The previous day's strange mixture of botanical discovery and raw, embarrassing desire had left Althea mentally exhausted. After a light supper alone Haven's door remained firmly shut, betraying her fury over the pinboard Althea knew sleep was imminent, but first, she had work to do.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the large, black-framed Conspiracy Pinboard looming over her, a testament to her amnesiac obsession. She opened the heavy, leather-bound journal. It was too pristine to be the emotional diary, so she designated it the Official Case File.
She uncapped a sharp, black ink pen and began meticulously detailing the day's acquisitions and discoveries, forcing the chaotic thoughts into structured, quantifiable evidence.
CASE FILE: ALTHEA VALE / HAVEN HARTWELL
DATE: [Day 4 at Estate]
SUBJECT: H.B.H. (Alpha Wife/CEO)
NEW PHYSICAL EVIDENCE: Three boxes of advanced, specialized horticulture texts (Conclusion: HBH complied with frivolous dependency demand. Cost is irrelevant to Alpha's duty.)
NEW PSYCHOLOGICAL DATA: Alpha wife demonstrates extreme vulnerability to proximity (Blushing: Confirmed. Panic upon accidental contact: Confirmed. Retreating/Fleeing to suite: Confirmed.)
NEW SCENT DATA (Dream Analysis): HBH's pheromone profile includes a dominant grape old wine base, but deep intimacy triggers a secondary note of sandalwood and musk. (Hypothesis: Grape Old Wine is HBH's true, private scent, suppressed by corporate inhibitors/emotional control. Further investigation required.)
LYRICAL ANALYSIS (Self-Assessment): Past Me was a narcissistic tyrant. Her own songs confirm HBH was trapped in a contract for my convenience and protection. (Conclusion: Current Me's goal to exploit HBH's emotional weakness is morally dubious, but necessary for investigative progress.)
She closed the official journal, locking it quickly. The logical coldness of the facts only highlighted the turmoil she was trying to contain.
She then pulled out the smaller, locked personal diary the one with the good paper. She unlocked it and began to write, the pen scratching furiously across the page, a confession to her own soul.
Personal Diary—ENTRY 3
I despise the woman I was. I don't care about the money or the fame; I care that I took a person who looked at me like a miracle and taught her to look away. That's a monster. The humiliation I caused her must be staggering.
And the worst part? My body doesn't care about morality. It only cares that she smells like safety and power. The dream I had the sheer, physical intensity of it it's unforgivable. I feel disgusting. I get off on the person I victimized. It's the amnesia, it's the biology, but it doesn't stop the shame.
I have to tease her. I have to push. Because the cold CEO who denies the Christmas Puppy is bearable. The shy, blushing woman who gave me 'upsies' is terrifying. She makes me feel things I can't place, and if I can't push her into panic, I might just break down and ask her to hold me, and I don't deserve that. I don't deserve her touch.
She finished the entry, the shame a bitter taste in her mouth. She placed the diary beneath her pillow with the photo album and forced herself to settle down. Exhaustion finally won, pulling her under the waves of guilt and confusion.
The Graveyard Memory
She didn't know when the dream began, but it was immediate and terrifying.
The sterile, cool air of the bedroom dissolved, replaced by a sudden, bone-deep cold. She was standing, but her legs were heavy, soaked through, and the slick clay beneath her feet dragged at her shoes. The air tasted of wet earth and ancient stone.
She was in a graveyard. Row upon row of gray markers stretched into the mist. It was pouring rain, an absolute deluge that saturated her clothes and plastered her hair to her face. She was crying, a deep, silent, devastating grief that seemed to come from the very core of her being. This wasn't the panic of amnesia; this was soul-shattering loss.
Before her stood three fresh graves, the earth piled high, the black marble headstones lined up in a chillingly precise row. Each stone bore the same engraved surname: VALE. Her family. Her curse.
A fresh wave of wracking sobs shook her body, the pain so immense it felt physical. It's the cars. It's always the cars.
The world was nothing but rain, loss, and the suffocating scent of ozone and wet soil.
Then, a sudden, blessed relief: the rain stopped falling on her.
Althea didn't look up, but she felt the presence immediately. A tall, sturdy figure stood silently behind her, shielding her from the storm. The Alpha presence was immense, but gentle, a powerful, unwavering anchor in the maelstrom of her grief.
Althea, the Omega in the dream, wept into the rain, feeling the absolute, passive protection of the stranger behind her. The girl because she was younger here, less armored didn't speak, didn't touch, didn't try to pull her away. She simply held the umbrella, letting Althea mourn the loss that had defined her life. It was a silent, wordless testament of fierce, protective loyalty.
The scene faded to black just the sound of rain, the despair, and the powerful, unwavering silence of the Alpha beside her.
The Sound of the Alpha
Althea woke with a sharp, terrified jolt. The residual smell of ozone and wet earth clung to her, mixing with the cold sweat on her skin. She was breathing in ragged gasps.
The sound that woke her was a clap of thunder a deep, resonant crack that seemed to split the night sky directly over the house.
She looked at the clock: 1:00 AM.
Rain was lashing against the massive glass windows, the sound a chaotic drumming that was suddenly, terrifyingly loud in the huge, empty room. The next clap of thunder was immediate, a deafening explosion that sent a fresh jolt of pure, irrational panic through her.
The terror of the dream the grief, the row of graves, the knowledge of profound loss combined instantly with the sheer violence of the storm. Her amnesiac brain couldn't process the difference. She was alone, small, and exposed in the vast, dark house.
Her gaze fixed instantly on the door to Haven's suite, a stark white monolith against the chaos. Her Omega instincts were screaming for the Alpha scent, the anchor, the sheer, protective presence she now knew was just a few feet away.
She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her crutches. Her legs shook, not from injury, but from fear. She moved with desperate, clumsy speed. She reached the Alpha's door and didn't knock; she didn't think to. Driven purely by primal terror and the memory of that silent, powerful umbrella, she shoved the door open.
The adjoining suite was not dark. It was lit by the soft, warm glow of a desk lamp. Haven B. Hartwell was exactly where Althea had often imagined her: sitting at a sleek, minimalist desk piled high with paper and three monitors glowing with data. She was wearing her dark silk pajamas, but she was awake, alert, and deeply focused, the air around her thick with the controlled concentration of her grape old wine scent.
Haven looked up sharply, her eyes widening, utterly blindsided by the sudden, panicked intrusion. Her perfect professional composure instantly evaporated, replaced by genuine shock.
Althea didn't speak. She couldn't. The trauma of the dream, the sound of the rain, the sight of the shocked, beautiful face of her wife it all overwhelmed her. She dropped her crutches with a loud clatter and covered her face with her hands, the sobs escaping her chest raw and uncontrolled.
The Alpha Anchor
Haven didn't move for a fraction of a second, her Alpha mind processing the sensory overload: the loud crash, the Omega's distressed scent pheromones spiking sharply with sheer terror, and the tears.
Then, the ingrained corporate shield shattered entirely, violently replaced by protective instinct. She didn't ask about the crutches or the noise; she reacted to the distress.
Haven launched herself from the chair with surprising speed. She crossed the room in two strides, her silk pajamas whispering against the floor. She knelt immediately on the rug before Althea, her strong, warm hands closing over Althea's shoulders.
"Althea! Are you hurt? Are you okay?" Haven asked, her voice low and tight with alarm, the protective wave of her grape old wine scent immediately surging, trying to soothe and subdue the Omega's fear response.
Althea shook her head wildly, unable to stop the torrent of tears, which were fueled by grief for a family she couldn't remember.
"I'm scared! I'm so scared, Haven!" Althea sobbed, collapsing forward against the Alpha's shoulder.
Haven didn't flinch. She simply wrapped her arms around Althea, her body rigid with initial shock but her hug immediately firm and secure, pulling Althea's head against her neck.
"Tell me. What is it? What's wrong?" Haven murmured, her voice warm against Althea's ear, the sandalwood note of her deeper scent briefly cutting through the grape old wine as she held her close.
"I had a dream," Althea managed, the words catching on a sob. "No, a memory. I was standing in a graveyard, Haven! It was raining, and there were three graves in a line! All Vale! All my family! I can't remember them, but I know they were mine! And then... and then the storm! It felt real!"
She pulled back slightly, looking desperately into Haven's eyes, even in the dim light. "They all died in a car crash, didn't they? My parents? My whole family? And then me! It's the cars, Haven! We're cursed with cars! Why can't I remember them? Why am I such a broken person?"
Haven pulled her back into a fierce, protective embrace, cutting off the self-loathing with absolute certainty.
"No," Haven whispered against her hair, her voice firm and low. "You are not a broken person. You are healing, Althea. You are resilient. And yes. Your parents and your Older Brother were lost in a traffic accident when you were eighteen. It was a trauma that defined your life, and your brain is protecting you from that grief. It's not a curse. It was an anomaly. And you survived it."
Haven gently pulled back, looking at Althea's terrified, tear-streaked face. Without waiting for a response, she scooped Althea up, lifting her with the same powerful, effortless grace as the previous night. She walked her out of the sterile, professional suite and back into the cold safety of the master bedroom.
Haven placed Althea gently onto the center of the bed, maneuvering the covers over her. Instead of retreating, Haven sat down on the very edge of the mattress, leaning close.
"It's alright," Haven murmured, her hand rising to gently brush the damp hair from Althea's forehead. Her touch was hesitant, utterly tender, a startling contrast to her usual coldness. "I'll be here. The memory of grief is a terrible thing, but it is not a threat now. I won't leave."
Haven reached out again, her hand resting lightly on the pillow next to Althea's head. The Alpha scent, heavy with protection and assurance, washed over Althea, saturating the pillows, the sheets, the air around her.
"The thunder can't hurt you in here, Althea. The house is secure. The storm is outside," Haven assured her, her voice a steady, low anchor against the raging storm outside. "I will be right here, guarding the door, guarding your sleep. You are safe. You are cared for. I am here until you fall asleep again."
Althea lay still, staring at the blurred, beautiful face of her wife. The shame was still there, but it was being slowly, thoroughly neutralized by the immense, protective presence of the Alpha. She burrowed deeper into the sheets, breathing in the comforting scent, her eyelids growing heavy. The storm outside faded, muffled by the sheer, unwavering strength of the Alpha beside her.
As Althea finally drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, the last thing she registered was Haven's strong hand resting on the mattress just inches from her own, a silent, powerful promise of protection against the chaos of the world and the tyranny of her own forgotten past. Haven B. Hartwell did not move. She remained seated, vigilant, guarding the most vulnerable piece of her life.