Haven stared, her sharp mind processing the physical, sprawling manifestation of her wife's chaotic, amnesiac investigation. The fatigue on her face was replaced by a fresh, palpable wave of bewildered horror.

Althea, watching the entire show from the safety of the mattress, grinned like a wolf.

"Surprise! Welcome to my corporate headquarters!" Althea said cheerfully, crossing her arms in triumph. "I found it very stimulating for my cognitive recovery. Think of it as a live action, real time audit of our relationship. You were totally reading it, weren't you? It's kind of iconic, NGL/notgonnalie."

Haven turned slowly, her face a pale mask of utter disbelief, the scent of her grape old wine pheromones spiking so sharply they nearly vaporized the oxygen in the room.

"Althea," Haven began, her voice barely a whisper, the first genuine, unfiltered crack Althea had ever heard in her composure. "What... what is the operational purpose of this... this display?"

"To help you with your required briefings!" Althea teased, resting her chin on her hand, utterly delighted. "Think of it as the infographic version of my existential crisis. You can just take a picture of the whole thing and email it to the trustees. Saves time. You're welcome."

Haven stared at the pinboard one last, long moment, her eyes lingering on the note about her scent. She shook her head once, a sharp, jerky motion as if trying to dislodge a hallucination.

"I require sleep," Haven stated, her voice tight with something akin to awe at the sheer audacity. "The only relevant data point is your continued safety and compliance. Do not, under any circumstances, add further... variables to that wall."

With that, Haven beat a hasty retreat into her adjoining suite, this time closing the door with a firm, resonant slam that shook the wall.

Althea laughed, a deep, satisfied belly laugh that felt better than any memory possibly could. "She told me to stop adding variables! Oh, Sushi, we broke her! We're making real, measurable progress!"

She settled down, pulling a wriggling Sushi onto the bed for a celebratory cuddle. She knew she had pushed too far, but the payoff was immense. She had secured two critical pieces of intelligence: Haven was physically, undeniably affected by her, and the unflappable CEO was deeply, profoundly terrified of Althea's amnesiac investigation.

Time to analyze the new scent data, Althea mused, happily scratching Sushi's favorite spot behind his ear. Grape old wine. Haven B. Hartwell is a vintage of profound, repressed secrets. I just need to find the corkscrew.

She settled down, pulling a wriggling Sushi onto the bed for a celebratory cuddle. She knew she had pushed too far, but the payoff was immense. She had secured two critical pieces of intelligence: Haven was physically, undeniably affected by her, and the unflappable CEO was deeply, profoundly terrified of Althea's amnesiac investigation.

(Internal Monologue) Time to analyze the new scent data, Althea mused, happily scratching Sushi's favorite spot behind his ear. Grape old wine. Haven B. Hartwell is a vintage of profound, repressed secrets. I just need to find the corkscrew.

She slowly gathered the scattered photographs the visual proof of a smiling, devoted Haven and the untouchable, glamorous ghost of her past self and secured the heavy album beneath her pillows, a ridiculous but satisfying physical barrier against her wife's ability to control the narrative. She finally slid into the vast, cold emptiness of the bed, the last conscious image in her mind being the vivid pink of Haven's flushed ears.

(Internal Monologue) It's fine. Everything is perfectly, chaotically fine. I'm just married to a stunning, emotionally constipated Alpha CEO who is secretly a romantic plant nerd with a Golden Retriever. I've definitely binge watched messier plots.

She hugged the photo album like a lifeline, the soft leather a strange comfort against her cheek, and eventually, exhaustion pulled her under.

She didn't know when the dream began, but it was immediate and all consuming. It wasn't a memory, not quite it was too sharp, too focused on sensation to be a mere recollection. It was a fantasy, visceral and overwhelming, painted in scent and touch. The sterile, cool air of the bedroom dissolved, replaced by a humid, oppressive warmth that carried a rich, primal aroma. It wasn't the controlled, daytime scent of grape old wine; this was something wilder, heavier with musk and the earthy depth of sandalwood, all underpinned by that intoxicating, sweet dark note of grapes at the peak of fermentation.

In the darkness of the dream, there was a powerful, unmistakable presence. An Alpha. Her Alpha. Haven.

The dream was a relentless, sensory assault. Althea felt the ghost of strong, deliberate fingers trailing over her skin, not in the clinical way Haven had checked her for injuries, but with a searing, possessive heat that was both shocking and deeply necessary. Haven's dream touch was everything her waking persona was not: slow, intimate, utterly focused on mapping Althea's pleasure with the same intensity she devoted to a corporate merger. It was the Alpha's breath, hot and minty, that charted a path from the hollow of her belly down to the aching apex of her thighs, settling there with an agonizing, focused intent that made Althea's back arch off the mattress.

Althea felt the gentle, insistent pull, the tender, devastating pressure, and the exquisite, masterful teasing of a lover who knew her body better than she knew it herself. She was entirely helpless, her Omega instincts surging, her body bowing, desperately demanding the climax that the dream Haven was patiently, expertly orchestrating. The dominant Alpha scent filled her lungs, suffocating and beautiful, pushing her to the very edge of consciousness. The world dissolved into a symphony of her own hot, desperate moans and the feeling of two long, strong fingers pianist's fingers, CEO's fingers sinking deep inside her, finding and stroking a perfect, impossible spot until the sensation detonated, shattering her into a million pieces.

Althea woke with a sharp, strangled gasp, the physical shock of the climax still reverberating through her trembling limbs.

"Ah, what the actual f**k was that?" she choked out, her voice raw and ragged in the silent darkness.

She fumbled for the digital clock on the nightstand: 3:02 AM. Sushi was a soft, snoring lump on the rug, utterly undisturbed. The room was cold, empty, and silent, a stark contrast to the heated world she had just left.

Slowly, mortifyingly, she became aware of her body. Her skin was fever hot and sensitized, her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, and the sheets between her legs were damp. F**k. I'm so wet.

A wave of panicked, hot faced confusion washed over her. Wait, wait, wait. Omg. I just had my first amnesiac wet dream. My brain, which can't remember my own name, just produced a full color, surround sound fantasy about the cold, shy CEO who carried me fireman style a few hours ago.

The confusion quickly curdled into a restless, aching physical need. The phantom image of Haven's face composed yet flustered and the remembered, potent scent of the dream Alpha were too vivid, too intense to ignore. Her fingers trembled as she reached down and tentatively touched the slick evidence of her own desire.

(Internal Monologue) This is insane. I don't even know this woman. I know she's married to me out of financial obligation, and she can barely stand to be in the same room as me. Why is my body betraying me like this?

She shifted, grabbing a fistful of the cool sheet, and began to touch herself in earnest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to desperately recapture the dream, focusing with all her might on the memory of that powerful, controlled Alpha touch. She imagined Haven's long, careful fingers inside her, the intensity of her focused gaze, the enveloping scent of grape old wine and sandalwood.

Althea whimpered, unable to stop the escalating heat coiling in her belly. A low moan escaped her as she buried her face into the pillow to muffle the sound. "F**k, why am I doing this when she's literally on the other side of that wall?"

It was over quickly, a shuddering, desperate release driven purely by confused biology and the ghost of a feeling she couldn't name. Althea lay there afterward, breathing heavily, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and a thick blanket of shame.

She reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, wiping herself quickly and roughly, as if she could erase the act itself. Then the self loathing hit with the force of a physical blow, drowning out the last echoes of physical pleasure.

"F**k, I'm so disgusting," she whispered into the darkness, hot tears of frustration pricking her eyes. "The old me was an abusive tyrant who trapped that woman in a contract, and the new me is a pathetic creep who gets off to the woman she victimized. I'm a mess. I am so utterly undeserving of someone as beautiful and complicated as her."

She eventually calmed her racing heart, curling into a tight ball under the sheets. The lingering phantom of the Alpha's scent from her dream and the acrid taste of her own shame combined into a nauseating perfume that followed her into a deep, heavy, and fitful sleep, desperately wishing she could forget the last hour as completely as she had forgotten the last years.

The Morning After Shame

In the morning, Althea woke to weak sunlight struggling through the panoramic windows. She felt heavy, physically and emotionally drained, as if she'd run a marathon in her sleep. The sharp edges of the shame from the night before had blurred, softened by the pragmatic resilience of her Omega biology and the simple need to face the new day.

She grabbed her crutches and hobbled out to the kitchen. Mrs. Li had, as always, prepared an immaculate breakfast. But Althea noticed the subtle shift immediately: today's fruit plate was a vibrant mosaic of mango, papaya, and starfruit, and the toast was a dense, dark sourdough rye. Hmm, different from yesterday's berries and brioche, she wondered, before the pattern clicked. Mrs. Li is cycling through a roster of my specific, pre amnesia Omega preferences. This isn't random; it's a meticulously managed program. Peak Dominant Omega customization. Past Me was… particular.

She was mechanically scrolling through the sterile apps on her phone when Ms. Evelyn arrived, her cheerful energy a stark contrast to Althea's internal fog.

"Good morning, Althea! You look ready to conquer that hallway!" Evelyn greeted, setting down her bag.

Althea managed a nod. They worked diligently on walking endurance, this time focusing on the tricky mechanics of navigating sharp corners and avoiding furniture essential skills for her ongoing domestic investigation. She made excellent, measurable progress, but she kept her internal monologue ruthlessly focused on the biomechanics of her movement, firmly suppressing any memory of the Alpha whose proximity had caused her to "fall" the night before.

As Evelyn was packing up, Althea heard a commotion at the main entrance: the sound of heavy boxes being deposited.

The books, Althea realized, a genuine thrill of delight cutting through her lingering gloom. She actually did it. She ordered them.

Mrs. Li brought in three substantial boxes, their cardboard flaps straining against the weight of dense, specialized horticulture texts: encyclopedic volumes on rare cacti, phylogenetic guides to ancient fern species, and a lavish coffee table book dedicated solely to the cultivation and carnivorous mechanisms of the Venus flytrap.

A genuine smile, the first of the day, touched Althea's lips. Without hesitation, she tore into the boxes, pulling out a heavy tome on tropical mosses, and, using her crutches, made her way out to the greenhouse, Sushi trotting faithfully at her side.

"Okay, Sushi," Althea said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she settled onto the familiar bench beside a towering, prehistoric looking fern. "This is our new mission parameters. We are going to become world class experts in 'Past Me's' ridiculously high end botanical hyperfixation."

She opened the moss book to a glossy plate of 'Bryum argenteum.' "Look at this, buddy. This is the 'Silver Moss.' It requires eighty percent humidity, filtered light, and probably its own personal accountant. Only a Dominant Omega with more money than sense would dedicate a whole wing of her house to this." She glanced around the vast, glass domed space. "Actually, check that. She did."

Sushi responded with a soft, understanding woof, resting his heavy chin on her good leg.

"See, this is where Past Althea hid," Althea continued, scratching behind his ears as she gazed at the lush, teeming life around her. "She was so public, so 'untouchable,' so performatively cold, she had to retreat to this beautiful, humid glass bubble just to be quietly, weirdly passionate about something. I bet she was a terrible wife, but you have to admit, the woman had commitment to an aesthetic."

She spent the entire afternoon there, reading until her eyes were dry, walking slowly through the verdant aisles with her crutches, feeling the warm, damp air cling to her skin. She talked to Sushi as if he were a fellow scholar, pointing out peculiar botanical facts. The greenhouse was the only place in the massive, cold, sterile house that felt truly safe, real, and unjudged. It was her sanctuary, a place where the ghost of her past self felt less like a monster and more like a deeply eccentric stranger.

She finished the day with a strange, complicated sense of contentment, built on the solid foundation of new plant knowledge and the deliberately faded memory of a phantom touch. She knew she was still fundamentally lost, adrift on a sea of guilt and a confusing, powerful biological pull. But for now, she was focused on two clear objectives: uncovering the truth of who she was, and figuring out how to make her Alpha wife blush again. The latter, she realized with a shiver that was equal parts dread and anticipation, was becoming a dangerously, addictively tempting hobby.