finally moved, a slow, arduous step toward her adjoining suite. Just before she entered her room, Althea heard the faintest sound a soft, involuntary groan, quickly suppressed, as the Alpha shifted her weight.
The door clicked shut. Althea waited another five minutes in the tense silence before daring to open her eyes.
The room was dark. The metallic scent was dissipating, replaced by the familiar, cold comfort of Haven's Alpha scent settling down the warrior resting after a brutal fight.
Althea lay there, staring at the closed door, the sheets damp with cold sweat. The photos in the album screamed devotion. The music sheets screamed cruelty. And the scent of blood screamed violence.
(Internal Monologue) Okay, this is officially the least boring amnesia recovery in history. The theory is updated: Haven Hartwell is a marshmallow Alpha who maybe secretly loves me, covers up my dark past, and is currently running the Vale empire while also fighting off ninjas in a back alley. Past Me, what did you get us into? I don't care about the board members anymore. I need to know why my wife smells like she just won a knife fight. This is beyond contracts, Sushi. This is dramatic.
Althea reached for her phone the one with the single contact then pulled her hand back. Confrontation was tempting, but Haven was injured, tired, and clearly highly guarded. She needed more evidence. And she needed to get better at walking.
She pulled Sushi closer, burying her face in his fur. The truth of Althea Vale's life was not in the lyrics or the ledger; it was hidden in the blood clinging to her wife's perfect silk shirt.