ALTHEA'S POV:
We were going to a night market. A Chinese night market since I suggested it. The concept alone had me vibrating at a frequency probably only detectable by excited puppies and maybe satellites. Haven had mentioned it over breakfast, her voice trying to sound casual while her eyes did that thing—that intense, laser-focus thing that made my stomach do a weird, happy flip-flop. Like I was a particularly fascinating and delicate bug under a microscope, but in a sexy way.
"I thought you might enjoy the sensory experience," she'd said, stirring her black coffee which smelled like bitter regret and CEO power. "It's lively. Different."
Different was my middle name now. Amnesiac Althea "Different" Vale-Hartwell. I was all about new experiences, because my old ones were apparently on a hard drive that got dropped in a lake. A lake of mystery. A spooky lake.
"YES," I'd said, probably too loud, making Sushi bark from under the table. "A thousand times yes. I require sensory experiences. It's for my, uh, neural reticulator. Brain stuff. I read about it."
A faint, real smile had touched her lips. "Your neural reticulator. Of course."
Now, as we walked from where the car was discreetly parked (Haven never just "parked," she "secured a location"), the first wave of sound and smell hit me like a joyful freight train.
"Oh, wow. Oh, WOW." I stopped dead, grabbing Haven's arm. It was like the carnival, but… deeper. Richer. The air wasn't just fried sugar; it was garlic, ginger, five-spice, roasting chestnuts, something pungently delicious and unidentifiable. Strings of red and gold lanterns glowed overhead, painting the crowd in warm, shifting light. The chatter was a mix of languages, the clang of woks, the sizzle of oil. Stalls stretched endlessly, selling everything from silk slippers to spiky, alien-looking fruit.
It was chaos. Beautiful, delicious, overwhelming chaos.
I turned to Haven, who stood beside me like a sleek, black-clad monument to order amidst the beautiful bedlam. She was wearing dark jeans and a simple black turtleneck that somehow still screamed "I OWN THINGS," but she'd left her usual blazer in the car. A major concession. She looked… approachable. If you were a very brave person.
"This is the best idea you've ever had," I informed her solemnly. "Better than that time you… did that other good thing." My memory, helpful as ever, supplied no specifics.
"I'm glad you approve," she said, her voice a low hum that cut through the noise just for me. Her hand, which I was still clutching, turned so our fingers could lace together. A simple move that sent a zing straight to my toes. She's holding my hand in public. In a crowd. My inner Omega did a victory cartwheel. Master is holding my hand! RAWR!
"Approval granted! Now, operation: eat everything we see." I declared, tugging her forward.
Our first stop was a dumpling stall, where little crescent moons of dough were being pleated with supernatural speed. I pointed at random. "We'll take… those! And those! And… what's that one with the soup inside?"
The vendor, a grumpy-looking auntie, rattled off names. Haven smoothly translated, ordered a variety, and paid before I could even fish the cash she'd given me out of my pocket. "Hey, I was gonna pay! I have the fun-money!"
"Your fun-money is for frivolities," she said, handing me a steamed bamboo basket. "Dumplings are a necessity." She said it with such grave certainty I almost believed her.
We found a semi-quiet spot by a planter. The dumplings were divine. Juicy, flavorful, perfect. I ate one, then immediately tried to feed one to Haven. She leaned back, an eyebrow arched.
"Come on! Open up! It's a cultural experience!" I insisted, waving the dumpling near her lips.
With a sigh that was 100% fake exasperation, she leaned forward and took the dumpling from my chopsticks. Her lips brushed the tips. A jolt, unrelated to soy sauce, went through me. She chewed, her gaze never leaving mine. "Adequate," she pronounced.
"Adequate?!" I squawked. "That dumpling just achieved nirvana! It's transcended its doughy form! Show some respect!"
A real smile, quick and bright, flashed across her face before she could hide it. "My apologies to the dumpling."
We wandered on. I dragged her to a stall selling ridiculous light-up cat-ear headbands. I put a pair of pink ones on, then a pair of glowing devil horns on her head before she could stop me.
"Althea," she said, her voice dangerously flat. She looked absolutely absurd and terrifying, like a CEO who'd lost a bet with a demon.
"You look powerful! Like a spicy CEO from hell! A hell-CEO! It's a vibe!" I cackled, snapping a picture with my phone before she could remove them. She took them off with a long-suffering look, but I caught the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth again. Victory.
Then, I saw it. The source of a particularly mouthwatering, nose-tingling aroma. A stall with a sign showing a cartoon chili pepper crying tears of joy. "SICHUAN HEAVEN!" it proclaimed. Behind the counter, skewers of tofu, mushrooms, lotus root, and unidentifiable glorious things sizzled on a griddle, being slathered in a thick, red, seed-speckled sauce.
"That," I said, my voice full of reverence. "I need that."
Haven sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling slightly. "The capsaicin concentration is significant."
"That's science-talk for 'awesome,' right? Come on, my neural reticulator demands spicy challenges!"
I ordered the "Fire Breath Platter." The vendor, a young guy with a mischievous grin, looked from my eager face to Haven's cautious one. "Very spicy for pretty lady. You sure?"
"She's sure," Haven answered for me, her tone suggesting he should stop questioning her Omega's life choices if he valued his stall's structural integrity. I loved it when she got all protective-yet-resigned.
The platter arrived. It was a beautiful, terrifying red landscape. I picked up a skewer of glistening, sauce-coated mushrooms. "To new experiences!" I toasted, and took a big bite.
For about three seconds, it was amazing. Complex, savory, addictive.
Then the heat hit.
It wasn't a wave; it was a supernova. It exploded on my tongue, raced over my gums, shot up into my sinuses and down my throat simultaneously. My eyes flew wide open. Tears sprung forth instantly.
"Hhhhhooooh," I gasped, fanning my mouth. "Oh. Okay. That's. That's a sensation."
Haven was watching me, her head tilted. No sympathy, just intense, analytical interest. "The initial flavor profile was positive?"
"It's GREAT!" I wheezed, tears now streaming down my cheeks. "It's just also… communicating with me. Very loudly. In the language of FIRE." I took a desperate gulp of the water she'd bought, which did nothing.
"Perhaps a less verbose form of communication would be preferable," she said dryly, but she was handing me a sweet coconut drink she'd procured from a neighboring stall. I gulped it. Sweet, creamy relief. For about five seconds. Then the heat roared back, laughing at my coconut-based diplomacy.
My face was flushed, my lips felt three times their size, and I was sweating in a very un-glamorous way. I was a mess. A happy, suffering mess.
And Haven… Haven was smirking. A full, proper, gorgeous, evil smirk.
"What?" I mumbled through my fat, fiery lips.
"Nothing," she said, the smirk growing. "You just look… committed. To the sensory experience."
"I am! It's art! My face is performing abstract art titled 'Regret and Ecstasy'!" I waved a half-eaten, still-dripping skewer for emphasis. A drop of red sauce flew through the air and landed on the pristine toe of her black boot.
We both looked down at it. A perfect, guilty crimson polka dot.
Slowly, I looked up at her face. The smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of deep, profound contemplation. The kind she probably used when deciding to acquire a rival company.
"I… am so sorry," I whispered, the spicy inferno momentarily forgotten in the face of this greater crime.
She looked from the stain to my horrified, tear-streaked, chili-plastered face. And then she did something that stole the breath the spice hadn't already taken.
She laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. A real, deep, throaty laugh that seemed to surprise her as much as it did me. It transformed her whole face, lighting up her amber eyes, making her look years younger. It was the most beautiful sound I'd heard since her singing last night.
"Oh, my messy, chaotic songbird," she said, still laughing softly, shaking her head. She pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from her pocket (who carries handkerchiefs?!), knelt down on one knee right there in the middle of the market, and meticulously wiped the sauce from her boot. The act was so intimate, so strangely chivalric, it made my heart clench. She wasn't angry. She was… amused. Fond, even.
When she stood up, the handkerchief was ruined, but her smile remained, a softer version of the smirk. "The sauce has character. As does the woman who wielded it."
"I wield it with gusto and poor aim," I sniffled, finally starting to come down from the heat peak. "I think my tongue has new fingerprints."
"Come on," she said, taking my hand again, her thumb stroking my spicy palm. "Let's find something to cool you down permanently."
We found a tanghulu stall. Shiny, perfect fruits dipped in hardened sugar syrup, gleaming like edible jewels. I got a skewer of strawberries. Haven got hawthorn berries. We walked, biting into the sweet, crisp, crackling sugar shell to reveal the tart fruit beneath.
"This is the antidote," I sighed in relief, the sweet and sour finally banishing the last ghosts of Sichuan hellfire. "So, tell me, oh wise and boot-desecrating one, what's your favorite thing here?"
She considered, looking around. "The efficiency of the wok stations is impressive. The heat management, the workflow."
I stared at her. "You're looking at the food stalls and doing operational analysis."
"I appreciate well-run systems."
"Your favorite food, Haven. The thing that tastes good."
She took a bite of her tanghulu, crunching thoughtfully. "These are… acceptable. The texture is satisfying."
"Acceptable. You are a monster of understatement." I bumped her shoulder with mine. "Admit it. You're having fun. Your neural reticulator is having a quiet little party."
She looked down at me, the lantern light catching the gold in her eyes. "My neural reticulator," she said, her voice dropping into that private, just-for-us register, "is exclusively preoccupied with monitoring yours. And it reports that your party is… satisfactorily loud."
My cheeks flushed, and it had nothing to do with residual spice. "Good. It should be a rave."
We were passing a small, open-fronted shop selling tea and trinkets when a voice called out.
"Althea? Althea Vale, is that you?"
A woman around our age, with a chic bob and an expensive-looking puffer jacket, was waving. She looked familiar in a way that made my brain itch—the bad kind of itch. The "memory-ghost" itch.
I froze, my tanghulu halfway to my mouth. Haven's hand tightened infinitesimally around mine. Her relaxed posture was gone, replaced by something still but wire-tense. Her scent, usually a steady, complex wine, sharpened subtly, like a blade being quietly unsheathed.
The woman hurried over, beaming. "I thought it was you! It's me, Chloe! Chloe Wen? We were in the same composition class at Juilliard? We did that terrible avant-garde duet about… urban decay, I think?"
Juilliard. Music. A fragment slotted into place. A practice room. Laughing. This woman passing me throat lozenges. A friend. A friend from before.
"Chloe!" I said, the name feeling right. The panic receded, replaced by a warm rush. "Oh my god! Hi!"
We did an awkward half-hug around our tanghulu skewers. "I heard about your accident," Chloe said, her face etched with genuine concern. "Everyone was so worried. But you look… you look amazing! Really happy!" Her eyes flicked to Haven, and her smile became more polite, more careful. "And Haven. Hello."
"Chloe," Haven said, her nod so slight it was barely there. Her voice was cordial, but it was the temperature of liquid nitrogen. The friendly market atmosphere around us seemed to chill by ten degrees. She didn't let go of my hand.
"We're just exploring the market," I said, feeling suddenly, weirdly defensive of our bubble. "Haven brought me. It's been amazing."
"I can see that!" Chloe's gaze lingered on our joined hands, on Haven's protective, possessive stance just behind my shoulder. There was a story in her eyes—a story about the "before" Althea that I couldn't read. "Well, I won't keep you. I'm just so glad to see you up and about. And singing again! I saw the clip from L'Astre online. You sounded incredible."
"You saw that?" I squeaked.
"It's everywhere! 'Althea Vale's Triumphant Return and Dedication to Wife'!" She grinned. "It's the feel-good story of the season. Really." This last word seemed aimed at Haven, a peace offering of sorts.
Haven said nothing, just stared with that unnerving, unblinking focus.
"We should catch up properly sometime!" Chloe said, backpedaling from Haven's glacial silence. "Get tea! I'll message you… if that's okay?" She looked at Haven again, as if seeking permission from a particularly dangerous guardian.
"Althea's recovery schedule is quite full," Haven said smoothly, her thumb resuming its stroking on my hand, a contrast to her icy tone. "But we'll note your interest."
It was a dismissal. A polite, brutal shutdown.
Chloe got the message. "Of course, of course! Well, so lovely to see you both! Enjoy the market!" She gave me one last, warm smile and melted back into the crowd.
The moment she was gone, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The tense energy around Haven slowly dissipated, but a new, curious energy buzzed in me.
"She seemed nice," I ventured.
"She was an acquaintance," Haven said, her voice returning to its normal timbre, but a hard edge remained. "Your social circle before was… extensive." She said 'extensive' like it was a synonym for 'contaminated.'
"Was I… a playgirl?" I asked, the term popping into my head. I'd read it somewhere in my internet deep-dives about my own past. "Like, a cool, music-genius playgirl?"
Haven stopped walking. She turned to face me fully, cupping my cheek with her free hand. Her touch was warm, her eyes serious. "You were singular, Althea. You were focused on your music. On finding the truth about your family. People were drawn to your light. Sometimes," her gaze darkened, "they wanted to take advantage of it. Or extinguish it."
The way she said it sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the night air. There was a weight there, a history of shadows. She was protecting me from something. From people like that Janea woman at the restaurant? From my own past?
"But you protect my light," I said softly, leaning into her touch.
The darkness in her eyes vanished, replaced by that terrifying, beautiful possession. "With everything I am," she vowed, her voice a low rumble. "It is my only purpose."
It should have sounded scary. From anyone else, it would have been a red flag the size of a stadium. But from her, in this moment, with sugar on my lips and the ghost of chili on my tongue and the memory of her laughing as she cleaned her boot… it felt like safety. Like the most profound love I could imagine. Messy, possessive, all-consuming safety.
I stood on my toes and kissed her, a sweet, tanghulu-flavored kiss right there in the middle of the flowing crowd. "Thank you," I whispered against her lips.
She kissed me back, slowly, deeply, until the noise of the market faded again. When we parted, her eyes were soft. "Come," she said. "There's a stall selling egg waffles I think your neural reticulator would approve of."
As we walked, hand-in-hand, the encounter with Chloe already fading, I couldn't shake the feeling. The goofy, spicy, joyful evening was still there, but layered over it now was something else. A sense that I was walking through a beautifully lit maze, and Haven was both my guide and the one who built the walls. She was showing me wonderful things, holding my hand, laughing with me, all while keeping the shadows—and the people who might remind me of them—firmly at bay.
And the scariest part? The part that made my Omega preen with a deep, settled contentment?
I was perfectly happy to have it that way.
HAVEN'S POV
The night market was a calculated risk. A controlled exposure to stimulating chaos. I had scanned the security layouts yesterday, had four Blackwood operatives blended into the crowd, and had predetermined exit routes. It was, in essence, a secure facility masquerading as a festival. For her, it was magic. For me, it was another theater, with me as director, stage manager, and lead actor in the role of "Devoted Wife."
Watching her experience it was my reward. Her eyes, wide as a child's, drinking in the lights and colors. Her nose twitching at the myriad scents. The unselfconscious joy in every gasp and exclamation. This was the Althea I had built. The one who found wonder, not conspiracy, in crowded places.
Her hand in mine was a live wire of connection, a tangible proof of my success. Every squeeze, every tug, was a silent thank you for this world I provided. I craved those tugs. They were my currency.
When she demanded the "Fire Breath Platter," I knew what would happen. I'd studied the vendor's online reviews. The heat level was not for amateurs. I let her order it. I needed to see. I needed to witness her commitment to the experiences I gave her, even the painful ones.
The moment the spice hit was a masterpiece. Her face underwent a rapid, hilarious evolution: delight, shock, dawning horror, tearful endurance. She was a living canvas of overwhelming sensation. And she didn't spit it out. She endured it, wheezing about "art" and "communication." My fierce, ridiculous Omega.
The sauce on my boot was the perfect climax. A physical mark of her chaotic presence on my ordered world. I could have been angry. A part of me, the part that demanded pristine control, twitched. But a larger, more dominant part swelled with a dark, amused affection. This was her mark. Not a enemy's blood, but my wife's poorly-aimed chili sauce. It was domestic. It was real. The laughter that bubbled out of me was a release of tension I hadn't known I was holding. Kneeling to clean it felt like a knight's gesture, a ritual of service. See how I tend to the mess you make? See how I cherish even your accidents?
The tanghulu was a good choice. The sweet crackle pacified her traumatized palate. She was chattering again, bumping against me, her earlier suffering already a funny story she was embellishing. The Chloe Wen interruption was an unforeseen contaminant.
My body recognized the threat before my mind fully processed her face. An acquaintance from Juilliard. From the before. A person who had known the Tyrant, had shared laughs and music with the woman who loathed me. My grip on Althea's hand became a lifeline, an anchor point in a suddenly hostile sea.
As they spoke, I dissected Chloe Wen with my gaze. Her concern seemed genuine, but it was laced with pity—for the amnesiac, perhaps. Or for the woman she saw trapped with me. Her mention of the online clip was a reminder of the exposure I tolerated for Althea's sake, a necessary evil that chafed. When she suggested future contact, every instinct screamed.
No.
My response was automatic, a corporate shutdown repurposed for personal quarantine. "We'll note your interest." The message was clear: You are a footnote. Do not expect to be part of the narrative.
Althea's question afterwards—"Was I a playgirl?"—pierced through me. It was asked with such innocent curiosity, such distance from the reality. The old Althea had been many things: brilliant, grieving, furious, isolated. She'd had liaisons, yes. Janea Vance was proof. They had been attempts to feel something, anything, that wasn't pain or hatred. They were betrayals that had carved grooves in my soul.
I cupped her face, needing the physical connection to ground my answer in the present, not the poisoned past. "You were singular." It was the truth. The Tyrant was a force of nature. "People were drawn to your light. Sometimes they wanted to… extinguish it." That was the sanitized version. The true version involved conspiracy, anonymous messages, and hired men in SUVs.
Her response—"But you protect my light"—was a benediction. An absolution for all my sins, spoken from the altar of her ignorance. It was everything I lived for. "With everything I am," I vowed, the words a blood oath. My lies, my poisons, my violence—all for you.
Her kiss was a seal on that oath. Sweet, trusting, flavored with the sugar I'd provided. It washed away the lingering chill of Chloe Wen's appearance.
As we moved towards the egg waffle stall, my mind, the part that never stopped working, re-engaged. Chloe Wen was a low-priority threat, but she was a leak in the dam. A person who could, with an ill-considered old story, introduce a dissonant note into my carefully composed symphony.
A text would be sent to Chen. A background dive. Nothing overt. Perhaps a lucrative, time-consuming overseas commission for her music studio would present itself. A gentle nudge out of our orbit. Prevention was always cleaner than cure.
Althea was now pointing at a stall selling hand-pulled noodles, the performer twisting dough like magic. "Can we watch? Just for a minute?"
"Of course," I said, pulling her to a spot with a good view, my body positioning itself between her and the flow of the crowd. I watched the noodle master, but my senses were tuned to her: the soft sound of her awe, the warmth of her side pressed against mine, the Vanilla Strawberry scent cutting through the market's pungency.
She was mine. This joy was mine. This peaceful, goofy, spicy, sugar-crusted evening was a product of my design and my defense.
And I would burn the entire market to the ground, starting with the Szechuan stall and ending with the tanghulu vendor, before I let anyone or anything take it from us.
The monster in the vault was calm, sated by the promise of a hunt (Chloe's background check, the ongoing pursuit of the five operatives) and the sight of its treasure, happily chewing on an egg waffle, completely unaware of the walls—and the weapons—that kept her world so beautifully bright.