Chapter Six — The Chef and the Crowned Omega
Thomas Hale treated anniversaries the way he treated sauces: with reverence, preparation, and the quiet terror of getting them wrong.
Six years married was not a round number, which made it worse. Round numbers came with expectations. This one came with memory. Six years meant he remembered the way Elara had looked the night they married—calm, beautiful, entirely unreadable to everyone but him. It meant he remembered the apartment that smelled of fresh paint and borrowed furniture. It meant he remembered how easily their lives had fit together, despite how little he truly understood about hers.
Which was why he had booked the private dining room himself.
"No staff," he'd said firmly. "I'll cook."
Elara had watched him over the rim of her mug, eyes soft. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
At precisely seventeen minutes past six, Elara felt the van.
She did not see it. She did not hear it. She felt the subtle pressure shift in the air, the faint tightening of probabilities around the building like a net being tested for weak points.
She did not look outside.
Thomas, unfortunately, did.
"Is it normal for utility vans to park directly across the street with the engine running?" he asked casually, tying his apron.
Elara took a breath she did not need. "In London? Yes."
"That's… unsettling."
"It's a city hobby."
Inside the van, three people watched a bank of screens and tried not to interfere.
"Visual on Asset Hale," one murmured.
"She's not doing anything," another replied.
"She never does," the third said. "Until she does."
Thomas plated the first course.
He had planned the menu obsessively: food Elara loved, not food that impressed critics. Slow-braised lamb with rosemary. A salad bright with citrus and bitter greens. Bread baked that afternoon, still warm enough to steam when torn.
Elara sat at the table, spine straight, senses spread thin and wide.
"Happy anniversary," Thomas said, placing the plate in front of her.
She smiled, and meant it. "Happy anniversary."
Outside, the van adjusted focus.
"Are we really watching them eat?" someone asked.
"Yes," came the reply. "Orders."
Thomas talked about the restaurant. About a supplier who'd tried to overcharge him. About Ellie's new habit of lining up her toys by colour and then ignoring them completely.
Inside the van, a warning light flickered.
"Unusual readings," someone muttered.
"Define unusual."
"Everything's… calmer."
Elara stood abruptly.
"Stay here," she said quietly.
Outside, the alley smelled wrong.
She moved fast. Not as a wolf. Not as a weapon. As a professional correcting an error.
The confrontation was brief, silent, final.
By the time Thomas stepped into the doorway, she was already washing her hands at the sink.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Just took the bins out."
Outside, the van shut down.
"End observation," the voice said. "Report: domestic stability confirmed."
They finished dinner together, uninterrupted.
That night, the Crown logged the anniversary as a success.
They did not understand why.