Althea watched the kitchen door swing shut after Haven B. Hartwell's swift, exasperated exit. The lingering scent of grape old wine confirmed her victory in securing the library trip and the emotional chaos she had sown. Althea was still savoring the sweet taste of compliance when the door swung open again, just sixty seconds later.

Haven B. Hartwell re entered the dining area, her hands full and her expression a renewed fortress of corporate control. She hadn't gone far.

Althea watched, a smug satisfaction warming her chest, as Haven returned to the table, holding two heavy, new books. The Alpha's composure was back in place, a fortress hastily rebuilt.

"Here," Haven said, placing the books on the table with a definitive thud that resonated through the sterile quiet. Her grape old wine scent was tightly leashed, but a sharp, irritated note cut through the usual complexity. "Your requested research materials. One is an advanced guide to xerophytic horticulture. The other is a collected volume of sheet music and arrangements from your last three studio albums."

Althea widened her eyes in a performance of mock surprise. "Ah, for me?" she teased, reaching out slowly, deliberately.

"Who else would require them?" Haven countered, her tone a masterclass in weary exasperation.

As Althea took the books, she let her fingers graze the back of Haven's hand a feather-light, deliberate brush against the Alpha's knuckles. The reaction was instantaneous. Haven's hand snapped back as if seared by a live wire, the movement sharp, reflexive, and utterly revealing.

Althea bit the inside of her cheek to stop a triumphant laugh from escaping. Yup. Still ridiculously, adorably shy.

Haven wasted no time, pivoting on her heel toward the sanctuary of her suite. "I have documentation to finalize. Good night, Althea."

The moment the adjoining door clicked shut, Althea let out a low chuckle, leaning heavily on the table for support. She pulled a curious Sushi closer. "You see that, Sushi? Your other owner is a flustered mess! She's running back to her spreadsheets to recover from five seconds of accidental hand-holding. This is better than any soap opera."

The Impostor Syndrome

Althea carried the books back to her room, the weight of them feeling significant. She set the dense horticulture text aside for later and pried open the music book first. This was it her chance to connect with the core of her forgotten identity: the Dominant Omega singer, the untouchable celebrity.

She stared at the pages. They were a sea of incomprehensible symbols staves, clefs, clusters of notes that looked like scattered black insects. It was a language she had once been fluent in, now completely and utterly foreign.

F**k.

She flipped through the pages, her heart sinking like a stone in cold water. She couldn't read a single measure. The complex arrangements for piano and strings were just intricate patterns, devoid of meaning.

(Internal Monologue) I can run. I can flirt with a brick wall until it blushes. I can identify a 'Gymnocalycium mihanovichii' from ten paces. But I can't read my own damn sheet music. This is giving impostor syndrome on a cosmic scale. Past Me was a global superstar fluent in this language, and I can't tell a whole note from a hole in the ground. It might take me years to relearn this. Years I don't have. This is the real crack in the Dominant Omega facade.

A wave of hot frustration crested within her. She flung the music book onto the floor, where it landed with a disappointing, muffled thud. The familiar, cold weight of self-loathing settled in her stomach.

"I'm a fraud, Sushi," she whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The dog padded over and rested his head on her knee, his brown eyes full of simple, uncomplicated sympathy. "I'm a broken Omega. A failed model. The 'dominant' part is a lie. Why did she even marry me? For the stock portfolio? She married a pretty, dominant placeholder, and now the placeholder is cracked and empty."

She eventually collapsed into the vast bed, the weight of her fractured identity pressing down on her, and fell into a sleep that was anything but restful.

The Car Crash Echo

The dream was immediate, visceral, and terrifying. She was back in the car, the world a nauseating, blurring whirl of motion and screaming metal. The shatter of glass was a physical pain in her ears, the airbag a hot, suffocating blossom in her face. The coppery stench of blood and fear filled her nostrils.

Then, an intense, crushing pressure as someone a woman, tall and powerful, her face obscured by lashing rain and violent shadow wrenched the warped car door open. Strong hands grabbed her. Her vision tunneled, focusing on a flickering screen a phone. Her own bloody finger was stabbing at the keypad, trying desperately to call someone. The number... it was... who... and then, nothing. A void. A BLANK.

Althea woke with a strangled gasp, bolting upright. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic animal. She was drenched in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around her legs.

"What the f**k was that?" she panted, clutching her chest. The dream had been so real, so physically present. The phantom scent of rain and blood still seemed to linger. "Who was that woman? Ugh, my throat is sandpaper." The terror had left her parched. "I need water."

She fumbled for her phone. 5:07 AM.

Althea slipped out of bed and hobbled into the hall, drawn by the primal need for the cold, grounding comfort of water. As she rounded the corner into the vast, open-plan kitchen, she froze.

The kitchen wasn't dark and silent. It was bathed in the soft, ambient glow of under-cabinet lighting, and a figure moved within it precise, efficient, and heartbreakingly familiar.

It was Haven B. Hartwell. She stood at the central island, her back to Althea, dressed in a soft, grey Henley and dark pajama pants. In her hands was a chef's knife, moving with surgical precision as she sliced a deep red mango into flawless, petal-like segments. The air was filled with her scent clean cotton, sleep-warm skin, and that deep, intoxicating grape old wine musk.

So the maid was telling the truth all along.

Althea let her crutches lean silently against the doorframe and stood there, captivated, for a full five minutes. She watched the powerful line of Haven's back, the focused dip of her head, the methodical, almost meditative rhythm of her work. This was the Secret Chef in her natural habitat.

Althea finally spoke, her voice still rough from the nightmare and sleep. "So it's true. You're the one. The mysterious breakfast chef. No use denying it now, is there?" she teased, trying to inject her usual levity into the heavy, intimate stillness.

Haven stopped slicing instantly, her entire body going rigid. She turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral, devoid of the blush Althea had been hoping for. The domestic softness vanished, replaced by the CEO's assessing gaze.

"Why are you awake at this hour?" Haven asked, sidestepping the accusation entirely. "Are you in pain? Did you take your medication?"

"Well, you know," Althea said, taking a careful step forward. "Bad dream. Thirsty. Can you get me some water?" It was a test, a request for a small, nurturing act.

Haven didn't hesitate. She placed the knife down with a quiet click, washed her hands with methodical care, then retrieved a tall glass from the cupboard and filled it with filtered water from the fridge.

Althea watched, utterly transfixed. Haven's forearms, bare below the rolled-up sleeves, were corded with lean Alpha strength. The movement of her long, elegant fingers the same ones that signed billion-dollar deals as they curled around the cold glass was intensely, mesmerizingly graceful. Damn. Literally, what else do those hands do?

(Internal Monologue) She slices mangoes for me at dawn. She carried me over her shoulder like I weighed nothing. She smells like the dream I just had that's making me question my entire reality. And those hands! So f**king hot! Omg, am I actually developing a crush on my literal contract wife? Like a blushing, hormonal teenager? This is pathetic. I'm having high-school romance palpitations for a CEO who probably just wants me 'cognitively stable' for the annual shareholders' report.

Haven placed the glass of water on the counter before her, the sound jolting Althea from her reverie.

Althea took a long, slow sip, the cold liquid a balm on her raw throat. Then she looked at the Alpha, her eyes narrowing with playful intensity.

"Thanks, Secret Chef," Althea said, deliberately using the intimate, teasing nickname. "It's very efficient hydration."

"It is water, Althea," Haven replied, her face an impassive mask, though her scent definitely spiked with a flicker of something annoyance? vulnerability? She turned back to the counter, a clear dismissal.

"No, it's not 'just water,' Haven," Althea insisted, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "It's a peace offering from the CEO who spends her pre-dawn hours doing culinary origami for the Omega she supposedly married for 'necessary corporate structure.' You're a giant softie. A marshmallow. The only conglomerate you're really running is a five-star Bed and Breakfast for one very confused amnesiac."

Haven leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. The gesture made the fabric of her Henley pull taut, and her Alpha dominance radiated outwards a clear, unspoken challenge. "I am ensuring the stability of the family trust, which includes maintaining your physical well-being at an optimal level. I have always done so. It is not a sentimental gesture."

"If it wasn't at least a little sentimental, you'd have Mrs. Li on a 5 AM retainer," Althea countered, leaning forward onto the counter, closing the distance. "And you wouldn't be in such deep denial about the Christmas puppy. You're a denial queen, Mrs. Hartwell."

Haven conceded the point not with words, but with a slow, heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all their unspoken history. It was the only admission Althea would get. "Eat something. Your meal is nearly ready."