Althea woke up feeling like she'd been run over by a truck made of pure, unadulterated feeling. The first thing she registered was the soft, familiar scent of grape old wine and clean linen, deeply embedded in the fabric pressed against her face. She was clutching Haven's damp blouse from the beach like a lifeline. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she realized she was surrounded by a haphazard fortress of Haven's clothes—a cashmere sweater under her head, a silk scarf tangled around her legs. She had, in her scent-drunk state, built a nest.
A hot, full-body flush of mortification washed over her. Oh, god. The nest. The… the everything.
Then, the memories of the previous night came crashing back in high-definition, surround-sound detail. The kiss. The desperate, possessive hunger. Returning to the room alone, the cocktail of jealousy, the bombshell about the heir, and the raw, aching need that had followed. The way she'd frantically gathered Haven's clothes, burying herself in the Alpha's scent. The way she'd touched herself, screaming Haven's name, fantasizing about… breeding.
Fuck. I masturbated to this person last night. I screamed her name. I built a goddamn nest with her laundry. How in the holy hell am I supposed to face her? Aaaaa!
She noticed, with a fresh wave of panic, that the clothes that had been scattered on the floor were gone. Tidied up. Oh, no. She saw. She had to have seen.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath that did absolutely nothing, she crept out of the bedroom. Haven was sitting at the dining table, already dressed for the day in a sharp, navy blue suit, sipping her tea and scrolling through a tablet. And she was wearing the soft, grey cashmere sweater that had been on Althea's pillow.
Althea's brain short-circuited. She's wearing the nest-clothes. She knows. She knows and she's WEARING THE EVIDENCE.
"Good morning, Haven," Althea squeaked, her voice still slightly hoarse. She cleared her throat, trying for nonchalance and landing somewhere near 'strangled cat.' "How was the meeting last night?"
Haven didn't look up from her tablet. "It was alright. Grandfather was just inquiring about the business's quarterly performance and such." She took a slow sip of tea. "And by the way," she added, her tone deceptively casual, "did you get into the minibar last night? I saw my clothes scattered around the bedroom as if a tornado had personally targeted my wardrobe. If you hate me that much, you could have simply said so. Vandalizing my wardrobe seems an inefficient form of protest."
Althea's jaw dropped. She thinks I did it out of hatred? A wild, desperate lie sprang to her lips, fully formed and utterly ridiculous. It was the only shield she had.
"I don't hate you!" she insisted, planting her hands on her hips. "It's just that… something came over me last night! Wait, lemme search it up on my phone!" She frantically grabbed her device, typing with furious, fake purpose. "Ahh! Here! See?" She shoved the screen towards Haven, displaying a hastily Googled article about Omega biology. "It's called a Heat Surge! A sudden, unpredictable, and completely biological Omega Heat Surge! My body was looking for your scent for comfort! It's a medical thing! And you," she accused, pointing a trembling finger, "you took so long at your meeting! You were neglecting your marital job!"
Haven finally looked up, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched so high it threatened to disappear into her hairline. Her expression was a masterpiece of deadpan delivery. "I can't perform the 'marital job' if my partner despises the very air I breathe. The consent protocols are rather strict."
"That was the past me!" Althea cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "If you don't want the current me to start hating you too, then maybe you should do your job when your wife is having a medically documented Heat Surge!"
A flicker of something unreadable—amusement? exasperation?—crossed Haven's face before it was schooled back into neutrality. "I can't. Let's discuss this later. We have to check out and return home. I'm sure you miss Sushi."
"Don't you dare dismiss me, Hartwell!" Althea growled, her Dominant Omega pride thoroughly pricked.
"I said we can discuss it later. I promise," Haven said, her voice firm but leaving no room for argument. She gestured to the plate of fruit and toast waiting for Althea. "Now, eat your breakfast. You must be fatigued from your… biological event."
The car ride home was a masterclass in tense, silent banter.
"You know," Althea mused, staring out the window at the passing scenery, "for someone who runs a global empire, you're remarkably bad at addressing a simple, documented biological need."
"My expertise lies in logistics and asset management, not in managing spontaneous Omega Heat Surges that conveniently manifest as wardrobe vandalism," Haven replied, her eyes never leaving the road.
"It wasn't vandalism, it was nesting! There's a difference! It's instinctual! You should be flattered!"
"I am filing the experience under 'Unforeseen Operational Anomalies.' The flattery quotient is still being calculated."
"Well, your calculator is broken! It should be reading 'OVERWHELMINGLY FLATTERED'!"
When they finally arrived home, the front door was barely open before a golden blur of pure, uncomplicated joy launched itself at Althea.
"SUSHI!" she shrieked, dropping to her knees and burying her face in the dog's fur, inhaling his wonderful, doggy scent. "My baby! Mommy missed you so, so much!" She covered his face in kisses as his tail wagged so hard his entire body wiggled. "Did you survive? Did you protect the greenhouse? You're such a good boy! Yes, you are! Unlike some people," she said, raising her voice pointedly as Haven carried their luggage inside, "who neglect their poor, suffering Omega during her time of greatest biological need! She left me all alone, Sushi! To suffer! With only my thoughts and her sweaters for comfort!"
Haven paused at the foot of the stairs, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "I have a prior meeting at headquarters. I need to go."
Althea's head snapped up. "What? I thought we were going to discuss something!" The 'something' hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unsaid words about heirs, heat surges, and the kiss that had started it all.
"I'm sorry, Althea, but we can discuss that later, after my work. I've been gone for two days, and the corporate structure requires stabilization." Her tone was final.
Althea scowled but knew a lost battle when she saw one. "Fine."
The afternoon stretched before Althea, long and infuriatingly empty. Her impatience was a physical itch under her skin. Haven was hiding something, she was sure of it. She knew too much, held too many cards. The amnesia was a prison, and Haven was the warden of the keys.
Driven by a restless, investigative fervor, she decided to do what any self-respecting, bored, and slightly paranoid amnesiac would do: she stormed Haven's home study.
The room was, predictably, immaculate. A large, modern desk held a powerful computer, a neat stack of files, and a single, tasteful pen. It smelled like Haven—grape old wine and old books. It was the most intimate space she'd ever invaded.
She started cautiously, reading business documents that were so dense with jargon they might as well have been written in ancient Sumerian. She looked at the books on the shelves—corporate law, economic theory, a few leather-bound classics. Nothing revealing.
Her eyes scanned the desk again. And that's when she saw it. Tucked almost out of sight, between two thicker binders, was a slim, manila folder. It wasn't labeled like the others. It looked… personal.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This is it. This is the secret.
With trembling fingers, she pulled it out and opened it.
The words on the top document made the blood drain from her face.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Her eyes, wide with disbelief, scanned down the page. It was filed by Althea Vale. The date was just a few weeks before her accident. And there, at the bottom, was her own flamboyant, confident signature. The space for 'Respondent's Signature'—Haven's signature—was blank.
She hadn't signed it.
But that wasn't the worst part. Her eyes, burning with horrified fascination, dropped to the section listing the grounds for divorce.
REASON FOR DISSOLUTION: Irreconcilable Differences. Respondent is IMPOTENT and unable to consummate the marriage or provide an heir, constituting fraud and making the fulfillment of marital obligations impossible.
Impotent.
The word echoed in the silent, sterile study, a brutal, clinical slap in the face.
Althea's Internal Monologue: Impotent. IMPOTENT. Haven? The woman who carries me around like I weigh nothing? The Alpha whose scent is so potent it can short-circuit my brain? The one who kissed me with enough passion to fuel a small star? IMPOTENT?! What the actual FUCK?
She stared at the paper, her mind reeling. This was the "pressure" the grandfather mentioned. This was the final, cruel blow Past Althea had tried to deliver. Not just a divorce, but a public, humiliating annulment on the grounds that Haven was… incapable. It was the nuclear option for a Dominant Omega scorned. It wasn't just leaving; it was an attempt to utterly destroy Haven's reputation, to paint her as less than an Alpha.
But… why? The question screamed in her head. Why would I do something so vicious? And if she's… if that's not true… then why hasn't she signed it? Why keep this horrible, lying document? Why not just burn it and be free of me?
The cozy narrative of the misunderstood tyrant and the devoted wife shattered, replaced by something far darker, far more complex. She was holding proof that she wasn't just a difficult wife; she had been a weapon, deliberately aimed at Haven's most fundamental identity as an Alpha.
And Haven, for some inexplicable reason, had kept the weapon, unsigned, as if waiting for the person who forged it to come back and explain.
Althea fled the study, the damning divorce papers clutched in her sweaty hand like a live serpent. She practically flew up the stairs to her room, slamming the door and leaning against it, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. Sushi, who had been napping on her bed, lifted his head with a concerned whine.
"It's okay, buddy," she panted, not feeling okay at all. "Mommy just found out she might have been a supervillain in her past life. No biggie."
She laid the papers out on her bed, a sterile, legalistic crime scene. Next to the petition, she had also snatched a clipped-together report from the folder: Haven's most recent corporate-mandated physical and psychological evaluation. She scanned it frantically.
Blood pressure: Optimal. Cholesterol: Excellent. Testosterone levels: High, within normal range for a dominant Alpha female. Psychological Profile: Highly resilient, exhibits exceptional stress-management capabilities, recommended for continued leadership…
It was a bill of clean health. A portrait of a peak-performance Alpha. There was no mention of… deficiencies.
"So, she's physically and mentally sound," Althea muttered, pacing the length of her room. "So why did I say that? Was I just being cruel? Was it the ultimate 'screw you' to get out of the marriage?"
The thought made her feel sick. But another, more insidious thought whispered: What if it wasn't a lie? What if it was a different kind of truth?
Driven by a desperate, morbid curiosity, she grabbed her laptop. She opened a private browsing window—because, honestly, this was not a search history you wanted linked to your name—and began to type.
Female Alpha biology reproduction
The results were… enlightening. And slightly terrifying.
She learned that while male Alphas developed external genitalia similar to what she understood from basic biology, the female Alpha anatomy was more complex. They possessed a phallic structure, often called a shaft or knot, that developed from the clitoral tissue. It was this organ that allowed for penetration, knotting, and the transfer of seed during an Omega's heat to facilitate pregnancy.
Althea's Internal Monologue: Okay. Okay. So, it's not a… a separate attachment. It's like a super-powered… thing. A built-in marvel of biological engineering. Got it. This is fine. Totally normal to be learning about your wife's potential dick-equivalent via Wikipedia. Just a regular Tuesday.
She read on, her eyes widening. The articles explained that the full development and functionality of this shaft could be influenced by several factors. Extreme, chronic stress or psychological trauma could suppress its manifestation or function. Furthermore, compatibility with an Omega was key. An Omega's own biology, their pheromones, their submission, could act as a trigger. The articles were dry and clinical, but one phrase jumped out: In pairings where both individuals exhibit strong Dominant designations, the necessary biological 'synchronization' can be challenging, as both physiologies resist the submissive cues required for full procreative readiness.
Althea's Internal Monologue: Challenging. They're calling it 'challenging.' I bet it's a fucking nightmare. Two Dominants trying to procreate is probably like trying to shove two positive ends of a magnet together. We'd just repel each other! So that's one reason! Our biology was literally fighting itself!
She slumped back against her headboard, the pieces clicking into a horrifying, plausible picture.
So, maybe it wasn't a total lie. Maybe the pressure from the grandfather, the demand for an heir, combined with the fact that we were two Dominants butting heads… maybe it created a situation where Haven… couldn't. And instead of being understanding, Past Me, the glorious tyrant, took it as a personal insult. A failure. And she weaponized it. She filed for divorce on the most humiliating grounds possible.
The guilt was a physical weight on her chest. I abused her. I pressured her. I probably made the problem a thousand times worse with my anger. I took her vulnerability and tried to use it to destroy her.
But then, the darkest thought of all, cold and slithering, entered her mind.
The date. Weeks before my accident.
Her blood ran cold.
Did… did Haven have something to do with the accident?
The thought was so vile she immediately tried to shove it away. But it was tenacious.
What if she couldn't take the pressure anymore? What if the public humiliation of that divorce filing was the final straw? What if she saw a way out? A way to keep me trapped, to stop the divorce, to reset the clock entirely?
Althea's Internal Monologue: Oh my god. Am I a prisoner in a gilded cage? Is this beautiful house, this attentive wife, this entire recovery… is it all a lie? A carefully constructed performance by my captor? Did she cause the accident that stole my memory to keep me from leaving her?
She started to shiver uncontrollably, wrapping her arms around herself. The room that had started to feel like a sanctuary now felt like a prison. Every kindness—the breakfasts, the rescued dog, the patient explanations—now seemed sinister, calculated. A way to keep the amnesiac bird docile in its cage.
"No," she whispered to Sushi, who had come over to rest his head on her knee. "No, she wouldn't. She saved me. From the rooftop. From the sea. She looks at me with… with that look."
But the doubt, once planted, was a weed with deep roots. The evidence was circumstantial, but it was there. Motive. Opportunity.
I need to hear her side. I need to look her in the eye and ask her. But how? How do you ask your wife, 'Hey, by the way, did you maybe try to murder me to avoid a messy divorce?'
The stress and the mental gymnastics were too much. The headache from the morning returned with a vengeance, a pounding, nauseating throb behind her eyes. The world started to swim. The last thing she registered was Sushi's worried bark before darkness swallowed her.
Haven returned from headquarters just after dusk, the silence of the house feeling heavier than usual. Mrs. Li had left a note saying dinner was in the warmer. But there was no sign of Althea. No dramatic music drifting from the music room, no chaotic rustling from the greenhouse.
A prickle of unease ran down her spine. Her grape old wine scent sharpened with concern.
She checked the living room, the kitchen. Nothing. Taking the stairs two at a time, she pushed open the door to Althea's bedroom.
The scene made her freeze.
Althea was curled on the floor, unconscious, her laptop open beside her on the bed, the screen still displaying a very explicit anatomical diagram of female Alpha reproductive anatomy. And scattered around her like fallen leaves were the divorce papers.
Haven's heart stopped.
She found it.
A torrent of emotions—panic, shame, a fierce protective rage—threatened to overwhelm her. But years of discipline took over. She crossed the room in three strides, kneeling beside Althea. Her skin was clammy, her breathing shallow. A stress-induced collapse. It had happened before, in the early, terrible days after the accident.
"Althea," Haven murmured, her voice rough. She didn't shake her. Instead, she slid one arm under Althea's back and the other under her knees, lifting her with effortless strength. She was so light.
She carried her to the bed, carefully moving the laptop and sweeping the hateful papers onto the floor with a single, furious swipe. She laid Althea down, pulling the covers over her, then went to the bathroom for a cold cloth.
As she returned, her eyes fell on the laptop screen again. The diagram. The search bar history: "Alpha female impotence causes," "Dominant Alpha Dominant Omega compatibility issues," "Can stress cause…"
Haven closed her eyes, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over her. She wasn't just researching; she was trying to understand. She wasn't automatically assuming the worst; she was looking for reasons. Context.
She sat on the edge of the bed, placing the cool cloth on Althea's forehead. Althea stirred slightly, a soft whimper escaping her lips.
"Shhh," Haven whispered, her thumb stroking Althea's temple. "I'm here."
She looked at the woman in the bed, her tyrant, her songbird, her amnesiac wife who was currently trying to solve the mystery of their broken past with the power of Google. The woman who had built a nest with her clothes and was now terrified she was a prisoner.
The fear that Althea thought she was capable of causing the accident was a physical pain in Haven's chest. She had spent every waking moment since it happened trying to protect her, to find who was truly responsible, and now the person she was protecting suspected her.
She wouldn't leave. Not tonight. Let the corporate structure destabilize. Let the board wait.
Haven kicked off her shoes, shed her suit jacket, and lay down on top of the covers next to Althea, on the side closest to the door. A sentinel. A guardian. She didn't touch her, but she was there, a solid, warm presence in the dark.
She would be here when Althea woke up. And they would finally, finally talk. The archives were about to be opened, and the archivist was ready to face her most challenging subject.