The terrifying emotional breach of the previous night the graveyard memory, the shared tears, and the unprecedented intimacy of Haven's bedside vigil was not mentioned. It hung between them like a silent, powerful contract, redefining the emotional gravity of the house even as the outward routine remained cold and clean.
Two weeks had blurred into a strange, domesticated rhythm within the luxurious prison of the Northwood Estates. The house felt marginally less intimidating, a change Althea credited to two primary factors: the unwavering, slobbery affection of Sushi, and the increasingly predictable, if still baffling, compliance of Haven B. Hartwell.
Althea had officially shed her crutches, a liberation that felt as psychological as it was physical. She could now run short, powerful bursts through the vast, empty halls a display of her returning Dominant Omega energy that was exhilarating after weeks of enforced fragility. The rhythmic thud of her footsteps on polished wood was a perfect soundtrack for venting her mounting existential confusion.
The routine was now etched in stone:
Morning: Strenuous physical therapy with a relentlessly cheerful Ms. Evelyn, now focused on running and agility.Day: Her "goofy investigation" immersing herself in botanical texts, adding new, speculative notes like "BREAKFAST CONSPIRACY??" to the ever-growing pinboard, and sending deliberately inane texts to an increasingly harried-looking Dana.
Evening: Haven's arrival, now a consistent occurrence before 7 PM, a seismic shift from the post-midnight entrances of the first week.Dinner: A tense, silent meal, punctuated only by Althea's relentless, playful teasing, which reliably resulted in the faint pinkening of Haven's ears and her subsequent tactical retreat to the adjoining suite.
Haven's silence on the key issues the pinboard, the emotional breakdown, the photographs remained an impenetrable fortress. But her increased, punctual presence was, in Althea's ledger, undeniable progress for Operation: Embarrass the Alpha.
The Unexpected Ingredient
Althea finished her final running circuit of the main hall, her breath coming in satisfying puffs, just as Mrs. Li arrived to clear away the lunch dishes. A wave of genuine, un-teasing gratitude washed over Althea. In this world of cold corporate contracts and heated, confusing tension, Mrs. Li's quiet efficiency was a bedrock of normalcy.
"Mrs. Li," Althea said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe to cool down. "Before you go, I just wanted to say thank you. Seriously. Your meals are… a lifesaver specially the breakfast part. They're always perfect, healthy, and customized. It really does help with the recovery."
Mrs. Li, who was wiping down the pristine counter with her usual meticulous care, stopped. She looked up at Althea, her expression one of utter, unvarnished confusion the first time Althea had ever seen the housekeeper's professional composure truly falter.
"I'm sorry, Madam Vale," Mrs. Li said, her voice softer than usual. "But I am only contracted to prepare lunch and dinner for you, and to manage the general cleaning and laundry. My agreement explicitly states I am not to enter the kitchen before 8 AM."
Althea blinked. The realization didn't dawn; it struck her with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs.
"Eh?" Althea frowned, her mind scrambling. "So… who prepares my breakfast then? Who is making those perfect, artistic fruit arrangements and that specific sourdough toast every single morning?"
Mrs. Li returned to her wiping, her gaze now fixed firmly on the granite, a clear sign of diplomatic retreat. "Madam, it has always been the other Madam. Mrs. Hartwell prepares your breakfast every morning, Madam Vale. Even before the accident, whenever you were between tours and staying at the house, she always ensured your specific dietary requirements were met personally before she left for the office."
Althea stood frozen in the doorway, the pleasant burn in her muscles completely forgotten, replaced by a dizzying vertigo.
The other Madam.
(Internal Monologue)F**k me. Wait. Hold on. Stop the entire cinematic universe. Haven B. Hartwell, the CEO of Vale Hotels and Resorts, the woman who speaks in corporate legalese and smells like a billion-dollar vineyard, gets up before her ungodly-early workday to meticulously hand-slice mangoes into floral shapes and brew my Darjeeling at precisely eighty-five degrees?
The cognitive dissonance was staggering. CEO Haven commanded boardrooms and negotiated mergers. Secret Chef Haven was in this very kitchen, likely in a silk robe, focused on the perfect toast-to-butter ratio for her amnesiac wife.
(Internal Monologue)So that wife of mine really does care about the past me. It's not just watering my ridiculously expensive plants or maintaining a public facade. This is intimate. This is… nurturing. This is giving 'I am secretly, deeply obsessed with your well-being' vibes. She's a trauma-bonded softie in a CEO's armor!
The realization fundamentally recalibrated her entire understanding of their situation. Haven wasn't just managing a valuable asset; she was personally, quietly sustaining Althea. This wasn't just duty; this was a devotion so profound it was hidden in the most mundane of acts, performed daily with the knowledge that Althea would neither remember nor appreciate it.
"Right," Althea said, her voice slightly strained as she fought to sound casual. "Well, please ensure Mrs. Hartwell is… thanked for her meticulous adherence to the breakfast clause of our contract."
Mrs. Li nodded, visibly relieved to be back on the solid ground of professional politeness. "Of course, Madam Vale."
Afternoon Intelligence Analysis
Althea spent the whole afternoon in the greenhouse, the humid air clinging to her skin like a second thought. She wasn't really reading the heavy tome on succulent propagation in her lap; she was conducting a deep analysis of the "Haven Hartwell" dataset, this new variable changing everything.
"Okay, Sushi," Althea said, abandoning her book to pace the central aisle, her hands gesticulating. "We have a paradigm-shifting data point. New working hypothesis: Haven is not emotionally cold. She is emotionally constipated, a condition directly resulting from sustained trauma inflicted by Past Me. The breakfasts, the early returns, you, Sushi—these aren't contractual obligations. They are pure, unadulterated Alpha nurturing instincts that Past Me systematically crushed, forcing them to be expressed through these bizarre, covert channels."
Sushi, who was investigating a suspiciously shaped root, gave a soft whimper that Althea chose to interpret as full agreement.
"She cares, Sushi. She cares so deeply it's literally her first order of business every day. And I," Althea declared, a new, determined glint in her eye, "am going to use this intelligence to annoy her with surgical precision. She ran from a little accidental contact last time. Now, we have the key to her secret soft heart. We need a new, more targeted tactic."
The Dinner Demand
Seven o'clock arrived. Althea was already seated at the dining table, having changed into a sleek, emerald-green silk jumpsuit Dana had deemed "appropriately dominant yet recovering." She had positioned herself deliberately, ensuring she had a clear line of sight to the entrance.
The front door opened at precisely 7:01 PM. Haven B. Hartwell walked in, a vision of corporate power in a sharp charcoal suit, her hair a severe, perfect sweep. Her grape old wine scent was prominent, but notably less defensive than it had been of late. She looked tired, but there was a determined set to her jaw.
She paused mid-stride, her eyes finding Althea at the table. Instantly, her gaze darted toward the hallway, performing a quick threat-assessment scan for the dreaded pinboard. (Althea had wisely instructed Mrs. Li to keep the bedroom door firmly shut.)
Haven approached and, pointedly, took her seat directly across from Althea, maximizing the physical distance between them.
Althea didn't speak. She simply rested her chin on her hand and stared at Haven, a slow, wide, knowing grin spreading across her face a grin that held the secret of the morning mangoes.
Haven reached for her linen napkin, her movements just a fraction too careful. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with Althea's unsaid knowledge.
Finally, Haven broke. She placed the napkin back on the table with a soft thud.
"Althea," Haven said, her voice tight with forced calm. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" Althea asked, tilting her head, her grin unwavering, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Like you have accessed classified information," Haven stated, her grey eyes narrowing. "It is… disconcerting. I suggest you focus on your meal."
"Oh, I'm just admiring the exemplary Q3 performance of my personal chef," Althea replied, taking a large, deliberate bite of her herb-crusted salmon.
Haven's Alpha scent sharpened instantly a clear, pheromonal admission that Althea had hit the target. "I do not understand the reference. Mrs. Li's culinary skills are adequate."
"Oh, she's more than adequate," Althea agreed, her tone syrupy sweet. "But I'm admiring the other chef. The one who understands that a Dominant Omega's neural recovery is dependent on her sourdough being perfectly toasted and her tropical fruits being precisely sliced before 8 AM, even when that chef has a multi-billion dollar company to open. That's not just dedication, Mrs. Hartwell. That's… devotion."
Haven froze, her fork hovering above her plate. The reaction was immediate and visceral: a faint, deep blush bloomed high on her cheekbones, creeping unmistakably to the very tips of her ears. The CEO's shield flickered, and for a breathtaking second, Althea saw pure, unguarded exposure.
"That is part of the established, pre-approved household management protocol," Haven snapped, quickly regaining her footing, though her voice was a notch higher than its usual controlled alto. "It is the most efficient method, and it minimizes unnecessary staff interaction during your period of cognitive instability."
"Efficient. Right," Althea chuckled, savoring the victory. "So, tell me, when you have to stay late at the office, do you delegate the grapefruit slicing to a junior vice-president? Or is that a C-suite level responsibility?"
Haven pushed her plate back an inch. "How was your physical therapy today, Althea? I trust you found it sufficiently stimulating."
Sensing she had pressed the breakfast issue to its limit for one night, Althea deftly changed targets. "Oh, it was fantastic. I'm practically an Olympic sprinter now. And yes, my brain is buzzing and ready for real-world stimulation. How was your day? Did you fire anyone interesting? Crush any dreams over the conference table?"
"The entertainment division's restructuring is proceeding on schedule," Haven said, latching onto the professional lifeline with visible relief. "The acquisition of the Singapore hotel chain is also progressing smoothly."
"Fascinating," Althea said, leaning forward with feigned absorption. "But my newly stimulated brain requires more than stock reports. I need to leave this house."
Haven's head snapped up. "Absolutely not. The doctor's orders were explicit: a low-stimulus, secluded environment."
"I know, I know. 'Stress-free,'" Althea sighed, the picture of melodramatic suffering. "But this house is starting to give me, what's that psychological term… ah, yes. Stockholm Syndrome. I'm developing an unhealthy attachment to my beautiful, emotionally unavailable captor. It's a medical emergency."
Haven stared at her, completely nonplussed by the absurd leap in logic. "You are not my captive. You are my wife. And you are not going out."
"I am going out," Althea insisted, planting her palms flat on the table, channeling every ounce of her Dominant Omega will. "I need new data, Haven. And I've found the perfect, doctor-approved cover. The community center here in Northwood has a club a combined plant and book club. It's the ideal blend of my two apparent personalities. It's low-stress, deeply suburban, and entirely devoid of corporate intrigue. You should come. It would be so… enlightening for you."
Haven ran a hand over her face, the gesture speaking of profound exhaustion and exasperation. "I am absolutely certain I will not be attending. And the answer is still no. I will arrange for a security detail to accompany you."
"Aww," Althea said, deploying the full, genuine force of her Dominant Omega pout. "But I wanted you. I wanted to see if your shy Alpha ears turn the color of a rare orchid when you have to discuss philodendron propagation in front of strangers."
Haven leaned back in her chair, reclaiming her Alpha composure with a visible effort. "You are testing the boundaries of your recovery plan, Althea. I will review the library's security protocols. You will not set foot outside without an escort."
"Fine," Althea conceded, picking up her fork with a triumphant little smile. She had gotten what she really wanted: a crack in the fortress. "But you still owe me a proper date, Secret Chef. And it starts with a 'thank you' for the perfectly sliced mangoes."
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.