The discharge from the hospital was as swift and sterile as her entire recovery had been. Dr. Liu, the kind Beta physician, handed Althea a thick binder outlining a rigorous physical therapy schedule and reiterated his caution about stress with a significant glance that seemed to encompass not just her injury, but her entire life. The moment he left, the door to the adjoining suite clicked open, and Haven B. Hartwell emerged, a harbinger of the new, confined reality that awaited.

Haven was not in one of her razor sharp suits, but her attire was no less formidable: crisp, black trousers that held a perfect crease, a heavy silk blouse the color of fresh snow that seemed to defy the very concept of wrinkles, and a tailored wool coat draped over her arm. Even in semi casual clothes, she looked like she was en route to dismantle a corporate board or conquer a small nation or perhaps both. In the daylight, her Alpha scent was more distinct, the rich, complex aroma of grape old wine filling the space around her with a low, constant hum of dominance that made Althea feel both unnervingly subservient and, to her own confusion, paradoxically safe.

"Your transport is ready," Haven stated, her sharp gaze doing a quick, efficient assessment of the wheelchair's positioning, the bags by the door, everything but Althea herself. Her tone was the same clinical, measured alto Althea had come to expect.

Observing the military precision and the emotional dismissal, a flicker of the old, dominant entitlement the doctor had mentioned sparked within Althea. Her leg throbbed with a genuine, deep ache, but the thought of the tedious, painful rehab ahead suddenly seemed like an unnecessary chore imposed by a world she couldn't remember.

(Internal Monologue) Okay, plan change, Althea's newly amnesiac brain decided, a sly thought taking root. I'm a Dominant Omega heir with a broken leg and a blank slate. The old me was a demanding tyrant, apparently. Why rush recovery? I'm supposed to be fragile, and honestly, I'm too mentally exhausted to learn to walk right now. Let's see how far this 'duty of care' extends.

She settled deeper into the wheelchair, giving a theatrical, pained sigh.

(Internal Monologue) Hehehe, I'll have this perfect, cold wife of mine push the wheelchair for me. She's obligated, after all. Let the CEO earn her keep. After two weeks of sleeping in a glorified lawn chair for my sake, the least she can do is provide luxury transportation. Plus, I bet this woman has never pushed a single piece of office equipment in her life. This is cultural enrichment.

Althea offered a faint, martyr like grimace as Haven took the handles. The heat of her Alpha hand was immediately palpable through the material, and the grape old wine scent intensified as she bent slightly to maneuver the chair.

"We are not delaying the convoy, Althea," Haven stated, her voice clipped and professional. "Hold your fractured leg steady."

"Yes, ma'am," Althea drawled, leaning back contentedly.

The journey was conducted in the hushed, insulated cabin of a black luxury SUV with tinted windows so dark Althea couldn't tell if they were driving through a bustling city center or a secluded forest. It was a moving prison of polished leather and silence. Haven sat beside her, a silent statue, responding to emails on a secure looking phone with quick, efficient taps. Althea found herself staring, trying to mentally overlay the image of a doting spouse onto this corporate automaton. It was an impossible task.

(Internal Monologue) She's stunning, though. Like a warrior goddess who personally audits the heavens. It's almost a shame I'm going to use her as my personal chauffeur for the foreseeable future. I bet her quarterly reports are visually arresting.

"So," Althea finally said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a shard of glass. She enjoyed the sound, the small act of rebellion. "Where exactly is this 'secure, private residence' you're carting me off to?"

Haven didn't look up from her phone. "Home. It is located within the Northwood Estates. It offers the seclusion and security the medical team insisted upon."

"Northwood Estates," Althea murmured, testing the name. "Sounds... prohibitively expensive."

"It is appropriate for the Vale profile and the requisite privacy," Haven replied, her tone making it clear the exorbitant cost was merely a line item in a budget, a necessary business expense for asset protection.

The Fortress and the Secret Garden

The gates to the Northwood Estates were immense and ornate, flanked by two stone lions that looked ready to pounce on any uninvited guest. A uniformed guard in a pristine booth nodded solemnly as they passed. They drove for another minute down a winding, perfectly manicured road lined with ancient oaks, a deliberate buffer of nature between the monstrous homes, until the vehicle glided to a smooth stop.

Althea couldn't suppress a gasp. It wasn't a house; it was an architectural statement of power and isolation. The residence was a masterpiece of sleek, modern design, all sharp angles, dark stained wood, and vast panels of immaculate glass, nestled behind a high wall shrouded in centuries old ivy. It looked less like a home and more like a private museum or a fortress designed for someone too important to ever be seen living.

(Internal Monologue) Okay, Past Me. You definitely had severe trust issues. This isn't a house; it's a Bond villain lair. Do I have a trap door leading to sharks? I should probably check for that later.

But it was the structure to the side that truly captured her breath. Contrasting sharply with the main house's cold minimalism was a huge, sprawling greenhouse a vast, dome like palace built of antique glass and intricate ironwork. Even from a distance, it glowed with a faint, verdant light, a promise of warmth and teeming, secret life.

Althea mumbled, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "What kind of life was I living? This looks like a dream, not gonna lie. Did I win the lottery or something? Wait, I'm a famous singer and a hotel heiress. This tracks. My life is basically a Pinterest board designed by a millionaire with severe trust issues."

Haven finally glanced over, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch near the corner of her mouth that might have been a phantom of a smile or a muscle spasm of irritation. She exited the vehicle, opened Althea's door with efficient grace, then moved to the back to retrieve the collapsible wheelchair.

The Alpha unfolded the chair with powerful, precise movements, each click of the metal sounding definitive. Althea, committed to her role, leaned heavily into Haven as she transferred her weight, deliberately making the Alpha manage all of her dead weight. Haven's grape old wine scent spiked slightly not in anger, but in focused, physical concentration. She secured Althea gently into the chair, her hands firm and professional, then took her position behind the handles. Excellent. Full service.

Haven pushed her toward the imposing entrance.

"The greenhouse is stunning," Althea said, the compliment genuine. It was the first thing that had felt alive since she woke up. "I never thought you, of all people, would be a plant lover, Haven. With your schedule, I'm surprised you have time to even water a cactus."

Haven paused, her fingers hovering over the sleek security panel by the door. Her expression remained neutral, but her gaze grew distant, fixed on the glowing glass structure.

"They are not mine," Haven stated, her voice flat. "They are yours. I merely ensure they are watered and maintained by a service, as part of the overall property management duties outlined in our arrangement."

Althea was genuinely taken aback. "Huh? I never thought the old me would be into plants? That's so... wholesome. I figured the old me was only into, like, performance reviews, designer bags, and writing lyrics about emotional evisceration. I mean, look at those songs! Past Me, you were full of surprises, mostly toxic red flags, but occasionally... green."