The residual scent of Haven's flustered Alpha panic a sharp, almost bitter note in her usual grape old wine aroma was the first thing Althea registered. The metallic tang of blood, however, was what jolted her fully awake.
The memory of the previous night waking up to the sound of the adjoining door and realizing her perfectly composed wife smelled like she had been in a knife fight was terrifyingly visceral.
(Internal Monologue) Okay, Past Me, this is beyond buying me a Golden Retriever. Your wife isn't just a corporate martyr; she's a corporate martyr who might be running a fight club out of the Q3 review meeting. I need to know if she's defending the Vale assets with a spreadsheet or a katana. This is high level absurdity.
The immediate task, however, was triage. Althea quietly slipped out of bed, leaving Sushi on guard. She moved immediately to the living room. The evidence from the photo album was still scattered on the coffee table, daring Haven to address the lie.
The Alpha's door remained a silent, imposing barrier. The CEO is definitely in there, Althea theorized, hugging the pillow tighter. Probably Haven pacing and filing a corporate grievance against Past Althea for psychological warfare via photographic evidence. Or maybe applying industrial strength bandages.
She knew she had to secure the evidence. As quietly as she could, she gathered the scattered wedding and Christmas photos from the coffee table, her heart pounding with a ridiculous, thrilling fear that Haven might burst out of her room and confiscate the album in a blaze of corporate efficiency. (Internal Monologue) The one time I become a physical media enthusiast, my wife is a scary, protective CEO who probably sees sentiment as a liability.
Once the album was safely tucked under her arm, she hobbled back to her room, the crutches feeling less like aids and more like tools for her nocturnal investigations.
Building the Conspiracy Board
She immediately opened her sterile smartphone, the screen's glow illuminating her determined face. Okay, time to make this digital cage useful. She navigated to the shopping app, its icon a bland, inoffensive basket.
(Internal Monologue) I need a board. A big one. Something to map this entire chaotic case study of my life. This whole situation is giving True Crime documentary, but the killer is my past self, and the victim is my hot, shy wife. I need a visual aid. And while I'm at it... I need a place for my own thoughts. A place she can't wipe clean.
She found a six foot wide cork pinboard with a sleek black frame, a massive supply of colorful map tacks, and the crucial addition a beautiful, leather bound, blank paged journal with a sturdy lock and key. She ordered everything for rush delivery to the Northwood Estates.
(Internal Monologue) Take that, Haven B. Hartwell. You can control the company and my phone, but you can't control my home décor choices or my private thoughts. This is going to be the most extra vision board of confusion ever, with a side of classified intelligence.
She hugged the photo album tightly as she finally drifted off, convinced that its leather binding and the promise of the Journal were the only things standing between her and a full corporate audit of her own soul.
Althea woke feeling surprisingly energized, the previous night's combined chaos (blushing Alpha, blood scent) a potent stimulant. Her leg, though still dependent on the crutches, felt stronger, the muscles remembering their purpose.
Breakfast, prepared by Mrs. Li, was waiting. Althea ate quickly, then got to work.
The pinboard and the Journal, miraculously, arrived by eleven o'clock. They were delivered by two nervous men in uniforms who looked like they'd just transported state secrets.
With Mrs. Li's quiet help, they set the enormous pinboard against the main wall of the large master bedroom. It was absurdly huge, a dark, textured void that dominated the minimalist white space, a declaration of war on anonymity. The Journal felt solid and reassuring in her hands, the small brass key cool against her skin.
As Althea began to pin the photos, creating clear clusters labeled in her mind as "The Wedding Lie," "Sushi: The Christmas Conspiracy," and "Past Me: Glamorous Monster," she decided it was time to leverage her staff for human intelligence.
"Mrs. Li," Althea called out, carefully pinning the image of Haven looking at her with unabashed worship on their wedding day. "You've worked here for a while, right?"
"For 2 years, Madam Vale," Mrs. Li confirmed, her voice a model of polite reserve as she straightened a stack of linen.
"2 years," Althea mused, taping a string between the wedding photo and a picture of a glaringly empty shared bed. "So you saw the whole thing. What were Mrs. Hartwell and I like before? You know, when we were... fully operational."
Mrs. Li paused, adjusting a corner of the pinboard with meticulous care. "Mrs. Hartwell is deeply committed to the success and stability of the Vale family structure, Madam. She is exceptionally tidy and thorough. You, Madam, were often... absent. On tour. Or in the studio. And very, very busy."
Althea pinned up a photo of herself looking intensely fierce under concert lights. "Busy. Right. But when I was here... was there affection? Did we... share meals? Laugh? Did she ever make you a specialty tea just because she loved you, or was it always just 'duty' tea?"
Mrs. Li offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile, a movement so slight Althea would have missed it if she weren't watching so closely. "Mrs. Hartwell ensured everything in the household ran perfectly for your comfort and your schedule, Madam. She maintained all your hobbies meticulously, even the most demanding ones." She gave a slight nod toward the greenhouse. "And she was always here when you returned from tour. Always. She never missed your arrival time, no matter how late the flight."
(Internal Monologue) Always here, Althea repeated internally, pinning the Christmas photo right in the center of the board. She was waiting up for me, just like I was waiting up for her. But Past Me was probably too busy being a famous diva to even notice.
"Thank you, Mrs. Li," Althea said, feeling the profound weight of the housekeeper's quiet observation. Little details are everything, she mumbled to herself, turning the key in her new Journal and writing down the note. The housekeeper's testimony painted a devastatingly clear picture: Haven's current coldness wasn't a lack of presence; it was the scar tissue left over from a total, rigid commitment to service and protection a service Past Althea had seemingly taken for granted, or worse, exploited.
After Mrs. Li left, Althea stepped back to admire her work. The pinboard, covered in smiling lies and confusing evidence, was glorious. It's giving 'unhinged genius,' which is probably pretty accurate for a Dominant Omega heir with amnesia.
The Plant Poison Theory
Althea was motivated. If the greenhouse was her meticulously maintained hobby, she needed to embrace it, to understand this one wholesome piece of her past. She hobbled out to the massive glass structure, Sushi trotting happily ahead of her. The warm, humid air felt like a balm, the scent of damp earth and blooming orchids a welcome change from the sterile house.
"Okay, Sushi," Althea announced, leaning against a bench for support. "We need to learn what the heck I was growing here. This is giving very specific, hyper niche botany vibes. Maybe I was brewing poisons. Wouldn't that be a twist?"
She settled onto the bench near the central potting station and pulled out her phone. She navigated to the contacts, staring at the single, daunting entry: Haven B. Hartwell (Wife/CEO). Time for another frivolous dependency check. Let's see if the 'required formality' of my care includes indulging my sudden scholarly pursuits.
Text Message, 2:47 PM:
Althea Vale: hey mrs hartwell :) its me, your favorite amnesiac omega spouse. my physical therapist said i need mental stimulation for optimal neural recovery. so i am now committing to my plant hobby. buy me all the advanced books on rare succulents and tropical ferns. i need them by morning. thanks! xoxo
She sent the text, grinning fiercely. That's the correct level of chaotic Dominant Omega entitlement. Medical necessity meets petty demand.
A thought struck her. The Journal was for her private thoughts, but she needed a place for the facts the things she was learning, the timeline she was building. Something more structured.
Text Message, 2:49 PM:
Althea Vale: also, i need a diary. a proper one. the fancy kind with good paper. for... documenting my recovery journey. you know, for the doctors. so add that to the order. the fancy kind. thx! <3
She put the phone down, feeling a surge of power. Sushi put his head on her lap. Althea rubbed his ears, feeling the profound calm of the greenhouse sink in. If Past Me was a terrible wife, maybe Current Me can at least be a good plant mom, a mildly annoying spouse, and a thorough journalist of my own life.
Around seven o'clock, Althea was just finishing a particularly detailed inspection of a Venus flytrap (a fitting pet for my personality, she thought) when she heard Mrs. Li's voice cutting through the humid air.
"Madam Vale, dinner is served. And Mrs. Hartwell has returned."
Althea froze, her hand still hovering over the carnivorous plant. "Returned? Early? You mean before the witching hour?"
"Yes, Madam. She instructed me to inform you that she would be dining with you this evening."
(Internal Monologue) Oh my god. The plan is working! The blushing and the photo barrage actually broke her corporate focus! Althea quickly hobbled back to the main house, her heart thrumming with a cocktail of nervousness and excitement. She left her crutches by the dining room door a deliberate choice. She wanted to look as capable as possible, to signal she was ready for a proper, balanced sparring match, not a caretaker patient dynamic.
Haven was already seated at the head of the long, glacial table, the epitome of controlled elegance despite the early hour. She wore a fresh, deep blue silk shirt, impeccably pressed, and her posture was so rigid it seemed to hold up the very ceiling. She had clearly returned home, showered, and changed into a new uniform, yet her eyes held a familiar, wary exhaustion. The seat directly across from her was empty, but Mrs. Li had set Althea's place not there, but immediately to Haven's right, at the corner of the table, putting them in uncomfortably close proximity.
Althea settled into her seat, trying to project an air of cool effortlessness. The small distance between their chairs felt immense and minuscule all at once.
"Well, well, well," Althea said brightly, picking up her fork. "Look who decided to grace the commoners with her presence before the literal stroke of midnight. Tough day dominating the quarterly reports?"
Haven picked up her knife and fork, her movements precise and economical. She did not look at Althea.
"My presence this evening is necessary, Althea," Haven replied, her voice a low, even hum of restraint. "The trustees requested a joint briefing on your physical therapy progress. It was a required formality to ensure continued funding for your care."
(Internal Monologue) Required formality. Right. She had to document that she physically sat next to me for five minutes without having a nervous breakdown.
"How rude of the trustees," Althea said cheerfully, spreading butter on a piece of artisanal bread. "You should tell them that formal briefings require a baseline of emotional intimacy and maybe, like, occasional eye contact. This is giving very low effort marriage, Haven. The shareholders would be disappointed."
Haven stiffened, her shoulders tightening into a defensive line. "I trust you returned the photographs to their designated storage space."
"Oh, those?" Althea grinned, delighting in the visible flicker of distress her words caused. "No, I've relocated them. They're now part of a larger, more organized project. I'm building a Conspiracy Pinboard in my room. You know, to visually map the deep, dark secrets of Past Me. You should come see it. It's giving true crime, but the victim is my memory, and the prime suspect is my own bad attitude."
Haven finally lifted her eyes, giving Althea a look of pure, concentrated exasperation. "Althea, that is completely unnecessary and likely counterproductive to your cognitive and emotional stability."
"See? That's the CEO talking," Althea said, leaning slightly closer, invading her personal space just to watch her react. "But the blushing Alpha who bought me Sushi for Christmas whispers that I should follow my heart and my admittedly chaotic instincts."
Haven placed her utensils down with a quiet, yet sharp, definitive clink. The sound resonated through the vast, silent room. She did not blush this time, but her face was pale, emphasizing the dark circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
"I did not buy you the dog," Haven stated flatly, her eyes like chips of frozen grape old wine, all complexity boiled away into a single, harsh note. "I facilitated the purchase as part of your property and well being management portfolio. It was a documented, necessary expense requested by your previous self to manage... chronic stress. A business decision."
Althea laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that seemed to shock the sterile air. "Oh, my sweet, sweet Haven. You're denying the Christmas Puppy? That's a new level of cold. You're literally denying documented, photographic joy."
Althea leaned in again, dropping her voice to a playful, Omega purr designed to fluster. "And tell me, Haven. Since you're here early, and we're officially bonding over my strange pet naming conventions and my secret plant obsessions... did you remember to order my books? And my diary? The fancy one, for my recovery journey?"
Haven closed her eyes briefly, taking a single, deep, measured breath a clear sign that Althea's relentless teasing was hitting its mark with sniper like precision.
"Yes, Althea," Haven said, the words seeming to cost her. "The botanical texts and the... diary... have been ordered for express delivery. They will arrive tomorrow. Now," she said, picking up her fork again, her knuckles white, "can we please complete this required briefing in silence?"
Althea smiled, a slow, victorious curve of her lips. She may be an ice queen, but she's obligated to be efficient. And efficiency, it seems, now means catering to my chaotic, documented demands.
"Of course, Mrs. Hartwell," Althea said sweetly, picking up her own fork and settling back into her role as the demanding, unpredictable Omega. "Let's talk about the Q3 performance. But only if you promise to look at me while we eat. You know, like you did in the wedding photos."
Haven did not look at her for the rest of the meal. But Althea didn't need her to. The tension in the air, the ordered books, the hastily shared dinner it was all a confession. Althea knew, with every fiber of her being, that she had won this round.