Haven's fucking POV?? :3
The ghost of Althea's kiss was still a brand on my cheek, the whisper of her 'rawr' a siren song in my ears as I started the car engine. The scent of her, Vanilla Strawberry and sleep, clung to my suit jacket, a fragrant shackle that made every rotation of the tires away from her feel like a physical mutilation.
Fuck.
The word was a prayer, a curse, a lament. It echoed in the quiet luxury of the car. How I wished I could have canceled the world. Deleted every meeting, every obligation, with a single, ruthless command. How I craved to be the one to drive her to the doctor, to hold her small, warm hand in that sterile room, to watch the play of emotions on her beautiful, earnest face as she asked about pregnancy. The domesticity of it was a drug more potent than any stock surge, any corporate annihilation. Building a family. With me. The architect and her masterpiece, creating new life from the raw materials of our combined DNA. We would sit together, a united front, and ask the doctor what we should do. A team. A unit. The fantasy was so vivid, so perfect, it was a physical ache behind my sternum, a hollow only her presence could fill.
But reality, my old and brutal master, had other plans. The day held two crucibles: a boardroom and a warehouse. One required a sovereign's cool logic. The other, a monster's hot violence. Both were necessary to protect my kingdom.
As I navigated the pre-dawn streets, my fingers tapped a quick, sharp command on my phone, a second nature as ingrained as breathing. A text to Mrs. Li: Record the entire session. Audio and visual. Send the feed to me in real time. No gaps. I would not be there in body, but I would be a ghost in the machine, a silent, omniscient spectator to my wife's most intimate questions. Her curiosity was a flame I needed to monitor, to control, to ensure it warmed our home and never threatened to burn it down.
Pulling into the underground fortress of Vale Resorts & Hotels International headquarters, the silent, stark concrete a world away from our sun-drenched kitchen, I mentally armored myself. I shed the soft, yielding skin of 'Haven the Wife' like a serpent molting, and the impenetrable, scaled carapace of 'Hartwell the Sovereign' clicked into place. By the time the elevator doors sighed open on the executive floor, the transformation was absolute. My spine was a steel rod, my expression a placid lake of absolute control. The only tell, the only crack in the façade, was the faint, possessive thrum in my veins, the constant, low-grade hum of Althea, Althea, Althea.
"Ms. Hartwell." My executive assistant, Liam, fell into step beside me, a tablet in hand. His voice was a hushed, reverent thing. "The final due diligence reports on the Éclat des Alpes portfolio are in. Your grandfather is already in the boardroom. The vote is at 1 PM sharp."
"And the other matter? Riggs and the team?" I asked, my voice devoid of the warmth that had, minutes ago, murmured my love.
"The secondary location is prepared. Chen has them all secured. The session is scheduled for 5 PM this afternoon."
"Good." I didn't break stride. "Ensure the board meeting concludes efficiently. I have no desire to be late for… dinner." Dinner being a euphemism for the bloody extraction of truth from the men who had dared to lay hands on what was mine. Marcus Riggs and his five idiots would learn the price of touching a Hartwell obsession.
My office was a monument to cold power. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a city waking up, a kingdom spread at my feet. I didn't see it. I saw the examination table. I saw her. I dismissed Liam with a curt nod and sank into the leather embrace of my chair. The quiet was a vacuum, and into that vacuum rushed a need so violent it was almost nausea.
I needed a purge. I needed to see her.
I opened the dedicated, encrypted laptop, a machine that existed for one purpose: connection to her world. With a few keystrokes, I bypassed standard security protocols and accessed the live feed from the house. The camera in the living room showed an empty, sunlit space, the plushies standing sentinel on their Table of Empire. Lifeless without her. I switched to the audio feed from Sushi's collar. Silence, save for the faint jingle of his tags. They had already left. A spike of irrational panic—had something happened on the way?—was instantly quashed by a notification that bloomed in the corner of the screen.
Live Feed: Medical Suite - Audio/Visual Active. 9:02 AM.
My breath hitched, a rare, unguarded reaction. I clicked it open.
A window blossomed, crystal clear, showing a high-definition view of the examination room from a discreet angle near the ceiling. And there she was. My Althea. Sitting on the edge of the paper-covered bed, swinging her legs slightly like a child, looking heartbreakingly small and vulnerable in the standard-issue hospital gown. Mrs. Li was a silent, dark-clad sentinel by the door, just out of frame, but her presence was a comforting pressure in my mind. My eyes were there. My will was there.
I turned up the volume, the doctor's calm, professional voice filling the silent cathedral of my office. I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, steepling my fingers, a CEO assessing the most vital presentation of her life.
The check-up proceeded with sterile normalcy. Stable vitals. Strong heart rate. Good cognitive responses. I allowed myself a sliver of dark pride. I was maintaining her. My care, my protocols, my watchful love was keeping the mechanism of her body in perfect, humming order. She was my most precious asset, and her appreciation was soaring.
Then came the memory discussion. Althea's description of the fragments as "little movies" that didn't hurt sent a chill, sharp as a shard of glass, down my spine. It was progress. Natural, healing progress. And therefore, dangerous progress. Every recovered memory was a rogue variable, a wild card that could, at any moment, reveal a suit instead of a heart. I catalogued the description, adding it to her file. Fragments: visual, non-painful. Emotional valence: neutral to positive. Potential trigger: uncontrolled environmental stimuli (sunlight).
And then Dr. Evans said the words that turned the blood in my veins to frozen mercury.
"...the rather high level of sedatives in your last bloodwork, Althea. I'd advise we slow them down. It says here the dosage was spiked this month. It was normal before, and—"
My finger was on the direct intercom button to Mrs. Li's discreet, subcutaneous earpiece before the doctor could draw another breath. My voice, when it left my lips, was a low, venomous whisper, a snake's hiss transmitted through the digital aether. "Stop her. Now."
On the screen, I saw it. The doctor's eyes kind, professional, ignorant eyes flicked up from the tablet, over Althea's shoulder. She stopped dead. The sentence hung, mangled and bleeding, in the sterile air. A beat of silence so profound I could hear the hum of the medical suite's lights through the feed. Then, the forced, brittle laugh. The retraction. "A glitch in the system."
I leaned back in my chair, a cold sweat breaking out along my hairline. Fuck. That was too close. Far too close. The carefully constructed dam, woven from lies, controlled environments, and chemical adjustments, had almost burst because of one honest woman with a tablet. My hand trembled, just once, as I poured a glass of ice water. The monster in the vault of my soul was roaring, demanding a more permanent solution for such loose ends. Dr. Evans was a liability. Her access, her knowledge. She had seen the data. She had questioned. I soothed the beast with a silent, iron-clad promise. Later. Everything in its time. She is on the list. The list was long. It included Marcus Riggs. It included the blackmailer whose voice had poisoned my songbird's mind. It included anyone who posed a threat to the paradise I was building.
But then, the conversation shifted. And my world, so recently teetering on the brink of catastrophic exposure, righted itself on an axis of pure, obsessive, all-consuming joy.
Althea's voice, shy but determined, cutting through the last of the tension. "Uhm, doctor… is it safe for me to conceive a child even though I have amnesia?"
The air left my lungs in a soft, reverent rush. There it was. The question. My question, voiced by her lips. My songbird, asking to build a nest. For us. Not out of duty, or legacy, but out of a love I had painstakingly curated. It was the ultimate validation of my project.
The doctor's reassurance was a balm, a divine pronouncement. "With the right, stable, and supportive environment, you should be absolutely fine."
On the screen, I watched Althea's face light up, the worry melting into incandescent hope. "Really? That's great then! I can't wait to tell my wife!"
I know, my love, I thought, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across my face, a smile that held no warmth, only the cold, glittering triumph of absolute possession. I know. And I will be the one to provide that "stable, supportive environment." I will be the sun and the soil, the wall and the roof. You will have your baby, and I will have the ultimate, unbreakable chain to bind you to me. A living, breathing symbol of our union. My heir. Our heir. The words echoed in my skull, a mantra of completion. Heir. Heir. Heir.
The feed continued as they left the hospital. I watched the corridor view as they passed the pediatrics wing. I saw Althea's step slow. I saw her gaze drawn to an open door. Inside, a mother, exhausted and beatific, rocked a newborn. And I saw Althea's hand—her hand, the one that played piano concertos and punched plushies—float to her own stomach. The look on her face was not just longing; it was a profound, soul-deep recognition. It was a woman seeing her future, and finding it beautiful.
The vise around my own heart tightened to the point of exquisite pain. She wanted it. She viscerally wanted it. The wanting was a hole in her, and I was the only one who could fill it.
And then, the audio from the car ride home. Althea's voice, bright and curious, weaving through the sound of the engine. "Mrs. Li, what does having a kid feel like? You have a kid, right?"
As Mrs. Li launched into her stories—the frog, the haircut, the sticky chaos—I listened, enraptured. But I wasn't hearing about Mrs. Li's children. I was overlaying the narrative with my own. I saw Althea, her body softening, rounding with my child. I saw her in the bespoke nursery I would have designed, a fortress of the finest, safest luxury. I saw her at 3 AM, hair mussed, wearing one of my old shirts, holding a tiny, wailing thing with her wild amber eyes and my hair. A perfect, impossible blend. A permanent fusion. My blood in her veins. Her heart beating for our creation.
She would never leave. She could never leave. How could she? She would be the mother of my child. The mother of the Hartwell-Vale heir. She would be tied to me by biology, by law, by the fierce, animal bond of a shared creation. It was a lock that no memory, no truth, no outside force could ever pick.
The obsession unfurled inside me, a black lotus blooming in the dark waters of my soul, its roots wrapping around my bones. This wasn't just about love anymore. It was about legacy. It was about etching my name onto her soul in indelible ink, in replicating DNA. It was about creating a living monument to my possession. A child would be my masterpiece's masterpiece. The final, perfect, blinding stroke.
The feed ended as the car arrived home. I switched to the house cameras. I watched her burst through the door, a whirlwind of pastel loungewear and chaotic energy, scooping up the dog. I watched her hold court with her plushie subjects. And then, I switched to the audio from the living room sensor as she sat on the floor with Sushi.
And I heard it. The tiny fissure in my perfect world.
"Sushi, today has been weird… I saw it. A vial? Glass? Something… the doctor said I'm taking too much sedative, and they just… stopped. It's giving me weird vibes."
A sliver of pure, glacial ice pierced the warm, suffocating fantasy. She was questioning. The cracks were there, however fine, however easily dismissed as "weird vibes." She was smarter, more perceptive than I had allowed myself to believe. The amnesiac was not an empty vessel; she was a keen observer, a puzzle-solver with a missing box lid. She had seen the glint of the injector last night. She had noted the doctor's abrupt silence. Her mind, even damaged, was connecting dots.
A cold fury, directed at myself for the momentary lapse of using the injector while she was semi-conscious, warred with a perverse thrill. She was fighting. Even now, even in this softened state, the Tyrant's spirit lingered—questioning, doubting, seeking truth. It made the victory of taming her all the sweeter.
But then she sighed, the sound weary and sweet and so very young through the speaker. "Maybe, Sushi, I really need to dig up my past. But the past me is terrible! It's confusing me! And I don't wanna remember some of it 'cause it hurts my small brain, Sushi."
The ice melted, vaporized by a soaring, possessive triumph that burned in my chest. That's it, my love, I coaxed her silently from my tower of glass and steel, my will reaching across the city to stroke her hair. Don't look back. The past is pain. It is loss and betrayal and hard choices that broke you. I am your future. I am your safety. I am the ground beneath your feet. Let me be your everything. The past is a cemetery. Our future is a nursery.
I closed the laptop, the live feeds dissolving into darkness. The sterile, silent grandeur of my office returned, but it was now haunted, hallowed, by the echoes of her voice, the phantom image of her hopeful face, the ghost of her hand on her stomach.
The morning bled away in a river of documents and directives, my focus split between the empire and the songbird. At 12:55 PM, a soft chime from my desk. The board.
I stood, smoothing my suit—a severe, exquisitely cut black ensemble that was my armor. I examined my reflection in the dark glass of the window. The woman who stared back was a sovereign. A conqueror. The loving, gentle wife was buried deep, a secret weapon, a disguise worn only for one person. This was the true face. Implacable. Hungry. Untouchable.
The walk to the boardroom was a procession. Assistants and junior executives parted like a sea, their murmured greetings a wordless hum. The double doors to the boardroom were held open. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old money, ambition, and the faint, crisp aroma of fear.
The table was a vast expanse of polished mahogany. Around it sat twelve of the most powerful, calculating minds in the hospitality world. And at the head, presiding with a calm, avuncular dignity, sat my grandfather, Arthur Hartwell. His eyes, a warm, faded blue behind gold-rimmed spectacles, held not disdain, but a quiet, watchful pride. He smiled as I entered, a genuine crease at the corner of his eyes.
"Haven," he said, his voice like well-aged whiskey, smooth and warm. "We are convened. The Éclat des Alpes acquisition. The vote is upon us. There are, as expected, some reservations to hear."
I took my seat to his right, the place of the heir, the strategist. "Reservations are data points," I said, my voice cutting through the room, clear and cool as alpine air. "Let's examine them."
A man named Edgerton, whose family owned a rival chain, cleared his throat. "The Éclat portfolio is seven luxury properties in the Swiss and French Alps. Stunning, yes. But they're… antiquated. The renovation costs alone would be astronomical. The winter season is shortening. We're voting on sentiment, not sense."
I didn't lean forward. I simply turned my head, a panther tracking prey. "Antiquated," I repeated, letting the word hang. "You see chateaus with old wood. I see heritage. You see shortening winters. I see an exclusive, year-round experience. The 'astronomical' renovation?" I tapped the console before me.
The massive screen lit up, not with financials, but with breathtaking, photorealistic renderings. "We are not renovating. We are redefining. The Éclat properties will become the 'Aethelred Havens.' Each one a self-contained, hyper-exclusive ecosystem. AI-driven personal concierge systems. Private helipads for carbon-neutral transfers. In-suite vertical farms for zero-mile dining. And this…" I switched the image to a graph. "The real value isn't in room rates. It's in the data. The purchasing habits, health metrics, and preference profiles of the global 0.1% who will stay here. This data will fuel every other Vale venture for the next generation."
Another board member, a woman named Choi who had built her own boutique hotel empire, spoke. "It's a bold vision, Haven. But the human element? The existing staff, the local communities? These are family-run hotels for generations."
I turned my gaze to her. "The human element is being offered a choice: become part of the most advanced hospitality family in the world, with equity shares and guaranteed employment, or take a generous severance and pursue their 'family-run' dreams elsewhere. The communities will thrive on the economic influx. We will manage the narrative. We will be heralded as preservers of Alpine tradition, innovators breathing new life into historic landmarks."
My grandfather hadn't spoken. He watched me, that same quiet pride in his eyes, but now mixed with something else—a recognition of the sheer, ruthless scale of my ambition. It wasn't fear. It was awe.
"This isn't just buying hotels," I said, my voice dropping, becoming intimate, compelling. "This is buying influence. This is planting the Vale flag at the pinnacle of global luxury. It's a statement. To vote 'no' is not to be cautious. It is to choose irrelevance. To decide that Vale should remain a very nice hotel chain, while the future belongs to those who understand that we are no longer selling beds. We are selling realms. And I am offering you a kingdom."
I let the silence stretch, thick and charged. I had not asked for their vote. I had shown them a new world and offered them a throne within it.
Finally, my grandfather stirred. He looked around the table at the faces of his peers. He saw the doubt transforming into greed, the hesitation melting into excitement. He turned his warm gaze back to me and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"The board will vote," Arthur Hartwell said, his voice firm.
The vote was called. It was unanimous. My grandfather voted last, his "Aye" not a gavel of finality, but a seal of proud confirmation.
As the board members rose, the atmosphere was different. Not fear, but energized ambition. They crowded around, offering genuine congratulations. "A vision, Haven!" "You've transformed the entire playing field!" Arthur beamed, clasping my shoulder as the room emptied.
"You left them no room for doubt," he said, his eyes twinkling.
"Doubt is a luxury our competitors can afford," I replied, allowing a slight, genuine smile for him alone. "We cannot."
He studied my face, the pride softening into something more probing, more personal. "This drive of yours… it's magnificent. But it's more than the company, isn't it? It always has been. It's for her. For Althea."
Every muscle in my body went preternaturally still. The monster within lifted its head, wary of this kindness, suspecting a trap. "Althea is my wife. My happiness at home enables my focus here." A sterile, safe answer.
Arthur's smile became gentle, understanding in a way that felt more invasive than any threat. "Oh, my dear girl. I may be old, but I'm not blind. I knew the moment you saw that fierce, brilliant little musician on the Vale's Resorts were I brought you. she wasn't just your friend. She was your orbit. Everything you've built since… it's a monument. A fortress. For her. And when I told you to marry her" He patted my hand, his touch warm and unsettling. "Just remember, even the most beautiful songbird needs to feel the sun on its own wings sometimes. Don't build the fortress so well she forgets the sky is hers too."
His words, spoken with such kindness, were more destructive than any accusation. They framed my obsession as a potential prison, my love as a potential limit. He saw the cage, even as he admired its craftsmanship. The monster raged, wanting to snarl, to bare its teeth at this gentle man who dared to suggest my universe was not enough.
But he was Arthur. He was the one who had handed me the keys to the kingdom, who had never looked at me with anything but belief. So I swallowed the venom, and my smile turned brittle. "The only sky she needs is the one I give her, Grandfather. And it is forever. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a… dinner engagement."
I left him there, his kind, worried eyes following me. The victory of the boardroom—the acquisition of seven Alpine castles tasted like dust. All I could think of was the vial, her questioning voice, and the urgent need to silence the doubts, both hers and, now, his.
Back in my office, the door locked against the world, I was not the triumphant CEO. I was a creature of singular, starving need. I pulled out my personal phone. Not the encrypted line. The one with her name glowing on the screen, accompanied by a ridiculous dinosaur emoji she'd added. I needed to hear the goofy chaos, the innocent joy. I needed to be reminded that I was not the monster in the vault or the cold strategist at the table. I was the protector. The provider. The beloved wife.
The rest of the day was a blur of corporate machinations, my body in the boardroom while my soul was in our home, watching the ghost of my wife on a screen. I was reviewing a tedious acquisition proposal when my personal phone the one only a handful of people had the number to vibrated on the obsidian surface of my desk.
The caller ID made my heart stop, then kick into a frantic, galloping rhythm.
Althea.
She never called this line. She texted, she left voicemails, but a direct call was rare. A spike of adrenaline, sharp and cold. Was she hurt? Had something happened? Had she remembered something?
I answered, my voice carefully neutral, belying the storm inside. "Haven."
A chaotic symphony greeted me from the other end. "Haven, hello? Is this Haven's phone? Sushi, stop barking at the squirrel! I'm calling your other mom!" Her voice was a breathless, slightly frazzled melody. I could picture the scene perfectly: Sushi chasing some poor creature in the garden, Althea with her phone pressed to her ear, her brow furrowed in mock-annoyance.
The tension drained from my shoulders, replaced by a warmth so profound it was almost painful. She's safe. She's just calling to talk. To me.
"It's me, Althea," I said, my voice softening despite myself. "The one and only. What's up? Do you need anything?" I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes, the better to immerse myself in the sound of her.
"Uhm, so I asked the doctor today, and you know, the pregnancy stuff," she began, her tone shifting to a shy, excited whisper, as if sharing a delicious secret. "And she said it's okay for me to carry one, Haven!"
I had to play my part. I had to be the surprised, elated wife. I summoned every ounce of my theatrical skill. I let a beat of silence hang, then infused my voice with just the right amount of shocked delight. "That's… that's great news, my love!" I was an Oscar-worthy performer. The best in the world, because I was performing for the only audience that mattered.
"And because of it," she continued, her voice gaining confidence, "I want us to celebrate! I want you to cook for me tonight, please?"
A celebration. For the future I was meticulously building for us. The irony was so thick I could taste it, a metallic tang on my tongue. "Of course. So, what do you want for dinner?"
Before she could answer, a wicked, possessive impulse seized me. I wanted to hear her flustered. I wanted to hear that adorable, indignant huff. I wanted to remind her, and myself, of the electric current that ran between us, even over the phone.
I cut her off, my voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register, the one I used only for her in the dark. "I'm out of the menu, Althea." A slight chuckle, a calculated tease. "But if you persuade me… maybe I will be."
The reaction was instantaneous and perfect. "Youuuu!!! Hmpt! Stop teasing me! I know you want me as well! Hmpt! Then you won't have me, then!! Right back at you, Haven!! You dummy!"
I could picture her, cheeks flushed, pointing a finger at the phone, her Vanilla Strawberry scent spiking with that delightful, flustered irritation. It was a balm, washing away the lingering filth of my interaction with Emara. This was real. This was mine.
"Your dummy," I conceded, my voice warm. "But seriously, what do you wanna eat, Althea?"
"Uhm, I want some pasta. And the thing we ordered before… uhm, I think… wagyu steak? Idk. Rare cooked? Uncooked? I forgot! Uhm, aaa, something! The thing! You know what I like!!!"
I couldn't help the genuine laugh that escaped me. Her amnesiac descriptions were a constant source of both endearment and a chilling reminder of my control. She was trying to grasp at the ghost of a memory, a flavor, an experience, and she was trusting me to fill in the blanks. And I would. I would create every memory from now on.
She's trying to remember the steak from L'Astre, I thought, a fond, dark amusement curling inside me. But she can't quite grasp it. It's just a 'thing.' A delicious 'thing' that I provided. I am the source of all good 'things' in her life. The power in that thought was a drug.
"I'll surprise you, then," I promised, my mind already cataloging the ingredients I would need, the wine I would pair it with. It would be perfect. Everything for her was perfect.
It was then that my other phone, the one connected to the Blackwood network, lit up and vibrated with a specific, insistent pattern. The warehouse. Marcus Riggs. The real world, with its blood and secrets, was demanding my attention once more.
A frustrated snarl built in my throat. Fuck. I wanted to stay on this phone forever. I wanted to listen to her talk about nothing and everything. I wanted to bathe in the sound of her voice, a symphony that drowned out the screams from the warehouse. I wanna listen to her more. I wanna listen to her voice on the phone. Shit.
But duty, in its many ugly forms, called.
"Althea," I said, the regret in my voice only half-feigned. "I'm sorry, but work calls. I have to go."
"Wait, Haven! Uhm… aaaa…"
Her sudden hesitation, the soft, flustered sound, made me pause. "What is it, Althea?"
There was a beat of silence, then her voice, small and incredibly sincere, filled my ear. "I love you, Haven. And work well… uhm… your voice is kinda hot via call. It's a new voicebox I'm registering in my head. Hehehe. I hope I get to call you often!"
The words were a physical impact. I love you. And then, the sheer, adorable absurdity of 'new voicebox.' She was cataloging me, learning me, falling in love with me all over again. And she found my voice 'hot.' The CEO, the monster, the architect—all of them preened under the innocent, genuine admiration of the songbird.
"You can call me anytime," I said, the vow absolute and true. "And I will answer them. I love you too, Althea. Goodbye for now. And I'll see you later, okay?"
"Okay. Take care on the way home. I'm excited. I love you again, Haven. Bye." The line went dead.
I sat there for a long moment, the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the dial tone as if it could somehow conjure her back. The silence of my office was now a mocking void.
Fuck. I love her so much.
The thought was a prayer and a curse. It was the fuel for my obsession and the source of my damnation. That single, phone call, with its silly, heartfelt chaos, had reforged my resolve with white-hot intensity.
Emara Sinclair, Marcus Riggs, the doctor, the entire world—they were all just obstacles. Annoyances to be removed from the path that led me back to her. Back to the home I had built, to the wife I had molded, to the future we would now create.
I stood up, the movement sharp and decisive. The warehouse awaited. There was a man there who knew things that could hurt her. And I was going to make sure he never spoke a word of it to anyone. Ever.
For Althea. For our child. For our forever.
It was all for her.