Haven's POV
The world inside the car was a silent, insulated bubble, and Haven Hartwell was its trembling center. The leather steering wheel was cool beneath her palms, but her skin still burned with the phantom heat of Althea's body. The scent of Vanilla Strawberry clung to her suit, a fragrant ghost in the sterile air of the luxury vehicle. She had driven barely a block from the sanctuary of their home, and already the separation felt like a physical amputation.
Althea. My Althea.
The past 48 hours were a surreal, Technicolor dreamscape superimposed over the gray, rigid reality of her life. The desperation in the kitchen, the shattering of her own insecurities against Althea's patient, amnesiac acceptance, the profound, earth-shattering connection that followed… it was everything she had craved and feared in equal measure. For two years, her marriage had been a frozen tundra of resentment and failure. Now, it was a supernova, and she was terrified of being burned, yet addicted to the heat.
She didn't want to be here, in this car, heading towards steel and glass and avarice. She wanted to be back in their bed, wrapped around the warm, pliant form of her wife, listening to her ridiculous, goofy ramblings. She wanted to be in the kitchen, watching Althea drown croissants in jam. The domesticity wasn't boring; it was a drug, and she was a desperate addict.
A memory, sharp and sweet, pierced her: Althea standing on her toes, her hands pulling her down, the soft press of her lips against Haven's cheek. "Slay those papers!"
A slow, unbidden grin stretched Haven's lips. It felt foreign on her face. Slay. What a ridiculous, wonderful word.
Her eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, not to check the traffic, but to look at herself. Specifically, at her neck. There they were, stark against her skin like a declaration of war against her old life: the purpling bite mark, the scattered constellations of love bites left by Althea's mouth. Her Omega's marks. Her marks.
A possessive, dark thrill shot through her. She didn't try to adjust her collar again. Let the world see. Let them all see who she belonged to.
"Ah, Althea," she murmured to her reflection, her voice a low, obsessive whisper. "My beautiful, feral Althea."
The grin didn't fade as she pulled into the underground garage of Vale Headquarters, a monolithic tower of glass and ambition that she ruled with an iron fist. The elevator ride to the top floor was a transition back into her armor. By the time the doors slid open with a hushed ping, the softness was gone, replaced by the cool, impenetrable mask of the CEO.
Her assistant, Liam, was waiting, tablet in hand, his expression a masterpiece of professional neutrality. That is, until his eyes landed on her neck. He choked, a brief, strangled sound he quickly masked with a cough.
"Mrs. Hartwell," he began, his voice slightly higher than usual. He fell into step beside her, their heels clicking a synchronized rhythm on the polished marble floor. "These are the left and pending papers from your two-day absence. The quarterly projections for the European subsidiaries are flagged for your immediate review. The board is… anxious."
"Let them be anxious," Haven replied, her tone cutting, not even glancing at him. Her gaze swept the open-plan office. And she felt it. The stares. Not the usual respectful or fearful glances thrown her way. These were different. Wider eyes, quickly averted. Whispered conversations that died the second she passed. They weren't just looking at her; they were looking at the marks on her neck.
And instead of fury at the impertinence, a perverse, soaring pride filled her chest. Yes. Look. See what she's done. See who owns me.
She walked taller, the marks feeling less like bruises and more like a crown.
They were almost to the sanctum of her private office when a voice, smooth as oil and twice as slippery, slithered through the air.
"Oh, would you look at that. Our CEO, who randomly took a two-day leave of absence."
Haven stopped, her body going rigid. She didn't need to turn to know it was Emara Vale Sinclair. Althea's third cousin, a vulture who shared just enough Vale blood to perch in the boardroom and pick at the carcass of the empire she believed should be hers.
Haven turned slowly, her expression a blank slate. Emara was leaning against the doorframe of her own office, impeccably dressed, a smirk playing on her crimson lips.
"Our workaholic CEO," Emara continued, pushing off the doorframe and slinking closer, her hips swaying in a way that was all calculated provocation. "Who didn't even bother to take a sick day in the past two years. I was beginning to think you were a machine." Her eyes, a cold, calculating blue, dropped to Haven's neck, and her smirk widened into something predatory. "Oh, my. Look at those nasty marks. Did your wife give them to you?"
Haven said nothing, her silence a weapon.
"She's such an animal," Emara purred, stepping far too close, invading Haven's personal space. The scent of her expensive, floral perfume was an assault. "Even though she had an accident, her instincts remain so… primitive. I feel bad for you, Haven. Truly. Trapped with a amnesiac, feral thing."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Haven. "You know, you don't have to play nursemaid. We could… simplify things. Ditch the dead weight. The two of us, we could have the Vale Corp all to ourselves. We'd make a powerful team." Her gaze was blatantly hungry. "In every way."
A cold, murderous rage settled in Haven's gut. The urge to reach out and snap this woman's neck was so visceral her fingers twitched. But she was a master of control. She simply let the silence stretch, let Emara's proposition hang in the air until it became pathetic.
"The only 'dead weight' in this corporation, Emara," Haven finally said, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, yet it carried the chill of absolute zero, "is the underperforming director of the Southeast Asian portfolio. I suggest you focus on your own metrics. My wife, and my marriage, are not up for discussion. Now, get out of my way."
She didn't wait for a reply. She turned and strode into her office, the door closing behind her with a definitive, heavy thud that echoed like a gunshot in the hallway.
Alone, she leaned back against the door, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The encounter had only intensified the obsessive pull she felt towards home. She crossed the vast room to her desk, a monolithic piece of black obsidian, and sank into her chair. A mountain of paperwork awaited.
With a sigh, she pulled out her phone. It wasn't just a phone; it was a command center, and one of its most vital functions was the live audio feed from Sushi's smart collar. A small, toxic, and deeply necessary indulgence.
She tapped the app, and instantly, Althea's voice filled the silence of the office, tinny through the speaker but no less vibrant.
"—and this, Sushi, is what the internet calls a 'glow-up.' This fern was giving absolutely nothing last week, and now look at her! She's serving leaf. She understood the assignment!"
Haven's lips curved into a soft, genuine smile. She propped the phone up, letting Althea's voice become the soundtrack to her work. As she read through dense financial reports and signed documents with a sharp, aggressive flourish, she listened.
"Okay, so Alpha pheromones, right? It's like… Haven's is a whole mood. It's like when a song comes on that you didn't know you needed to hear. It just… hits. And my brain just goes, 'oh, this? This is the VIP track.' It's a whole biological bop, Sushi!"
Haven chuckled darkly, signing a multi-million dollar merger agreement. A biological bop. Only her Althea.
The afternoon brought the board meeting. As she entered the conference room, her grandfather, Arthur Hartwell, was already there, holding court. His sharp eyes found hers, then dropped to her neck. Instead of shock, a wide, gleeful grin split his weathered face.
"Child!" he boomed, drawing the attention of the other early arrivals. "By God, what happened to your neck? You look like you've been mauled by a feral animal!"
Haven took her seat at the head of the table, her posture regal. "Yes, Grandfather," she replied, her voice calm. "I do have one."
Arthur's grin widened. "A feisty one, too! So, you're finally securing an heir, yes? Oh, your grandmother will be over the moon! I'm going to be a grandfather again! I can't wait to tell her she was right—she always said you just needed to… reignite the spark."
"We are trying," Haven said, the understatement of the century.
"I know, I know," Arthur chortled, leaning in. "But please, my dear, must you put it on public display? You'll start rumors that your wife is a wild thing. Not that I mind," he added with a wink. "As much as I know you love her, and you want to wear everything she gives you… you must be careful. A display like that… it makes you look vulnerable. And it makes her a target. You know who gets jealous."
His words, though goofy, held a kernel of dark truth. Haven's eyes flicked across the table to where Emara was taking her seat, her expression a mask of polite interest that didn't reach her cold eyes. Yes, Haven thought, I know exactly who.
The meeting proceeded. Reports were given, numbers were debated. Emara stood to give her presentation on the Southeast Asian portfolio, her voice a model of corporate efficiency, but her gaze kept slithering back to Haven, to the marks on her neck. Haven stared back, unblinking, her expression telling Emara everything she needed to know: I see you. And you are nothing.
Finally, the meeting adjourned. Haven gathered her things, the audio from Sushi's collar still a quiet hum in her pocket—Althea was now apparently explaining the concept of 'rizz' to the dog, claiming Haven had 'old-money rizz.'
Haven was almost at the door when her phone, set to silent, buzzed with a specific, seismic pattern. Not a call. A notification from a private, encrypted server. One that only ever had one purpose.
She stopped dead, pulling the phone out. The screen glowed with a single, stark message from an unknown, secure number.
Asset Recovery: Subject 'Songbird'. One individual apprehended. Awaiting your directive. Location: Secure Warehouse 7.
The world narrowed. The sounds of the departing board members faded into a dull roar. All the softness, the domestic bliss, the goofy ramblings—it all evaporated, replaced by something cold, hard, and razor-sharp.
The predator was back.
Someone had hurt her Althea. And now, they were caught.
A slow, terrifying smile touched Haven's lips. The boardroom, the corporation, the world—it could all wait.
The hunt was back on.