Althea watched the kitchen door swing shut after Haven B. Hartwell's swift, exasperated exit. The lingering scent of grape old wine confirmed her victory in securing the library trip and the emotional chaos she had sown. Althea was still savoring the sweet taste of compliance when the door swung open again, just sixty seconds later.
Haven B. Hartwell re entered the dining area, her hands full and her expression a renewed fortress of corporate control. She hadn't gone far.
Althea watched, a smug satisfaction warming her chest, as Haven returned to the table, holding two heavy, new books. The Alpha's composure was back in place, a fortress hastily rebuilt.
"Here," Haven said, placing the books on the table with a definitive thud that resonated through the sterile quiet. Her grape old wine scent was tightly leashed, but a sharp, irritated note cut through the usual complexity. "Your requested research materials. One is an advanced guide to xerophytic horticulture. The other is a collected volume of sheet music and arrangements from your last three studio albums."
Althea widened her eyes in a performance of mock surprise. "Ah, for me?" she teased, reaching out slowly, deliberately.
"Who else would require them?" Haven countered, her tone a masterclass in weary exasperation.
As Althea took the books, she let her fingers graze the back of Haven's hand a feather-light, deliberate brush against the Alpha's knuckles. The reaction was instantaneous. Haven's hand snapped back as if seared by a live wire, the movement sharp, reflexive, and utterly revealing.
Althea bit the inside of her cheek to stop a triumphant laugh from escaping. Yup. Still ridiculously, adorably shy.
Haven wasted no time, pivoting on her heel toward the sanctuary of her suite. "I have documentation to finalize. Good night, Althea."
The moment the adjoining door clicked shut, Althea let out a low chuckle, leaning heavily on the table for support. She pulled a curious Sushi closer. "You see that, Sushi? Your other owner is a flustered mess! She's running back to her spreadsheets to recover from five seconds of accidental hand-holding. This is better than any soap opera."
The Impostor Syndrome
Althea carried the books back to her room, the weight of them feeling significant. She set the dense horticulture text aside for later and pried open the music book first. This was it her chance to connect with the core of her forgotten identity: the Dominant Omega singer, the untouchable celebrity.
She stared at the pages. They were a sea of incomprehensible symbols staves, clefs, clusters of notes that looked like scattered black insects. It was a language she had once been fluent in, now completely and utterly foreign.
F**k.
She flipped through the pages, her heart sinking like a stone in cold water. She couldn't read a single measure. The complex arrangements for piano and strings were just intricate patterns, devoid of meaning.
(Internal Monologue)I can run. I can flirt with a brick wall until it blushes. I can identify a 'Gymnocalycium mihanovichii' from ten paces. But I can't read my own damn sheet music. This is giving impostor syndrome on a cosmic scale. Past Me was a global superstar fluent in this language, and I can't tell a whole note from a hole in the ground. It might take me years to relearn this. Years I don't have. This is the real crack in the Dominant Omega facade.
A wave of hot frustration crested within her. She flung the music book onto the floor, where it landed with a disappointing, muffled thud. The familiar, cold weight of self-loathing settled in her stomach.
"I'm a fraud, Sushi," she whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The dog padded over and rested his head on her knee, his brown eyes full of simple, uncomplicated sympathy. "I'm a broken Omega. A failed model. The 'dominant' part is a lie. Why did she even marry me? For the stock portfolio? She married a pretty, dominant placeholder, and now the placeholder is cracked and empty."
She eventually collapsed into the vast bed, the weight of her fractured identity pressing down on her, and fell into a sleep that was anything but restful.
The Car Crash Echo
The dream was immediate, visceral, and terrifying. She was back in the car, the world a nauseating, blurring whirl of motion and screaming metal. The shatter of glass was a physical pain in her ears, the airbag a hot, suffocating blossom in her face. The coppery stench of blood and fear filled her nostrils.
Then, an intense, crushing pressure as someone a woman, tall and powerful, her face obscured by lashing rain and violent shadow wrenched the warped car door open. Strong hands grabbed her. Her vision tunneled, focusing on a flickering screen a phone. Her own bloody finger was stabbing at the keypad, trying desperately to call someone. The number... it was... who... and then, nothing. A void. A BLANK.
Althea woke with a strangled gasp, bolting upright. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic animal. She was drenched in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around her legs.
"What the f**k was that?" she panted, clutching her chest. The dream had been so real, so physically present. The phantom scent of rain and blood still seemed to linger. "Who was that woman? Ugh, my throat is sandpaper." The terror had left her parched. "I need water."
She fumbled for her phone. 5:07 AM.
Althea slipped out of bed and hobbled into the hall, drawn by the primal need for the cold, grounding comfort of water. As she rounded the corner into the vast, open-plan kitchen, she froze.
The kitchen wasn't dark and silent. It was bathed in the soft, ambient glow of under-cabinet lighting, and a figure moved within it precise, efficient, and heartbreakingly familiar.
It was Haven B. Hartwell. She stood at the central island, her back to Althea, dressed in a soft, grey Henley and dark pajama pants. In her hands was a chef's knife, moving with surgical precision as she sliced a deep red mango into flawless, petal-like segments. The air was filled with her scent clean cotton, sleep-warm skin, and that deep, intoxicating grape old wine musk.
So the maid was telling the truth all along.
Althea let her crutches lean silently against the doorframe and stood there, captivated, for a full five minutes. She watched the powerful line of Haven's back, the focused dip of her head, the methodical, almost meditative rhythm of her work. This was the Secret Chef in her natural habitat.
Althea finally spoke, her voice still rough from the nightmare and sleep. "So it's true. You're the one. The mysterious breakfast chef. No use denying it now, is there?" she teased, trying to inject her usual levity into the heavy, intimate stillness.
Haven stopped slicing instantly, her entire body going rigid. She turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral, devoid of the blush Althea had been hoping for. The domestic softness vanished, replaced by the CEO's assessing gaze.
"Why are you awake at this hour?" Haven asked, sidestepping the accusation entirely. "Are you in pain? Did you take your medication?"
"Well, you know," Althea said, taking a careful step forward. "Bad dream. Thirsty. Can you get me some water?" It was a test, a request for a small, nurturing act.
Haven didn't hesitate. She placed the knife down with a quiet click, washed her hands with methodical care, then retrieved a tall glass from the cupboard and filled it with filtered water from the fridge.
Althea watched, utterly transfixed. Haven's forearms, bare below the rolled-up sleeves, were corded with lean Alpha strength. The movement of her long, elegant fingers the same ones that signed billion-dollar deals as they curled around the cold glass was intensely, mesmerizingly graceful. Damn. Literally, what else do those hands do?
(Internal Monologue)She slices mangoes for me at dawn. She carried me over her shoulder like I weighed nothing. She smells like the dream I just had that's making me question my entire reality. And those hands! So f**king hot! Omg, am I actually developing a crush on my literal contract wife? Like a blushing, hormonal teenager? This is pathetic. I'm having high-school romance palpitations for a CEO who probably just wants me 'cognitively stable' for the annual shareholders' report.
Haven placed the glass of water on the counter before her, the sound jolting Althea from her reverie.
Althea took a long, slow sip, the cold liquid a balm on her raw throat. Then she looked at the Alpha, her eyes narrowing with playful intensity.
"Thanks, Secret Chef," Althea said, deliberately using the intimate, teasing nickname. "It's very efficient hydration."
"It is water, Althea," Haven replied, her face an impassive mask, though her scent definitely spiked with a flicker of something annoyance? vulnerability? She turned back to the counter, a clear dismissal.
"No, it's not 'just water,' Haven," Althea insisted, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "It's a peace offering from the CEO who spends her pre-dawn hours doing culinary origami for the Omega she supposedly married for 'necessary corporate structure.' You're a giant softie. A marshmallow. The only conglomerate you're really running is a five-star Bed and Breakfast for one very confused amnesiac."
Haven leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. The gesture made the fabric of her Henley pull taut, and her Alpha dominance radiated outwards a clear, unspoken challenge. "I am ensuring the stability of the family trust, which includes maintaining your physical well-being at an optimal level. I have always done so. It is not a sentimental gesture."
"If it wasn't at least a little sentimental, you'd have Mrs. Li on a 5 AM retainer," Althea countered, leaning forward onto the counter, closing the distance. "And you wouldn't be in such deep denial about the Christmas puppy. You're a denial queen, Mrs. Hartwell."
Haven conceded the point not with words, but with a slow, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all their unspoken history. It was the only admission Althea would get. "Eat something. Your meal is nearly ready."
They ate together, sitting side-by-side at the vast kitchen island as the rising sun began to paint the sky in hues of gold and rose. It was their first meal that felt like a conversation, however strained. The silence was no longer hostile; it was thick with the shared knowledge of the nightmare, the secret breakfasts, and the charged proximity.
Haven ate with her usual clean efficiency. "Did the books arrive satisfactorily?"
"They did," Althea confirmed, pushing a piece of mango around her plate. "Thank you. Now I know I'm not just musically illiterate, but botanically challenged too. Just adding to the long list of my Omega deficiencies."
Haven looked at her then, a genuine, unguarded flicker of something that looked like concern in her stormy eyes. "You were not a failure, Althea. You were… exceptional."
"In writing songs about emotional domination? Maybe. In being a decent person? TBD." Althea shook her head, the nightmare's fear still clinging to her. "To be discussed."
After a few more minutes of tense quiet, Haven pushed her empty plate away. "I need to prepare for the office. I have an early presentation for the Hartwell Entertainment board."
"Wait," Althea said, stopping her before she could escape to the shower. "The library trip. I'm going today. And I don't need a security detail, Haven. That's overkill. I just want Mrs. Li to walk me and act as a chaperone. That's all. I plan to go today. Please."
Haven stared at a point on the far wall, her mind clearly racing through risk assessments and contingency plans. Althea could see the internal war: corporate safety protocols versus the volatile, unpredictable Dominant Omega who now held the "Secret Chef" card.
"Fine," Haven finally conceded, rubbing her temples as if warding off a migraine. "I will contact her agency and adjust the security clearance. No additional guards. Mrs. Li will accompany you. You will return before dusk."
She took a single step closer, leaning in slightly. Her voice dropped to a low, Alpha warning that vibrated in the space between them. "Do not misuse this privilege, Althea. And do not mention the pinboard. Or the breakfast. To anyone."
And then she was gone, the kitchen door swinging shut behind her, leaving Althea alone with the remnants of their meal and the lingering scent of grape old wine.
Althea let out a long, shaky breath, the tension draining from her shoulders. She leaned her elbow on the cool stone counter and gently patted Sushi, who had wandered in to clean up any potential crumbs.
"Sushi," Althea confided, her gaze still fixed on the spot where Haven had stood, slicing fruit with a warrior's focus. "Your other owner is kinda... devastatingly hot. My God. I am in so much trouble."
Sushi simply wagged his tail, a silent, happy conspirator in the beautiful, chaotic mess that was their life.
The Plant and Book Club Social
Later that afternoon, Althea felt a thrill of genuine excitement as she prepared for her outing. After securing Haven's grudging permission for the library trip, Althea pushed further, demanding that they walk instead of drive.
"The fresh air, Haven," Althea had argued over a secure text message, channeling Ms. Evelyn's language. "It's vital for my neural healing and muscle memory retention. Sitting in a car is counterproductive."
Haven had responded with a single, furious text: Fine. Mrs. Li will walk 10 paces behind you. Do not deviate from the main road. The Alpha scent of irritation had practically radiated through the glass screen.
The crisp, cool air of the Northwood Estates felt like a revelation after weeks of sterile mansion air. Althea, walking confidently in comfortable athleisure wear, felt the satisfying burn in her legs with every step. Mrs. Li, impeccably dressed in a simple, elegant suit, maintained a silent, watchful distance, an unobtrusive bodyguard.
Althea pushed herself, walking nearly a mile down the winding road until they reached the low, ornate, but publicly accessible gate that marked the edge of the estate. Just beyond lay the main community hub.
"This is it, Mrs. Li," Althea announced, a thrill of genuine excitement coursing through her. "The lair of suburban secrets and botanical wisdom. Prepare for… human interaction."
Mrs. Li offered a small, polite nod, maintaining her post.
Althea pushed open the double doors of the Northwood Community Center. The sound of gentle chatter, the rustle of paper, and the earthy, slightly damp scent of potting soil immediately enveloped her. It was a brightly lit room, filled with long tables covered in various plant specimens: delicate succulents in tiny pots, flourishing African violets, and a rather dramatic carnivorous plant display. A dozen or so women, ranging from lively grandmothers to earnest younger hobbyists, were gathered around, chatting.
As Althea stepped fully into the room, a hush fell. Conversation died. Heads turned. A collective gasp rippled through the room. It was the same reaction she got on red carpets, but here, it was infused with an element of startled, delighted disbelief.
"Hello," Althea said, her professional Omega smile automatically snapping into place. "I'm Althea Vale. I'm new to the area, and I was hoping to join your plant and book club."
A petite woman with bright, curious eyes and a shock of silver hair, clearly the matriarch of the group, broke the silence. "Oh my stars! It really is you! Welcome, welcome! We're so delighted to have you! I'm Martha, the club president." She bustled forward, her hand outstretched.
As Althea shook her hand, another woman, a bubbly Beta with a name tag that read 'Brenda,' exclaimed, "Oh my goodness! So you're that Althea Su, the popstar! And the wife of Haven Hartwell! We've read so much about you!"
A chorus of excited whispers erupted. "Oh, the Hartwell marriage! It's just like a fairytale!" "And the way she vanished for a bit and now she's back! So mysterious!" "Haven Hartwell is just devastating in person, isn't she? So strong! So elegant! We always hoped you two would come out to the community events!"
(Internal Monologue)Fairytale? Oh, you sweet, naive suburban angels. If you only knew the 'fairytale' involves corporate contracts, amnesia, and a Secret Chef who nearly short-circuits at the touch of a hand. You guys have no idea.
Althea managed a graceful laugh, keeping her internal thoughts carefully shielded. "Well, I'm certainly back now! And I'm trying to reconnect with… my hobbies. My wife has been very supportive, even ordering me some rather intimidating plant books." She glanced pointedly at Mrs. Li, who stood by the entrance, observing the scene with her usual Sphinx-like stillness. "Mrs. Li here has been instrumental in my recovery journey too."
This was Althea's subtle nudge to integrate Mrs. Li, who had been an unwavering presence in her isolated world. Martha immediately turned to Mrs. Li. "Oh, welcome, welcome! Would you like a cup of tea, dear? We have chamomile and Earl Grey."
Mrs. Li's eyes widened slightly, a tiny but discernible crack in her professional armor. "Thank you, ma'am. Chamomile would be lovely."
As the grandmothers fussed over Mrs. Li, Althea found herself surrounded. The women were genuinely thrilled, not star-struck in a demanding way, but warm and eager to share.
"You're a plant enthusiast, too?" asked a woman named Carol, holding up a delicate fern. "This is a Maidenhair fern. Very particular about humidity."
"Oh, yes," Althea said, trying to recall snippets from her intensive greenhouse study. "I believe they require a very consistent moisture level. And filtered light, yes?"
"Precisely!" Carol beamed. "You're a natural! What kind of plants do you specialize in?"
"Well," Althea paused, remembering Haven's elaborate greenhouse. "I've been learning about carnivorous plants. And rare mosses. And succulents."
This elicited another round of delighted gasps. "Oh, how exotic! We usually stick to less demanding varieties here. But you must have such an incredible collection, being married to Mrs. Hartwell! She's so private, we never get to hear about her hobbies!"
(Internal Monologue)Her hobbies? You mean her secret life as my personal gourmet breakfast chef and the woman who turns beet red when I touch her hand? Trust me, ladies, the tabloids are missing the real scoops.
For the next hour, Althea was enveloped in a whirlwind of wholesome, plant-based gossip and instruction. Martha showed her how to properly re-pot a struggling peace lily, gently guiding Althea's hands. Brenda enthusiastically lectured her on the finer points of homemade compost, and another woman, Eleanor, shared intricate tips for cultivating orchids.
"You know, your wife, Mrs. Hartwell, she's such an inspiration," Eleanor sighed dreamily, looking at a picture of a flourishing rose bush on the wall. "To be so brilliant in business and so utterly devoted to her family. It's just so beautiful."
"Yes," another chimed in. "And the way she carried you out of the hospital, Althea, we saw the pictures! Such a strong Alpha! So protective! We just love a powerful Alpha who knows how to be gentle at home."
(Internal Monologue)Gentle? Sure. Unless you're a spreadsheet that needs to be crushed, or a mango that needs to be perfectly dissected. But yes, 'gentle' when I'm sobbing uncontrollably about my dead family at 1 AM. They don't know the half of it. They don't know she smells like danger and secrets beneath the wine.
Althea smiled, nodding along, her inner monologue a cacophony of amusement and poignant irony. She felt a strange, detached fondness for these women, whose innocent romanticizations of her life were so far from the complicated truth.
Mrs. Li, surprisingly, had slowly integrated into the group, quietly sipping her chamomile, and occasionally offering a precise, almost surgical piece of advice on plant care in her soft, calm voice. "The orchid requires specific light angles for optimal bloom," she might say, or "A well-drained soil mixture prevents root rot in succulents." The grandmothers listened, fascinated by her quiet expertise. Althea found herself smiling genuinely. This outing was doing everyone good.
As the meeting wound down, Martha pressed a small, potted succulent into Althea's hands. "A gift, dear. For your collection. Welcome to the club."
"A perfect addition," Althea said, genuinely touched. "I'll cherish it." She smiled at Mrs. Li. "And now, Mrs. Li, I think we have an appointment with a long, satisfying walk home, so I can test my agility with my new plant."
Back on the quiet, tree-lined road, Althea clutched her new succulent. The afternoon had been a bizarre, wholesome triumph. It was a glimpse into a world far removed from her high-stakes, amnesiac existence, a world that saw her and Haven as a fairytale.
"Sushi," Althea confided, her mind still fixed on the spot where Haven had stood earlier, slicing fruit with a warrior's focus. "Your other owner is kinda... devastatingly hot. My God. I am in so much trouble."
Sushi simply wagged his tail, a silent, happy conspirator in the beautiful, chaotic mess that was their life.