The Golden Retriever, Sushi, was not merely a dog; he was Althea's first concrete, comforting fact in a life built entirely of corporate ambiguity and a wife who was a stranger. He had promptly adopted the space around her wheelchair as his new command post, managing to drape his large, warm body across her uninjured foot with a sigh of pure contentment, his simple, loyal presence a balm on her fractured soul.
Althea, thoroughly distracted from her paralyzing existential dread, spent the morning talking to him. "Okay, Sushi, let's review the facts," she murmured, scratching behind his velvety ears. "I'm a 'Dominant Omega' heiress who apparently married a CEO who looks like she was genetically engineered to run the world. I also sing songs about emotional evisceration. This is giving very strong 'rich, chaotic energy,' which frankly, is a lot for Amnesia Me to unpack."
(Internal Monologue) It's giving main character syndrome, she internally assessed, but also massive, structural red flags made of legal contracts and cold shoulders. The main character energy is currently confined to petting a dog named after raw fish.
At nine o'clock sharp, the main door chimed with a soft, expensive tone, and Mrs. Li, the housekeeper, entered. She was a quiet, efficient Beta with a scent of mild soap and starch, her aura one of unflappable competence. She didn't greet Althea with the gushing adoration of the hospital nurse, only a respectful, almost reverential distance that felt more isolating than comforting.
"Mrs. Hartwell asked me to ensure your comfort and adherence to the doctor's schedule, Madam Vale," Mrs. Li stated, her voice soft but firm. "I have prepared the first aid station and your breakfast, per your specific dietary requirements."
Althea, feeling a spark of the entitlement everyone kept insisting was her birthright, decided to test the waters. "Mrs. Li, I need tea. But make it the kind that whispers secrets, not the kind that shouts."
Mrs. Li nodded with precise understanding, not a flicker of surprise on her face. "I understand, Madam. The first flush Darjeeling, then. Steeped at precisely eighty five degrees Celsius. I will bring it immediately."
(Internal Monologue) Wow. Okay. Dominant Omega status confirmed: People just understand the assignment, Althea thought, momentarily distracted by the heady rush of getting exactly what she wanted without explanation.
Shortly after breakfast, Mrs. Li returned with the tea service. Althea watched, sipping her perfect Darjeeling, as the housekeeper meticulously prepared a second cup. Mrs. Li was adding a small, clear vial of liquid not milk or honey into the tea. The motion was swift, discreet, and performed with such smooth professionalism that it was clearly routine.
(Internal Monologue) Wait, what was that? Did she just fortify my tea with a mystery potion? Oh, honey, no. This is either some ridiculously exclusive anti aging collagen booster that Past Me demanded, or Haven has instructed the maid to add medicine on that tea. Probably a custom blend of Omega stabilizers or supplements to keep the 'asset' compliant. I should probably be suspicious, but honestly, it smells delicious. If they're going to drug me, at least it's in expensive Darjeeling. I'm choosing to assume 'medicine.'
Althea shrugged internally, deciding the effort to confront the unflappable Beta was not worth the imminent payoff of hot caffeine. She took a long, compliant sip.
The Engine Turns Over
Later that morning, the physical therapist, Ms. Evelyn, arrived. Evelyn was a cheerful, muscular Beta with a no nonsense attitude and a scent of clean linen and antiseptic wipes. She took Althea's case with palpable enthusiasm. The session began in the vast living room, focusing on gentle rotation and muscle reactivation.
"You've been resting long enough, Althea," Evelyn chirped, her hands expertly adjusting the angle of her leg. "We need to remind your muscles that you're a dominant Omega you're biologically built for endurance and power. This healing process is already progressing faster than average for your specific injury profile. Your body remembers its strength, even if your mind doesn't."
(Internal Monologue) More "Dominant Omega" propaganda, Althea mused, feeling a mix of skepticism and a strange, thrilling pulse of biological validation. Fine. If Past Me was built like a luxury sports car, let's see if the engine still turns over. Is this the 'Dominant' part? Just a fundamental refusal to be stuck, to be powerless?
Evelyn then produced a set of sleek, adjustable crutches. Althea practiced standing, finding the movement clumsy and jarring, but undeniably achievable. The floor felt solid and distant beneath her feet.
"These are only temporary, Althea," Evelyn insisted, steadying her. "You've got remarkable core strength, a testament to your designation. You're ready to start bearing weight. Let's see what you can do."
They spent the next hour in a slow, determined dance through the spacious, empty rooms. Evelyn guided her, slowly building her confidence with each shuffling step. Althea found that the sheer will to move a stubborn, almost primal urge she didn't recognize propelled her forward faster than she expected.
By the end of the session, Evelyn gave her the verdict. "We are removing the full stabilizing cast. You are now cleared for mobility using the crutches and for light, careful walking inside the house. Use the crutches as your primary support, but practice putting gradual weight on that left foot, Althea. You are, as I suspected, significantly ahead of schedule."
Althea felt a rush of genuine, unadulterated excitement. Freedom! She could investigate her own mysterious life without being a prisoner to wheels. She could finally check the bedrooms, the office the private spaces Haven had pointedly not shown her.
"Thank you, Evelyn," Althea said, and she felt it a raw, resonant power in her voice that was entirely new to the amnesiac her, yet felt like slipping on a well worn glove. "This is... major."
"It's just the start, Althea," Evelyn replied, packing up her gear with a satisfied smile. "I'll see you Wednesday."
As the therapist left, Althea stood leaning on her new crutches, staring at the vast, intimidating expanse of the living room. Sushi, having observed the whole process with rapt attention, gave a quiet, approving wuff, his tail thumping against the floor.
"Okay, Sushi," Althea whispered, testing her weight and feeling the strain in her muscles, a good, honest pain. "Operation: Find Out Who The Hell I Am, is officially underway. And I can now do it standing up. Let's see what secrets this ice palace is hiding."
The afternoon was spent in an awkward, determined exploration. Navigating the minimalist house on crutches was a clumsy ballet, but it beat the helplessness of the wheelchair. Her investigation, however, quickly revealed a disheartening pattern. She tried her phone again, but it remained a sterile, empty box save for that one, daunting contact: Haven B. Hartwell.
She discovered a library that was a temple to commerce shelf after shelf of bound business reports, financial histories of the Vale Corporation, and leather clad legal texts. Not a single novel, book of poetry, or even a magazine that wasn't trade related. She found a state of the art private music studio, but a fine layer of dust on the mixing console and the silent, dormant speakers indicated the "singer" aspect of her life had been dormant long before the accident.
The Unspoken Contract
Around seven o'clock, Mrs. Li served a solitary dinner in the vast, cold dining room. Althea sat alone at the massive, polished table that could easily seat twenty, the clink of her cutlery echoing in the silence.
"This is delicious, Mrs. Li," Althea complimented, tasting the exquisite, lightly seared scallops. "Is my wife joining us tonight?"
Mrs. Li poured a glass of chilled mineral water with practiced grace. "Mrs. Hartwell called. She sends her apologies, Madam Vale. She will be late this evening. She specified she has a late night engagement with the board members regarding the Q3 performance review."
Althea nodded, the disappointment a familiar, faint prickle. Of course. The CEO is busy. That corporate structure doesn't stabilize itself. The feeling was quickly overshadowed by a simmering, slightly petty anger. She literally gave me a phone with a single contact and a 'do not disturb' order, and then immediately breaks the flimsy pretense of a shared home. The hypocrisy is breathtaking.
After finishing her meal, Althea retired to the living room. She practiced walking without the crutches, shuffling slowly between the austere furniture, Sushi padding faithfully beside her, a warm, living anchor in the sea of cold minimalism.
She found herself gravitating to the huge floor to ceiling windows, staring out at the inky blackness of the Northwood Estates. The house felt cavernous, a beautifully constructed void. The truth of her life seemed to be shouted not in words, but in this profound, expensive emptiness.
Is this what it's like to be a Dominant Omega? she wondered, the self loathing returning, sharp and clear. Surrounded by cold wealth and binding contracts, too powerful to be truly loved, too isolated to be known? The lyrics make sense now. I was probably too busy counting my prizes and guarding my empire to bother with the messy vulnerability of a real relationship.
Ten o'clock rolled by. Then ten thirty. The silence deepened.
Althea felt a strange cocktail of emotions: a simmering annoyance at the lack of basic spousal courtesy, and an undeniable, gnawing curiosity for the return of the enigmatic Alpha. It's giving 'waiting up for your emotionally unavailable partner just to pick a fight' vibes. I hate that I'm leaning into the trope. But I'm also ready for the drama.
At 11:04 PM, the security panel by the front door emitted a series of soft, decisive beeps.
Althea, who had been leaning against the cool glass of the window, instantly gripped her crutches. She straightened her spine, unconsciously channeling the "untouchable" persona from the magazine covers, the dominant Omega the world believed her to be.
The door opened silently, and Haven B. Hartwell stepped into the dim light of the entryway. She was still in her daytime armor the expensive black trousers and silk shirt but the tailored coat was gone, and her tie was visibly loosened, a rare, small concession to fatigue and the long hours. Her grape old wine pheromones, usually a rich, complex aura, were slightly muted, carrying the flat, stale note of recycled office air and relentless stress.
Haven paused, her sharp eyes scanning the vast room, expecting to find only darkness and silence. Her Alpha gaze then landed on Althea, standing near the center of the room, supported by crutches but fully upright, awake, and waiting for her.
Haven stopped dead in her tracks, a subtle but unmistakable shock registering on her face a slight parting of her lips, a quick, assessing dilation of her pupils. It was the most genuine reaction Althea had ever provoked from her.
Althea, fueled by the day's small victories and a burning desire to shatter the woman's impeccable composure, managed a cool, dominant tone a performance borrowed from the ghost of who she used to be.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Hartwell," Althea said, her voice dropping to a low, deliberate purr, laced with a challenge. She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist, gesturing toward the empty space behind Haven. "You're late."
Haven's eyes narrowed instantly, the brief shock replaced by the familiar, impenetrable shield of corporate severity. The air grew heavy with the sudden, sharpening of her grape old wine scent, a clear, unspoken challenge.
"I am aware of the time, Althea," Haven replied, her tone a perfect mirror of Althea's newfound demanding pitch, cold and absolute. "The board meeting extended unexpectedly. I informed the staff."
"You informed the staff," Althea repeated, pushing herself a careful inch forward on the crutches, closing the symbolic distance between them. "You did not inform your wife. I'm sorry, is there a clause in our corporate merger agreement about managing the expectations of your contracted spouse? Or were you just too busy counting my money?"
Haven merely tilted her head, a predator assessing a surprising but not yet threatening obstacle. Her Dominant Alpha scent intensified, filling the space between them like an invisible wall. "My actions are governed by necessity, Althea," she stated, her voice iron clad. "And my presence here now is the confirmation of my adherence to that necessity. I am tired. I suggest you return to bed and maintain the excellent progress you achieved with your therapist today."
She began to move past Althea, clearly heading toward the sanctuary of her adjoining suite, treating the confrontation as an annoying, temporary distraction to be managed and dismissed.
"Wait," Althea said, a new idea sparking. She let go of one crutch, making a show of wobbling precariously, and pointed the sterile silver smartphone at Haven like a weapon. "I need to set up my new phone. I can't figure out the Wi Fi or the face ID. Since you're the tech mogul here, you're the only number I have, and you're my spouse, guess who has to do it?"
Haven stopped again, her back a rigid line of tension. Althea could practically feel the Alpha calculating the minutes of her life being wasted by this 'frivolous dependency'.
She slowly turned around, a portrait of strained patience. "I will handle the encryption and network settings," Haven said, visibly pushing her weariness aside for the sake of duty. "But I will not tolerate this level of deliberate helplessness, Althea. Your stated goal is autonomy."
(Internal Monologue) Deliberate helplessness. Noted, Althea giggled internally. She's going to despise me. This is going to be so much fun. Autonomy, my fractured foot.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Hartwell," Althea said sweetly, the crutches giving another convincing wobble. "Just helping you fulfill your expanded 'duty of care.'"
Haven simply sighed, a small, tired exhalation. She stepped back over to Althea and held out her hand for the phone. "Give it here. We will complete the essential security protocols."
Althea handed it over, then leaned in conspiratorially, trying to peer at the screen as Haven's fingers flew across it. "I need to put the Wi Fi password in, right? It's probably some incomprehensible corporate jargon, isn't it? Just tell me the password."
Haven stiffened, her movements becoming even more rigid and controlled. She angled the phone away, shielding the screen from Althea's view. "I will input the network key. It is not necessary for you to know it. Security is paramount."
"And the Face ID," Althea pressed, seeing her opening. She playfully tilted her head closer to Haven's, trying to get her face into the phone's frontal scanning view. "I'm sure it's much easier if I just look at the screen now, don't you think? Get it over with?"
Althea's face was now mere inches from Haven's. The sudden, forced proximity caused an immediate, visceral reaction in the Alpha.
Haven's eyes widened a fraction, and she inhaled a sharp, quiet breath, her grape old wine scent spiking with a sudden, volatile intensity. But more revealingly, a faint, undeniable flush spread rapidly from the column of her neck, creeping upwards to warm the tips of her ears, which turned a soft, unmistakable pink.
Haven did not could not look at Althea. She quickly snatched the phone back entirely, retreating two full, swift steps with a jerky motion that shattered her usual liquid composure.
"I will handle the biometric enrollment in my suite," Haven stated abruptly, her voice tighter, a half octave higher than its usual controlled alto. "It requires a secure, controlled environment. I will return the device when it is fully operational."
And with that, before Althea could even form a word of protest, Haven turned on her heel and practically fled into her adjoining suite, the door closing with a firm, definitive click that was one step short of a slam.
Althea was left alone in the sudden silence, staring at the blank, white door. A slow, bewildered, and utterly triumphant smile spread across her face.
(Internal Monologue) Wait. Althea touched her own cheek, feeling the cool air where Haven's warmth had been. Did I just make the stone cold Alpha CEO, the unflappable Mrs. Hartwell, actually blush? She's shy? The untouchable, ruthless CEO is flustered by my face being too close to hers? That's... that's actually adorable. This is better than the whole greenhouse mystery combined. This is a weakness I can exploit.
"Well, Sushi," Althea whispered as the dog wandered over to the adjoining door and sniffed at the base, his tail giving a curious wag. "It looks like my contract wife might be a massive, flustered nerd who has a secret crush on the ghost of me. And I think I just found my new favorite hobby: Operation: Embarrass the Alpha."
The large, cold house suddenly felt a tiny bit less lonely, and the future felt a lot more interesting.
The door to the adjoining suite remained a silent, imposing barrier for the next hour, a stark white monolith against the dark wood of the wall. Althea didn't mind the wait; the anticipation was a delicious, simmering feeling in her chest, a stark contrast to the cold dread that usually resided there. She spent the time leaning carefully against her crutches, happily petting Sushi, who had taken up a loyal guard duty near the mysterious entryway, his tail giving the occasional soft thump against the floor.
The CEO is definitely in there, Althea theorized, a wide, slightly mischievous smile playing on her lips. Probably installing military grade firewalls on my phone and frantically Googling "how to manage a spouse who weaponizes proximity." She had managed to put a hairline crack in Haven's pristine corporate shell, and the satisfaction was a potent, warming draught. It gave her a sense of agency and power that the hollow title of "Dominant Omega" had failed to provide.
At 12:15 AM, the door finally unlocked with a barely audible, yet deafeningly significant, snick. Haven B. Hartwell emerged. Her silk shirt was now perfectly smoothed, every hint of the earlier disarray erased, her demeanor reset to its default state of cold, controlled professionalism. She held the silver smartphone, its screen glowing faintly with a few pre installed, sterile looking applications.
Haven walked directly to Althea, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere over her shoulder, avoiding eye contact entirely. "The device is secure and fully operational. All necessary home automation, security, and medical access applications are installed. The Face ID is registered to your biometric data." She offered the phone back to Althea as if it were a classified document. "Do not misuse this device for non essential communication. The purpose is safety and necessity."
Althea took the phone, savoring the cool, smooth glass in her palm. Finally. A tether, however thin, to the outside world.
Then, emboldened by her previous success and the late hour, she decided to push the boundary into outright absurdity. She let her crutches clatter harmlessly to the floor and held her arms up to Haven in a clear, childlike, utterly ridiculous gesture.
"Upsies," Althea announced, her voice soft but firm, an exaggerated, theatrical pout on her face.
Haven stopped dead, her hand frozen mid air after releasing the phone. Her face, usually so readable in its lack of expression, was suddenly a perfect blank canvas of complete and utter incomprehension. The sheer, unprofessional illogic of the request seemed to have short circuited her CEO programming.
"What are you doing?" Haven asked, her tone dangerously flat, stripped of all inflection by pure bewilderment.
"Upsies!" Althea repeated, wiggling her fingers playfully, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I waited the whole night for you. I'm a broken Omega, and I'm afraid I can't make it to my bed all by myself now that I've so carelessly discarded my walking sticks. Aren't you my wife? Duty of care, Mrs. Hartwell. It's in the fine print, I'm sure of it."
Althea knew this was pure, unadulterated entitlement a move the old Althea would have doubtless weaponized without a second thought. But the mental image of forcing the impeccably dressed, exhausted CEO to physically carry her to bed was a temptation too delicious to resist. It was a test, a probe into the depths of Haven's supposedly duty bound commitment.
Haven's Alpha scent flared momentarily a sudden, sharp spike of grape old wine that tasted of tart annoyance, quickly suppressed into a low, rumbling undertone. She seemed to be running a rapid, internal risk assessment matrix: Is physical acquiescence worse than a prolonged confrontation? Does this fall under the umbrella of 'managing trauma induced regression'?
"Althea, you are perfectly capable of using the crutches," Haven protested, her voice tight as she gestured toward the fallen aids. "Your physical therapist confirmed your mobility. This is an unnecessary theatric."
"But I don't want to," Althea argued with devastating, simple logic. "I want my wife. I'm scared. It's a huge, dark, new house, and I'm a fragile little Dominant Omega with amnesia. I need my Alpha to tuck me in. Come on, Haven. Lift."
Haven's jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along her perfect jawline. She stood there for a full, tense minute, a statue of conflicted duty, utterly defeated by the combination of Althea's brazen entitlement and the unassailable legal and medical mandate of her care.
Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the accumulated weight of the entire Vale inheritance, Haven relented. She stepped closer, the air shifting with her scent, and bent down with a fluid, powerful grace that was breathtaking to witness. She slipped one strong arm behind Althea's back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her from the ground with an effortless strength that stole the air from Althea's lungs.
Althea let out a small, involuntary gasp. Haven was immensely strong. She was cradled securely against Haven's chest, her head nestled near the Alpha's collarbone. The rich, complex aroma of grape old wine enveloped her, no longer just a scent in the air but a tangible warmth, a comforting, steady presence that made her Omega instincts purr with a deep, unsettling satisfaction.
Wait, she actually did it! Althea thought, her mischievous plan evaporating into stunned realization. I was just kidding! I was going to let her protest for five more minutes and then grudgingly pick up the crutches! But now I'm here, and she smells really, really good. And she feels... solid.
Haven carried her effortlessly through the shadowed living room, her steps silent and sure on the polished floor. The journey to the master suite was ridiculously, profoundly intimate. Held so securely in the arms of the woman who was her legal spouse yet a complete stranger, Althea felt a confusing rush of safety and a thrilling undercurrent of something else entirely. She was being treated like a fragile, precious treasure a stark, ironic contrast to the cold business arrangement that defined them.
They reached the sprawling, cold bed in the minimalist master suite. Haven gently lowered Althea onto the pristine white sheets, her movements careful and precise as she maneuvered the injured leg into a comfortable position.
The moment Althea was settled, Haven pulled back as if burned, putting physical and emotional distance between them in one swift motion. She straightened the front of her silk shirt with a quick, nervous tug, a tell that screamed her discomfort, and turned immediately for the sanctuary of the adjoining suite.
Panic, sharp and sudden, lanced through Althea's brief contentment. She reached out, her fingers closing around a handful of the expensive, rumpled silk at Haven's sleeve before the Alpha could fully escape.
"Wait!" The word was out before she could stop it, the feigned fragility in her voice dissolving into genuine, plaintive confusion. "Where are you going? Aren't you… are we not going to sleep together?"
Haven stopped, her body rigid as marble, a portrait of exasperated endurance. She slowly turned back, her eyes shadowed in the dim light.
"Althea," she stated, her voice strained, stretched thin over a wire of patience. "I told you last night. We have not shared a room for over a year. And long before the accident, you specifically requested and enforced separate bedrooms. This adjoining suite is mine. You are in your designated bed. I am going to mine." The words 'requested' and 'enforced' were delivered with a particular, weighted precision.
"But that wasn't me anymore!" Althea protested, her grip tightening slightly on the silk. "The old me was a nightmare, clearly! But this me is scared! It's not the same as the hospital where there were people and noise. This house is huge, cold, and empty. I'm an Omega. I'm hurt. My instincts are screaming for my Alpha to be nearby. Isn't that part of the biology you keep referencing?"
Haven pulled her sleeve free from Althea's grasp with a firm, controlled force that brooked no argument. She took another step back toward the door, a retreating general, and pointed a deliberate, unwavering finger toward the foot of Althea's bed where Sushi now sat, watching them with worried, liquid eyes.
"You are not alone, Althea," Haven stated, her eyes as hard and cold as chips of flint. "Sushi is here. He is extensively trained. He will remain in this room with you. He is perfectly adequate companionship and protection. You will be fine."
With that final, cold, and utterly dismissive verdict, Haven B. Hartwell, CEO and most reluctant wife, disappeared into her own room. The door clicked shut, not with a slam, but with a quiet, profound finality that felt more absolute than any lock.
Althea stared at the blank, white door, her shoulders slumping as all the playful bravado drained from her, leaving behind the deep, aching hollow of her loneliness. The childish surge of hurt was immediate and sharp she felt abandoned by the one person in the world who was supposed to know her, the one person who held all the keys.
Sushi, sensing the sudden shift in the room's emotional atmosphere, the souring of her pheromones, padded silently over and rested his massive, heavy head gently on the edge of the mattress, his soulful eyes fixed on her face.
Althea reached out and buried her fingers in the dog's soft, golden fur, seeking anchor. She didn't want the cold, perfect Alpha on the other side of the wall to hear her, so she whispered her frustrations, her confessions, into the safe, fuzzy sanctuary of Sushi's ear.
"Did you see that, Sushi?" Althea grumbled, stroking his velvety ears in a rhythmic, soothing motion. "She said I enforced separate bedrooms. The old me was a monster! A absolute tyrant who married a goddess and then banished her to the room next door! And then I try to be cute and vulnerable, and she literally points to you and says, 'He's adequate.' No offense, buddy, you're the best thing in my life, but you're not the one who makes my heart do that weird stuttery thing when you get flustered."
Sushi responded with a deep, sympathetic sigh that seemed to come from his very soul and a warm, sloppy kiss on her hand.
"And the blushing, Sushi! She absolutely turned pink! She's playing this whole icy CEO role, but deep down, she's a giant, professional marshmallow with a secret crush on the person who apparently tormented her. It's tragic! It's ridiculous! It's the most slow burn coded mess I've ever been in, and I have no context for the first two acts of this play!"
Althea sank deeper into the mountain of pillows, pulling Sushi's warm, solid weight as close as she could. "She's so good at the contract, Sushi. So cold, so duty bound. But I'm going to break that wall down. I need answers, and the only key I have is to annoy her into vulnerability. I just need to figure out if she ran away because she truly hates the ghost of Past Me, or if she ran away because the ghost of a feeling for Current Me is just as terrifying."
She hugged the dog tighter, the emotional whiplash of the evening finally pulling her under a wave of exhaustion. She drifted off to sleep, feeling marginally safer with the warm, heavy weight of the golden Alpha retriever pressed against her leg, a loyal sentinel in the quiet dark, even as her actual, human Alpha wife remained firmly, resolutely locked away.