Althea grew accustomed to the grape old wine scent, realizing it was the most grounding, the most familiar sensory input she had. It was the scent of safety and control, even if the woman who wore it was icy.

One night, after days of observing Haven sitting ramrod straight in the chair, a thick book in her lap, Althea couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"Haven," Althea whispered, her voice barely carrying across the vast, empty space of the room.

Haven's head lifted immediately. She closed her book with a soft, decisive click. "Yes, Althea?"

"The recliner," Althea said, gesturing weakly. "Are you… comfortable? That can't be good for your back."

Haven stared across the dim room, her eyes inscrutable shadows. Her voice was flat, containing not a single ounce of complaint or concern.

"I am adequate, Althea. It is sufficient. Now, please rest."

The cold dismissal stung, but it also confirmed the nature of their contract. Haven was dedicated to her duty. She was an Alpha fulfilling an obligation to protect the Vale name and the vulnerable Omega heir, even at the cost of her own comfort.

Althea knew then that she would never find comfort from Haven, only security. And yet, she was beginning to prefer the cold, hard security of the Alpha's presence to the terrifying void of being truly alone.

Later that afternoon, Dana arrived, bustling in with a forced cheer that felt more brittle than ever. She carried a stack of legal documents and a pile of glossy magazines, all featuring Althea's past, dominant self. Dana herself looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her movements jittery.

"Althea! You're looking so much better," Dana exclaimed, setting her burdens down on the bedside table with a thud. "I brought some light reading. Just a gentle reminder of the icon you are."

"Dana, sit down," Althea instructed. She didn't mean for it to happen, but a tone emerged from her a tone of unquestionable Omega dominance that must have been a muscle memory from her old life. It was firm, expectant, and brooked no argument.

Dana instantly obeyed, her professional facade cracking to reveal a layer of nervous respect. "Yes, of course."

"Tell me about Haven Hartwell," Althea demanded, her voice lower. "The truth. Not the society page version."

Dana's eyes darted instinctively towards the adjoining door, as if afraid the Alpha herself might materialize. "Ms. Hartwell? She's… your wife. And now, since the accident, she's the acting CEO of everything. She's very… hands on with the Vale businesses, which is good. Necessary. You never had the patience for that stuff. She keeps the family trustees and the shareholders happy, which is frankly a brutal, full time job." She was choosing her words with extreme care, a diplomatic tightrope walk that was telling in its own right.

Althea only managed a heavy, weary sigh. The unspoken questions about her own character hung heavily in the air between them. She couldn't bring herself to ask, 'Was I a monster to her?' If the answer was yes, she didn't know if the fragile, new version of herself could bear the weight of that truth.

Dana, sensing the deep, uneasy silence, coughed nervously. "Althea, let's focus on your rehab schedule, okay? We need to get you back on your feet, literally. The public is waiting."

But Althea ignored her. Her gaze was drawn to the magazine covers, to the face of the woman who was supposedly her untouchable, dominant, and cruel according to her own song lyrics. A new, desperate idea formed.

"I need to hear my music," Althea declared, pulling the magazines closer. "My songs. My own words. Maybe they can tell me who I was when I didn't think anyone was listening."

Dana, eager for a distraction, quickly navigated to Althea's artist profile on a streaming service and queued the hit album released just before the accident. She connected her phone to a small Bluetooth speaker, and within moments, the room was filled with a powerful, crystalline voice her voice.

It was a song about triumphant independence, sharp wit, and a scathing, almost mocking dismissal of romantic commitment. The lyrics were a brutal counterpoint to the concept of marriage.

"You think this collar means I'm owned? Darling, this is just expensive jewelry for a prize I won."

The words landed like physical blows, each one echoing Haven's cold description of their union as a 'necessary inconvenience.' The persona was untouchable, glorifying selfishness and the solitary pursuit of success.

The song ended, and the silence it left behind was deafening. Althea felt the blood drain from her face.

"Is that what I was like?" Althea asked, her voice barely a whisper, laced with horrified self doubt. "Was I really that… callous? That selfish?"

Dana looked genuinely pained, caught between loyalty to the old Althea and pity for the new one. "You were… untouchable, Althea. You had the world in the palm of your hand. Everyone either wanted to be you or be with you. And Haven…" She hesitated, then plunged on. "Haven protected you. From the trustees, from the gold digging Alphas, from the press hounds who wanted to tear you down. She built the walls so you could be the queen on the stage. She handled the chaos so you could shine."

The confirmation was a final, chilling verdict. Althea felt a profound, unbridgeable distance from the woman she was supposed to be. The adored celebrity, the dominant Omega… had she been a monster who used everyone, including her stunning, stoic wife, as stepping stones? She was entirely alone, trapped in a life she now despised, married to an Alpha who clearly viewed her as a duty, a burden, a contract.

Althea lay back against the pillows, the confusion and self loathing overwhelming her. I don't remember being that person. But if my own music, my manager, and my wife all say I was, then who is this weak, frightened person I am now? I'm a failure. A fraud pretending to be a dominant Omega. I'm a ghost haunting the life of a cruel celebrity.

That night, and for the entire second week of her waking recovery, Althea did not pretend to sleep.

She lay perfectly still in the enveloping darkness, waiting, every sense heightened. The familiar scents of antiseptic and the constant, grounding presence of grape old wine filled her lungs. Haven would always arrive, change into her silk pajamas in the adjoining suite, and settle into the recliner.

One evening, Althea watched as Haven sat, not reading, but simply staring out the window at the distant city lights a posture of immense, burdened loneliness.

"Haven," Althea whispered again, compelled by the intoxicating Alpha scent and the silence. "Tell me one good thing. One memory that wasn't about business. From those two years."

Haven didn't move. Her profile remained unyielding, a statue carved from granite and power.

After a long minute, she spoke, her voice a low, rough murmur that carried across the room. "You once spent three hours arguing with me about the exact shade of teal to use for the logo of a subsidiary hotel in Bali. You were meticulous. And you were right. It was a perfect teal."

It was not the memory Althea craved. It was not a confession of intimacy. It was a detached, almost scientific observation of her competence. Yet, it was a memory.

"Thank you," Althea replied, the small, cold fact offering the slightest bit of anchor.

Haven nodded once, a barely perceptible motion in the shadows, and finally leaned her head back against the leather. The silence returned, filled only with the rhythmic whir of the monitors and the profound, strange intimacy of their shared air.

Althea knew she was asking for love, but all she was receiving was a contract fulfilled perfectly. Yet, this cold, powerful woman remained her only tether to the world she had forgotten.

The desperation for genuine change finally outweighed her fear. She needed space away from the antiseptic walls, away from the constant, sterile reminders of her trauma. She needed her life, even if she didn't remember it.

"Haven," Althea said, her voice stronger now, laced with the fledgling authority of her former self.

The Alpha immediately shifted, tilting her head slightly, signaling attention. "Yes?"

"I want to go home, Haven. I think I can go home now. Please."

The word 'please' felt strange on her tongue, an uncharacteristic submission from the Dominant Omega. Althea pushed herself higher against the pillows, trying to project conviction despite the throbbing in her leg.

Haven's rigidity intensified. She sat bolt upright, the expensive leather creaking slightly under her sudden tension. "Absolutely not. The doctors are clear. You require constant professional monitoring. This suite is equipped to handle your physical therapy, and your vitals are still… volatile."

"But I'm improving," Althea countered, her voice now firm, replacing pleading with a confident statement of fact. "I've already completed the walking and balancing phase of my training. I am stable on crutches and can handle short distances. We can transition the rest of my motorskills recovery running, agility, stamina training to the estate gym. I will heal faster at home." She sounded like she was delivering a proposal, not a plea.

"I'm not stable here," Althea continued, the Alpha's sharp refusal making her feel caged. "This hospital is just a reminder of the crash and the nothingness."

She leaned in, dropping her voice to a raw, honest whisper, appealing to the professional Alpha who valued control and efficiency. "I want to continue my therapy at home. At the house, Haven. I want to know if I could start anew at my own home, not here, in this sterile environment that has no memories for me. I need to see the walls I chose, the things I owned. I need context."

Haven was still. The grape old wine scent seemed to pull taut, a sharp, potent expression of her internal conflict. Her eyes finally met Althea's in the gloom, and Althea saw a flash of genuine, calculating hesitation. Althea's competence, even in her fragility, was an undeniable point.

"The estate is not a hospital, Althea," Haven stated, her voice returning to its low, controlled register. "It's massive, public facing, and entirely unsupervised. It is an enormous risk to your recovery and to the discretion we need to maintain."

"It's also where my life was," Althea pressed, her voice gaining emotional depth. "The doctors said I need positive triggers, something familiar to spark the amnesia. Maybe seeing my actual life will help. Here, I'm just a patient. There, I might remember how to be… Althea Vale."

She let the statement hang, resting the immense weight of her identity crisis squarely on Haven's shoulders.

Haven drew a deep, slow breath, a movement Althea had learned signaled immense internal processing. The Alpha was weighing the medical risks against the psychological needs and, crucially, the structural stability of the Vale name. Removing the Omega from a public hospital would certainly reduce media attention, especially if her physical progress was already advanced.

"I will not jeopardize your health," Haven finally conceded, the admission slow and grudging. "But I acknowledge your physical progress is ahead of schedule, and I see your point regarding context. If you are to rebuild the public persona, you must first have access to the physical reality of your life. I will discuss the full transfer with Dr. Liu tomorrow. If he agrees, the transition will be complex. We will need full home medical staff, Alpha security details, and a legal non disclosure agreement for everyone involved."

She paused, her eyes locking onto Althea's with piercing intensity. "If you go home, you will have to accept a completely controlled environment. You will be trading the hospital's walls for the estate's boundaries. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Althea whispered, relief washing over her. "I understand. Thank you, Haven."

Haven did not acknowledge the gratitude. She simply returned her head to the recliner, her position remaining perfectly rigid even as the immense responsibility of moving the fragile Omega heir settled upon her. The silence returned, filled now with the faint, persistent promise of home.