Althea woke the next morning feeling like she had been at the epicenter of an emotional earthquake. Her mouth was dry, her head throbbed with a faint, persistent ache (definitely the Montrachet, she insisted to herself, and not the seismic shock of the kiss), and her mind was a chaotic collage of shame, giddy triumph, and a confusing, hormonal hum that seemed to resonate from her very core.
She sat up slowly, clutching the pillow to her chest as if it were a shield. The memory of the kiss was agonizingly vivid: the sharp pull of the silk tie, the stunning, fleeting softness of Haven's mouth yielding against hers, and the frantic, panicked force with which the Alpha had fled, hiding behind the pathetic excuse of wine.
Wine. Right. That's the go to corporate scapegoat for completely losing your professional composure and kissing your estranged, amnesiac wife back with startling intensity, Althea scoffed internally, the memory sending a fresh wave of heat through her.
Her eyes drifted to the adjoining door. It was silent, a stark white monolith. Haven had likely been up since 4 AM, shredding the incriminating tie and drafting a new clause in their contract titled "Prohibition of Unsanctioned Lip to Lip Contact."
Althea decided she couldn't face the cold, empty kitchen alone. For the first time in weeks, she grabbed her crutches not out of need, but as a prop, a tangible excuse for vulnerability if the confrontation became too intense. Sushi padded silently behind her, a fuzzy, living security blanket.
She found Haven B. Hartwell already at the massive kitchen island. The Alpha was a vision of impenetrable corporate readiness, dressed in a sharp, slate grey suit that looked like it had been pressed with an industrial steamroller. She was performing the sacred morning ritual: arranging the custom breakfast with a surgeon's precision. Sliced tropical fruits, artisanal sourdough, a steaming cup of Darjeeling.
Haven did not look up. Her grape old wine scent was a fortified wall, strong and controlled, but Althea could detect the sharp, defensive notes layered within it. The very air in the kitchen was thick and heavy, saturated with the massive, unspoken event of the previous night.
Althea let her crutches clatter to the floor, leaning against the counter for dramatic effect. "Good morning, Mrs. Hartwell," she said, her voice deliberately, unnaturally bright. "How was your late night? Productive? Did you dream of hostile takeovers and emotionally stunted Alphas?"
Haven placed a perfect, petal like slice of mango on Althea's plate. Her hands, usually the picture of steady efficiency, betrayed the faintest, almost imperceptible tremor.
"My evening was spent on necessary documentation. Your breakfast is prepared," Haven stated, her voice a flat, emotionless recording. She was building a fortress of denial, brick by bureaucratic brick.
"Productive," Althea mused, picking up the mango slice. "That's the new corporate euphemism for 'aggressively repressing the memory of a sudden, mutually intense, tie assisted territorial display'?"
Haven's head snapped up, her grey eyes flashing a clear, Alpha warning. "I believe we established a narrative involving the Montrachet, Althea. I suggest we adhere to it."
"But I wasn't drunk, Haven," Althea countered, leaning closer across the cool stone, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I was sober and territorial. And you kissed me back. You can blame the vineyard all you want, but your mouth didn't get the memo."
Haven immediately retrieved a glass of water, downing half of it in one continuous, almost desperate motion. She pointedly avoided Althea's gaze, focusing on a point somewhere on the backsplash. "Your recovery mandates a low stress environment. That includes the cessation of confrontations fueled by emotional instability and memory loss. Professional distance is required."
"Professional distance," Althea repeated, pushing the mango around her plate. "Is that why the tips of your ears are currently the color of a rare orchid?"
Haven's lips pressed into a bloodless line. "That is a residual effect of a prolonged board meeting, Althea. Finish your meal. You have a scheduled engagement this afternoon."
They finished breakfast in a silence so strained it felt brittle. Despite the tension, Althea felt a ridiculous, bubbling satisfaction. She had cracked the vault of Haven's composure again, and the Alpha was scrambling to weld it shut in real time.
Haven excused herself with clipped formality. Althea used the time to prepare her own arsenal. She packed a tote bag with her thickest botanical text (as a prop), her locked diary (for urgent notes), and her crutches (for strategic helplessness).
At 1:30 PM sharp, Haven B. Hartwell was waiting by the front door, a portrait of severe elegance. She was fully armored: a tailored suit, a watch that probably tracked satellite orbits, and an expression of profound annoyance.
"I have re prioritized my schedule," Haven announced, not looking at Althea as she pulled out her work phone. "I can allocate ninety minutes to this community engagement. We will take the sedan. Mrs. Li will remain here."
"Wait, you're driving me?" Althea asked, widening her eyes in a show of mock surprise. "Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, orchestrating a multi national merger or something?"
"I am consolidating this task with a necessary site inspection in the vicinity," Haven lied, her voice smooth as polished glass as she opened the garage door. "And I will not delegate security when you are explicitly planning to engage in public intelligence gathering."
Hehehe. She's ditching a billion dollar meeting to babysit me at a plant club, Althea realized, fighting a triumphant grin. The denial is strong, but the crush is stronger.
The drive to the community library was a masterclass in tension. Althea watched Haven's profile the sharp, clean line of her jaw, the intense focus she devoted to the road as if it were a hostile balance sheet.
Althea Vale's Internal Monologue: She tastes like a secret, but her scent is a thunderstorm warning. The cognitive dissonance is physically painful. I should be terrified, but I'm just sitting here, feeling like I've been cast in a rom com where the emotionally constipated Alpha CEO has to realize she's desperately in love with the chaotic Omega amnesiac. This is the most intense, silent car ride of my entire blank slate life.
They arrived. Haven parked the sedan with surgical precision in the most shadowed, discreet corner of the lot.
"One hour and thirty minutes, maximum, Althea," Haven commanded, exiting the vehicle. "You will remain within my direct line of sight. You will not discuss Vale corporate matters, your medical condition, or our private life. Is that understood?"
"Crystal clear, Mrs. Hartwell," Althea replied, her tone saccharine. "No accidental geopolitical incidents. I'll stick to the safe topics. Like the aggressive propagation techniques of the African Violet."
They entered the library. Haven, in her commanding suit and towering heels, looked like a panther that had accidentally wandered into a petting zoo. She stood out starkly among the soft spoken retirees and the gentle glow of reading lamps. She wasn't a wife on an outing; she was a Secret Service agent monitoring a volatile, unpredictable asset.
The plant club was buzzing in the community room. Althea seamlessly slipped into her role, adopting the 'charming, botanically curious Omega' persona for Mrs. Perkins and her group.
"Oh, Althea, darling! We're so glad your handsome and Beautiful Alpha could bring you!" Mrs. Perkins exclaimed, gesturing vaguely toward the doorway where Haven stood sentry.
Haven remained by the entrance, arms crossed over her chest, her posture radiating a "Do Not Approach" forcefield. Her eyes were constantly moving, performing a slow, continuous threat assessment of the entire room.
Althea reveled in the dissonance. She happily discussed the nuanced pH requirements for hydrangeas, all while stealing glances at her wife. Every time their eyes accidentally met, Haven would instantly look away, suddenly fascinated by her phone or the specifications of the fire exit sign.
Althea Vale's Internal Monologue: Look at her. She looks like she's waiting for a covert extraction team to storm the building, and I'm over here debating peat moss versus coco coir. This is objectively hilarious. She's so terrified I'm going to publicly mention the kiss that she's treating this library like a Level 4 biohazard facility. I bet she's mentally calculating the productivity loss of this entire escapade.
As the meeting progressed, Althea learned that her past self had a particular passion for bromeliads tropical plants known for their stunning, aggressive beauty and their ability to thrive in harsh, nutrient poor environments, often clinging to trees without soil. Figures. Past Me would gravitate toward a plant that's breathtaking, territorial, and profoundly emotionally independent.
The minutes ticked by, and Haven did not move. She didn't check her phone after the initial sweep; she just stood, a silent, imposing statue of a guardian. It was then that a new, more pointed curiosity sparked in Althea.
She excused herself from the group, making a show of grabbing her crutches. She hobbled over to Haven, closing the distance until she was inside the Alpha's personal space.
"Are you bored, Mrs. Hartwell?" Althea whispered, her voice low and intimate. "I can ask Mrs. Perkins to find you a riveting text on the history of nitrogen based fertilizer. I hear it's a page turner."
Haven's eyes finally snapped to hers, sharp and shadowed with exhaustion. "I am fulfilling my required security protocol, Althea. You will not deviate from the established parameters. Return to your group."
"I missed you, though," Althea said simply, ignoring the command. She let her Dominant Omega pheromones warm, releasing a gentle, intentional wave of Vanilla Strawberry scent laced with attraction a soft, fragrant probe against Haven's defenses. "It feels strange being out here without you being visibly, adorably mad at me."
Haven visibly flinched. Her controlled grape old wine scent surged in response, a sharp, volatile wave that created a palpable pressure in the air between them.
"Althea," Haven warned, her voice a barely audible, dangerous hiss. "Do not."
"Do not what?" Althea asked, leaning in another inch, her smile innocent. "Do not remind you that you kissed me back? Do not mention that you taste surprisingly sweet for a woman who smells like a corporate thunderstorm?"
Haven immediately turned her back to Althea, facing a shelf of dense philosophy texts as if seeking answers from Kant and Nietzsche. "The allocated time is concluded. We are leaving. Now."
Althea's smile widened. She had her confirmation. The CEO was thoroughly rattled, deeply shy, and clinging to her denial by her perfectly manicured fingertips. She's going to break. Soon.
And Althea knew exactly how to apply the final, decisive pressure.
"Fine," Althea said, raising her voice just enough for the plant club to hear. "But since I'm feeling so much better, I think I'll demand we drive home with the windows down! The fresh air will be so stimulating! Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Hartwell!"
The entire group of plant enthusiasts turned to look at Haven with polite curiosity. Haven despised driving with the windows down. It was aerodynamically inefficient, acoustically disruptive, and invited particulate matter into the vehicle's pristine interior.
Haven looked from the library door back to the expectant faces of the club, her jaw so tight it was a wonder her teeth didn't crack. It was a standoff between her profound Alpha principles and the social nightmare of a public dispute.
With a final, furious, and utterly defeated sigh of resignation, Haven B. Hartwell strode over to Althea, took her firmly by the arm, and began pulling her toward the exit.
"We will drive home with the windows up," Haven commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. "But," she conceded, the words seeming to physically pain her, "you may choose the music."