Althea's POV:
Okay. So. Deep breath. It's been exactly one week, two days, and… oh, who am I kidding, I lost count after the third time I woke up tangled in Haven, my neck still humming with the phantom sensation of her teeth. Her mark.
Let me just say it: it felt nice. Like, stupidly, overwhelmingly, 'I-am-a-claimed-treasure' nice. I keep catching myself tracing the bonding mark on my neck in the mirror, a stupid grin on my face. My inner Omega is doing backflips and throwing confetti. My outer, still-amnesiac self is just… blissed out. Sushi has started side-eyeing me when I giggle to myself for no reason.
So, yes. Giving Haven assurance that I really, truly, pinkie-swear love her has become my new part-time job. Full-time? Being a delightfully confused housewife. Part-time? Professional Love Reassurer. I leave her little notes in her briefcase. I text her ridiculous memes about grumpy CEOs and their sunshine wives during the day. I've taken to calling her "my Grapey Goddess" when she's being extra CEO-ish, which makes her do that thing where she tries not to smile and fails spectacularly. Mission accomplished.
But okay, between the blissed-out cuddling and the reassurances, my brain—the one with the faulty hard drive—has been… ticking. Curiosity didn't just kill the cat; it gave the amnesiac Omega a laptop and a suspiciously good Wi-Fi connection.
Last week, I fell down a rabbit hole. The name 'Janea Vance' popped into my head after that awkward restaurant encounter. So, I looked her up. Janea Vance. A-list actress. Oscar nominee. Stunning. And… according to a very old, very grainy tabloid article from like, a decade ago, one of my "fleeting girlfriends" before I married Haven.
One of.
Let me repeat that for the people in the back: ONE OF.
I, Althea Vale, was a PLAYER. A TYRANT of the heart! I scrolled through more dirt. There was a model from Milan. A pianist from Juilliard. That indie film director from Norway. My 'types' were apparently either devastatingly beautiful Omegas who looked like they wrote poetry, or Alphas who had that 'tortured artist/willowy poet' vibe. Basically, the exact opposite of Haven Hartwell, who is built like a sexy, pinstriped linebacker and smells like a billionaire's vineyard.
Wow. Past me had range. And commitment issues. But! The articles were clear: once I married Haven, radio silence. No scandals. The 'Tyrant' might have been a heartbreaker, but she was apparently a loyal wife. That's something, right? At least my past self had standards. She didn't cheat. She just… hated her wife's guts. Cool. Coolcoolcool.
The deeper dive was weirder. I found old interviews, pre-Haven. Young Althea Vale, music prodigy, giving biting, sarcastic answers about the "biological farce" of designations. She'd sneer at questions about bonding, about 'natural Omega instincts.' One infamous quote: "My biology is a tenant in my body, and it pays rent by not bothering me." Damn. Past me hated being an Omega. Hated the expectations, the stereotypes. I get it. I think? It must have been exhausting, fighting your own nature while everyone has an opinion on it. No wonder she was so angry all the time. She was probably fighting a war on two fronts: the grief for her family, and the society that wanted to put her in a pretty, submissive box. No wonder she married an Alpha like Haven—all power and control—just to spite everyone. And then resented her for it. What a messy, brilliant, tragic disaster.
It's so weird mourning someone you can't remember. I feel bad for her. I'm also kind of glad she's… not here? Is that terrible? This version of me gets to be goofy and in love and wear Haven's shirts and not hate my strawberry-vanilla scent. I get to like being an Omega, because Haven makes it feel powerful, not limiting. It's confusing.
Other observations from my week of 'fragile amnesiac vacation':
The Cameras: DUDE. THE CAMERAS. I always knew about the obvious ones by the doors. But this week, I've been playing a game I call "Find the Spy Eye." I'll be talking to a fern in the greenhouse, and I'll casually glance around. There's a tiny, dark lens nestled in the crown of a rubber plant. I'll be making a truly disastrous sandwich in the kitchen (RIP, that loaf of bread), and I'll see a faint red light reflecting off the toaster. It's in the bookshelves! It's disguised as a sprinkler head in the ceiling! It's probably in Rex the dinosaur's left eyeball! At first, it was creepy. Then, it was concerning. Now? It's just… a thing. Is Haven really that worried about me? I mean, I am a delicate amnesiac. Maybe this is her version of a baby monitor for a 27-year-old Omega wife. It feels like a gilded prison, but the warden brings me croissants and kisses me senseless, and I have free run of the gardens and the library, so… is this Stockholm Syndrome? Or am I just lazy and enjoying the world's most luxurious, surveillance-heavy staycation? I'm leaning toward lazy. The past me overworked herself into an early grave (or at least an early car crash). I'm taking this 'brain reset' as a sign from the universe to CHILL. I've started waving at the cameras. Giving them thumbs up. Yesterday, I held up a sign to one in the living room that read: "MY SANDWICH SKILLS ARE IMPROVING. 2/10 STARS." No response. Rude.
My Diary: I started one! The Journal that I bought and the diary that Haven bought. I'm calling it "The Chronicles of the Goofball: An Amnesiac's Guide to Not Screwing Up Her Second Chance." I write everything in it. "Day idk of Remembering Nothing: Today I taught Sushi about photosynthesis. He was skeptical. I think he's a creationist. Also, Haven wore the grey suit. The one that makes her shoulders look like she could solve world hunger and then carry me to bed. I distracted her for 20 minutes by asking her to explain blockchain. She got so adorably frustrated. Success."
My Entourage:
Sushi: My bestie, my confidant, my furry, judgmental son. Our daily routine is sacred. Morning: "Sushi, today's lesson is on existentialism. You exist. I exist. That treat in my hand exists. Coincidence? I think not." Afternoon: "Okay, the key to a successful squirrel patrol is silent, dignified stalking. Not the whining and tail-chasing you're doing. You're a Golden Retriever, not a squeaky toy." He just wags and licks my face. I think he gets me.
Mrs. Li: A goddess among housekeepers. I've taken to 'helping' her. "Mrs. Li, I've decided to reorganize the pantry by color! It's called a chromatic system! It will spark joy!" She gently took the can of chickpeas I'd placed next to a jar of marinara (both red) and put them back. "Perhaps sparking joy in the cook is more important, Mrs. Hartwell," she said, her voice drier than the Sahara. I've started asking her about her life. She deflects with the skill of a secret agent. "Did you always want to be a housekeeper?" "It is a noble profession, ma'am." "What's your favorite color?" "The color of a well-polished surface." I'm wearing her down, though. Yesterday, she almost smiled when I called the vacuum cleaner "Lord Succion" and saluted it.
Haven: My favorite subject. My Alpha. My accidentally hilarious wife. Teasing her is my new art form. I'll wait until she's on a serious video call, her CEO mask fully on, and I'll pad into the background wearing nothing but her tie. I'll leave ridiculous post-it notes on her financial reports: "Page 42: The graphs are giving 'spicy.' I approve." I'll kiss her neck while she's trying to read, just to feel her scent spike and her concentration shatter. And the making love? Hoo boy. Let's just say my diary has several pages that are just keyboard smashes and the word "GRAPE" written in increasingly large letters. I love her. I'm obsessed with her. I want to soak up every second of this that my past self was too angry and hurt to appreciate.
Haven's POV:
A week. A week since my Rut, since I sank my teeth into her skin and poured my essence into her veins, binding her to me in the most primal way possible. The mark on her neck is a masterpiece. A brand. A declaration to the universe. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Every morning, I kiss it before I leave. Every night, I trace it as she sleeps. The possessive pride is a constant, warm hum in my blood, a counter-melody to the darker, more violent symphony always playing in my mind.
My routine is sacred. I go to work. I sit in my obsidian tower. And I watch her. The bank of monitors in my private office is my true altar. One screen shows the greenhouse, where she is currently explaining the concept of "vibes" to a philodendron. Another shows the kitchen, where she attempted to make "artisanal" toast and created a charcoal briquette. A third has audio feed from Sushi's collar.
"...and you see, Sushi," her voice, tinny but vibrant, fills my sterile space, "this fern is giving 'anxious millennial.' It needs affirmations. Watch." A pause. "YOU ARE ENOUGH. YOUR FRONDS ARE VALID. RAWR."
I lean back in my chair, a slow, unhinged smile spreading across my face. My chest feels tight with a terrible, wonderful ache. What if we have a child? The thought is a sudden, violent sunrise in my mind. Would she do this? Would she teach our child to give pep talks to houseplants? Would she fill a nursery with ridiculous plush toys and name them all? The image is so dazzling it's painful. A little girl with her amber eyes and my stubborn jaw, or a boy with her chaotic hair and my calculating gaze… Our heirs. Skylor and Heavenly. The fantasy is no longer abstract. It's a biological imperative now, cemented by the bond. I want it. I want to see her belly swell with my child. I want to build a taller, stronger cage around the three of us. A dynasty born from poison and obsession and this beautiful, curated love.
My thoughts are interrupted by the memory of Emara, last week in the boardroom before I had her conveniently shipped to Singapore. She'd sauntered in, wearing a scarf that did little to hide the constellation of bruises and bite marks on her neck—the work of my doppelganger, the persona I'd used to manipulate her. She wore them like jewels, preening under the speculative stares of our colleagues. Rumors had flown like poisoned darts: 'Hartwell and Sinclair? A torrid affair?' 'The CEO is marking her territory outside her marriage.'
The jealousy I'd forced myself to display had been a masterpiece of acting. Let them whisper. Let Emara cling to her pathetic fantasy. The only marks that matter are the ones on Althea's skin, made by me, in the truth of our bond. The doppelganger was a tool, a mask. Emara was a pawn. Althea is the queen. And the queen must never be bothered by the chattering of pawns. I've had Chen's team scrub any potential mention from the social media feeds Althea accesses. My songbird's world must contain only harmonious music.
Speaking of Chen…
The other screens on my wall are not showing my home. They are live feeds from Secure Warehouse 7. The main feed shows a concrete room, hosed clean but still smelling of iron and fear through the digital void. The other five feeds are individual cells.
My week has been divided: mornings for corporate domination, afternoons for expressing my… gratitude.
The five motherfuckers. The instruments of my wife's transformation.
Derek Dale. The mechanic. I started with him. He was arrogant, even in captivity. Thought his knowledge of engines made him valuable. I had Chen bring in his toolbox. I made him identify every tool. Then, I used them. Not on the car parts he loved. On him. When he screamed about his sons, I played a live feed of them playing in a park, under the watchful eye of a friendly "stranger" who waved at the camera. "They're safe, Derek," I'd whispered, as I carefully, surgically removed the tip of his pinky finger with a bolt cutter. "For now. Their safety is a direct reflection of your gratitude. Now… thank me. Thank me for taking the Tyrant who would have seen your family destitute. Thank me for the songbird she became."
Silas Thorne. The watcher. The man who'd infiltrated her digital life. I surrounded him with screens. Not showing his mother or sister. Showing her. Looping footage of Althea laughing in the garden, singing to Sushi, smiling sleepily in my arms. "You watched her to hurt her," I said, my voice calm as I used a small, heated probe on the nerves of his fingertips. He writhed. "Now, you will watch her be happy. You will watch the paradise you helped build with your treachery. Isn't she beautiful? Thank me, Silas. Thank me for letting you see this."
Jenna Volkov. The fighter. The one whose blood Althea had spilled. She was tough. Silent. I respected that. So I broke her differently. I had her strapped standing. I didn't touch her for a day. Just played audio. The audio of Althea's scream from the crashed car, pulled from the black box. The sound of her ragged, terrified call to me. "She fought you," I mused, circling her. "My fierce wife. She made you bleed. You should be honored." Then, I played the new audio. Althea's giggle from this morning. Her singing in the shower. Her whispered 'rawr.' "You took a warrior," I said, finally taking a scalpel to the tendons in her hand. "And you gave me back a lover. A singer. My songbird. You should be on your knees with gratitude. Say thank you."
Leo Finch. The planner. The one with the pregnant wife. He broke the fastest. He sobbed, begging for his child's life. I showed him ultrasound images. "A girl," I said pleasantly, as I removed a toe, slowly, meticulously. "Congratulations. She will never know her father. She will be told he was a hero who died in an accident. A noble lie. A better story than the truth: that he was a coward who sold his soul to Sinclair and helped break a goddess. Your legacy is a lie, Leo. And your suffering is the price for my wife's peace. Thank me. Thank me for the lie that will save your daughter."
Kai Sato. The driver. The one who rammed her car. I saved the most special gratitude for him. I didn't speak much. I simply had him strapped into a driving simulator. A perfect replica of a car interior. On the screen, a loop of the crash from her car's perspective, reconstructed from data. The skid, the impact, the roll. Over and over. For hours. Then, I'd switch the feed. To her, sleeping peacefully. To her, eating cake. To the mark on her neck. "You put her in the ground," I finally said, my voice barely a whisper in his ear as I worked on his fingers with a pair of pliers. "And I raised her up. You are the shovel. I am the sculptor. You should be proud of your role. Now, thank your sculptor."
Their screams were a symphony. Their broken 'thank yous' were the chorus. I felt nothing but a cold, settling satisfaction. Each cry was a brick mortared into the wall protecting Althea's innocence. Each confession of gratitude was a flower placed on the altar of my obsession.
I was in the middle of a particularly contemplative session with Kai—I was considering the artistic merit of removing fingernails one by one versus in pairs—when my personal phone chimed. A specific, melodic tone I'd assigned only to her.
The shift was instantaneous. The monster in the warehouse receded. The CEO, the wife, surfaced. I wiped my hands on a clean towel, though they were spotless.
Althea: haven lets have a date!!!! take me somewhere nice please i wanna buy streetfoods i saw this blog theres a seasonal chinese food stalls in town!!
Attached was a screenshot of a vibrant, crowded night market, strings of lanterns glowing against a dark sky.
The juxtaposition was sublime. One moment, I'm orchestrating agony in a concrete hell. The next, my wife is asking for street food.
A real, genuine laugh bubbled out of me, sounding alien in the control room. Chen glanced at me, her expression unchanging.
"Pause the gratitude session," I said, my voice already lighter, shifting registers. "I have a date."
I didn't wait. I drove home, the scent of the warehouse clinging to my clothes like a ghost. I rolled down the windows, letting the city air scour me clean. By the time I pulled into the garage, I was just Haven again. The woman who got flustered when her Omega made dumb jokes.
I walked into the foyer. She was waiting, bouncing on the balls of her feet, dressed in soft long skirt and a sweater, her hair down and she's wearing glasses. She looked like sunlight and sugar.
"You're here!" she launched herself at me, and I caught her, burying my face in her hair, inhaling the Vanilla Strawberry that erased all other scents. "So? Can we? Please? I wanna try stinky tofu! The blog says it's an 'acquired taste' which is code for 'delicious but it fights you.'"
I looked down at her eager, gorgeous face. My songbird. My reason. My beautiful, oblivious miracle.
"Of course we can," I murmured, kissing her forehead. "Anywhere you want."
Even a crowded, unhygienic night market. Even though every stranger was a potential threat, every shadow a possible knife. I would be her shield. I would sample every dubious delicacy she handed me. I would watch her eyes light up with each new taste, and I would know, with chilling certainty, that every ounce of her joy was purchased with the blood and broken bones of the people in Warehouse 7.
It was a fair trade. The most fair trade in the history of the world.
"Let me change," I said. "I can't take my songbird to a night market in a suit."
She giggled. "Wear something cute! Maybe I'll buy you a dress there!"
As I walked upstairs, the two halves of my soul settled into their familiar, twisted harmony. The monster was sated, for now. The protector was on duty. The obsessive lover was getting ready for a date.
All was right in the world I had built. A world of street food and surveillance, of love songs and silenced screams, all orbiting the brilliant, goofy, utterly captive sun that was my Althea.