Althea woke to the profound, echoing emptiness of the master suite, a sensation only slightly mitigated by the heavy, warm weight of Sushi sleeping peacefully across her feet. The memory of the previous night was a vivid imprint on her senses the effortless strength of Haven's arms, the secure cradle of her body, the intoxicating, close up scent of grape old wine that had clung to her long after the Alpha had fled. It was a ghost of an intimacy that should have existed, a stark contrast to the cold reality of the adjoining door.
(Internal Monologue) She carried me, Althea thought, a slow, giddy smile spreading across her face as she stared at the ceiling. The ruthless CEO who commands boardrooms and manages billion dollar assets actually gave me 'upsies.' She was furious, but she did it. And she blushed. Haven Hartwell isn't just a corporate automaton; she's a flustered, awkward nerd, and Past Me must have been a master at pushing her buttons.
This new, evolving theory that Haven was not a cold monster but a shy, deeply devoted Alpha forced into a defensive, corporate shell by Past Althea's tyranny was far more compelling than the sterile "business contract" narrative. It gave her a mission, a mystery to solve that was more tangible than regaining her memory.
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 capable, the bone deep ache a testament to her progress. She practiced a few unsteady steps without the aids, whispering to a now awake Sushi, "No more wheels, buddy. We are an independent, fully mobile investigative unit now."
She navigated the long, silent hallway to the kitchen. It was barely 7:30 AM, but the polished quartz counter held a covered plate of perfectly arranged fruit, steel cut oatmeal, and artisanal toast, alongside a steaming, precisely measured cup of Darjeeling tea.
(Internal Monologue) Mrs. Li is a national treasure. This woman deserves a statue, Althea internally declared, settling onto a tall stool. Hmm, maybe Past Me was a tyrant to my wife, but at least I had the sense to employ a staff that provides gourmet breakfast service.
She pulled out the sleek, silver smartphone. It was lightning fast, technologically impeccable, and utterly, soul crushingly sterile.
"Another boring day, another attempt to digitally hack my own life," Althea mumbled, scrolling through the minimal apps. Haven had installed the barest essentials: a secure email client, the impenetrable Vale corporate portal, a clinical medical tracking app, and a single, locked social media application labeled simply 'Public Managed.'
"This is ridiculous, Sushi," she complained, scrolling fruitlessly. The dog watched her intently from the kitchen doorway, his head cocked. "Past Me was a singer! A celebrity! I guarantee you she had at least thirty thousand selfies, a folder of memes, and a whole archive dedicated to exes. Where is the mess? Where is the chaos? This level of digital cleanliness isn't just corporate; it's pathological. No one, especially a Dominant Omega pop star, lives this cleanly unless they are hiding a monumental amount of dirt."
The deliberate lack of digital breadcrumbs was a confirmation in itself. Haven had been ruthlessly thorough in eliminating evidence, either to protect Althea from a painful past or to tightly control the narrative of their present. Either way, it meant Althea couldn't rely on technology. She needed physical, tangible proof.
The Archive and the Discovery
Shortly after finishing her breakfast, Ms. Evelyn arrived for their physical therapy session. Today, they focused on endurance, pushing Althea to walk the vast perimeter of the living room until her injured leg burned with a sharp, honest protest.
"Excellent work, Althea! At this rate, you'll be ditching these crutches entirely by next week," Evelyn said, wiping a sheen of sweat from her own brow.
"Yeah, yeah. Dominant Omega power, blah blah," Althea replied, trying to sound aloof but secretly thrilling at the promise of true autonomy. (Internal Monologue) Autonomy means I can finally snoop without the soundtrack of squeaky wheels.
The moment Evelyn left, Althea discarded the crutches and began her search in earnest. She moved through the house with a new, determined focus, starting with the least obvious, most forgotten places. Her eyes landed on a small, unassuming door near the dust shrouded music studio, one she had initially mistaken for a utility closet. The knob turned freely in her hand.
It was a storage room, small and dark, smelling of old wood and forgotten things. It was filled with furniture draped in white sheets like silent ghosts and stacks of cardboard boxes labeled with corporate accounting dates. Althea's heart hammered with a thrill of discovery. She used an abandoned side table to carefully rummage through the boxes, her fingers brushing against decades of financial reports.
And then, in the very back, tucked beneath a stack of mind numbing quarterly earnings statements, her fingers brushed against worn, supple leather. She pulled it out. It was a large, heavy, leather bound photo album.
Her breath caught. Bingo.
Althea carried the album awkwardly, using one crutch for support, and slowly made her way back to the vast, empty living room. She deposited the heavy book onto the cold glass of the coffee table with a definitive thud that echoed in the silence.
With a sense of solemn ceremony, she opened the cover.
The first page contained a single, professional, high resolution photograph. Two young women: one, a vibrant Omega in a stunning, tailored white suit, smiling with a brilliance that could power a city; the other, a slightly taller Alpha in a perfectly fitted black tuxedo, her gaze not on the camera, but fixed on the Omega with an intensity that bordered on reverent worship.
Althea stared, her throat tight. That's us. That's our wedding.
She flipped through the pages, the glossy images telling a silent, beautiful, and deeply misleading story. Dozens of pictures unfolded a life she couldn't remember:
Althea laughing wildly, head thrown back at a glittering black tie party, Haven standing a respectful step behind her, a small, adoring smile gracing her lips as she watched her wife, utterly captivated.
The two of them bundled in thick scarves on a snowy mountain trip, Althea looking slightly impatient, but Haven's arm was securely, possessively around her waist, the Alpha's expression soft and fiercely protective.
A candid shot in what looked like a plush, backstage dressing room, Althea mid sentence, gesturing dramatically, and Haven looking directly at her, completely and utterly lost in whatever she was saying.
(Internal Monologue) Hmm, I look pretty, Althea noted with clinical detachment, but Haven looks... transcendent. Her eyes are literally giving heart eyes in every single picture. She looks at Past Me like I hung the moon.
Althea felt a profound cognitive dissonance, a chasm opening between the story Haven had told her and the story these photographs screamed. Haven had described their marriage as a "necessary inconvenience," a "contract." Yet, the woman immortalized in these pages was completely, undeniably smitten, her entire Alpha presence seemingly devoted to her Omega wife.
(Internal Monologue) These photos make it seem like our marriage wasn't just convenient, but a genuinely happy one, Althea thought, her finger tracing the curve of Haven's smiling jaw in a picture where the Alpha was laughing freely, Past Me, you are a true enigma. You had this stunning, utterly devoted Alpha, and you apparently drove her away. You are chaos incarnate.
Then she turned the page to the Christmas section. A full, two page spread was dedicated to a snowy morning, dated two Christmases ago. Althea was sitting on a rug before a towering tree, her face alight with unguarded joy as she held a small, squirming bundle of golden fur wearing a comically large red bow. Standing behind her, Haven had her arms crossed in a mock stern pose, but the corners of her eyes were crinkled in such undeniable, tender affection that it made Althea's chest ache.
The puppy was unmistakably Sushi.
(Internal Monologue) Wait. Christmas. A puppy. Haven's the responsible one, the planner. Don't tell me… Althea pulled a now grown Sushi closer, holding the book open for him to see. "Was Haven the one who bought you, Sushi? She totally did, didn't she? This whole 'I merely manage the property' facade is a lie! She's a secret romantic! A giant, marshmallow hearted nerd who bought me a golden retriever for Christmas! Past Me, you were living inside a heartwarming holiday movie and treating it like a corporate merger!"
The sheer, staggering depth of the Alpha's potential devotion, so vividly captured in these pages, contrasted violently with her present day coldness. The whiplash was dizzying.
A plan, delicious and devious, began to form.
Althea spent the rest of the afternoon carefully curating the evidence. She scattered the most damning photographs casually, yet with strategic precision, across the pristine white surface of the coffee table. The wedding photo, the "smitten Alpha" candid shots, and the Sushi Christmas photo were placed front and center, impossible to miss. It was a trap, baited with memories.
The Trap is Set
Around seven o'clock, Mrs. Li served dinner. Althea ate quickly, her stomach a knot of nervous anticipation.
"Mrs. Hartwell called again, Madam Vale," Mrs. Li said softly as she set down a delicate fruit tart. "She sends her apologies. She will be late again this evening. The board meeting regarding the Q3 review is still ongoing."
(Internal Monologue) Again? Althea's earlier playful annoyance solidified into a sharp point of frustration. She's avoiding me. She knows I'm getting stronger, more mobile, more demanding, and she's retreating behind her spreadsheets and boardrooms. I need to make her confront the evidence.
Althea waited. The hours stretched, taut and silent. She paced the living room, the rhythmic tap of her crutches a metronome counting down to confrontation.
It was 11:15 PM when the security panel finally chimed its soft, expensive alert. Althea instantly let her crutches fall to the floor with a clatter and leaned dramatically against the back of the sofa, adopting a pose that was a carefully calculated mix of injured vulnerability and poised, celebrity judgment.
Haven B. Hartwell entered, looking more drained than Althea had ever seen her. Her silk shirt was deeply wrinkled, and the lines of exhaustion around her eyes and mouth were carved into her beautiful face like scars. Her grape old wine scent was flat, carrying the stale, metallic tang of a sixteen hour day.
Haven's gaze performed its usual, automatic sweep of the room. It stopped dead when it landed on the coffee table. The brightly lit, glossy photographs, scattered like incriminating evidence from a crime of passion, were a visual shout in the quiet room.
Haven froze. Her weary, bloodshot eyes darted from the image of the smiling, adoring Alpha in the wedding photo to the very real, very awake Omega currently watching her with a predator's stillness.
Althea smiled, a slow, sweet, utterly innocent expression that didn't reach her challenging eyes, pushing all her confused attraction and newly discovered, triumphant admiration into her voice.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Hartwell," Althea purred, the name a deliberate caress. "Tough day at the office?"
Haven inhaled a sharp, quiet breath, her entire body stiffening. Her Alpha scent, previously muted by fatigue, now turned to pure, cold granite, a defensive wall slamming down. She merely stared at Althea, her expression hardening into the familiar, impenetrable mask of professional severity.
"Althea," Haven began, her voice low and dangerously controlled, each word a chip of ice. "Where did you find those?"
"Oh, these?" Althea asked with feigned nonchalance, casually picking up the Christmas photo and tapping the image of the puppy Sushi. "They were just having a little slumber party in a dusty room. I thought they deserved to see the light of day. They are, after all, apparently part of the 'necessary structure' of our shared life."
Althea tilted her head, maintaining her innocent, slightly mocking smile. "I was just conducting a review of the evidence, Darling. Because the Alpha in these pictures looks incredibly, undeniably happy. And, quite frankly, deeply obsessed with me. Which is confusing, because the Alpha standing in front of me right now looks like I just presented her with a subpoena."
Althea gestured gracefully toward the wedding photo. "So, I have to ask. Which one of you is the real Mrs. Hartwell? The CEO who avoids me like a liability, or the one who buys me Golden Retrievers for Christmas and looks at me like she's contemplating running away with the wedding photographer?"
Haven stared at the photographs, and then back at Althea. The Alpha's composure was under extreme, visible strain, the tendons in her neck standing out. She wanted to yell, to snatch the album and incinerate it, to turn and flee but the evidence of her own suppressed, past devotion was staring her in the face.
She finally spoke, her voice clipped and devoid of any warmth, a stark contrast to the softness in the photos. "These photographs document a public facade, Althea. A necessary performance during the initial consolidation of our corporate and personal assets. They are irrelevant to your current recovery. They should be returned to their designated storage location immediately."
Althea's smirk widened, a flash of white in the dim room. "Or," she countered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she pointed to the blushing, laughing Alpha in one of the candids, "you could just admit that you were and maybe still are totally crushing on the person you were 'forced' to marry. And that, Mrs. Hartwell, is just objectively adorable."
Haven's eyes flashed with a potent, volatile mix of raw frustration and the same vulnerable panic Althea had provoked the night before. The telltale flush Althea was coming to relish returned in full force, staining Haven's high cheekbones a vivid pink and turning the tips of her ears a burning crimson under the harsh interior light.
Haven turned sharply away from the damning coffee table, unable to bear the sight of the photos or Althea's knowing gaze a second longer. "I am going to my room," she declared, her voice tight. "Do not touch anything else in this house without explicit permission. And put those away. Now."
She didn't wait for a response, disappearing into the adjacent suite with the same furious, flustered speed as the night before, the door closing with a quiet, yet explosive, finality.
Althea chuckled, a sound of genuine, triumphant delight that filled the empty space. Nailed it.
"Well, Sushi," Althea whispered, sinking onto the sofa and pulling the dog into a hug, her gaze fixed on the closed door. "It seems my emotionally constipated wife is officially compromised. And I am getting dangerously close to figuring out what kind of catastrophic, beautiful drama Past Me created to make a goddess this socially, wonderfully awkward."