I arrived home, the engine's purr dying into the garage's silence, still thrumming with the day's unique energy the vibration of her voice in my ear, the image of her smile on my screen. Stepping into the foyer, the scent of Vanilla Strawberry and fresh earth hit me first. Then, I saw her.
Althea was waiting, a nervous, hopeful look on her face. In her hands was a small, haphazard bouquet. Not roses from a florist, but a fistful of blossoms from her own garden: vibrant purple asters, sprigs of lavender, a few late-blooming cosmos in orange and pink, and a single, perfect deep blue hydrangea bloom. They were tied clumsily with a piece of twine. The sight was so unexpectedly, devastatingly tender that my breath caught.
"You see," she began, her voice a little shy, "I saw some of my flowers are flowering. It's almost autumn, after all. So, yeah. Flowers for you, Haven. I thought you would like them."
I stood frozen for a second, the CEO, the monster, the architect—all utterly disarmed. No one had ever given me flowers. Not like this. Business associates sent orchids. Admirers sent extravagant, impersonal arrangements. The old Althea had never given me anything but scorn.
My heart didn't just swell; it cracked open, spilling a flood of emotion so potent it was dizzying. I crossed the space between us in two strides and pulled her into a crushing embrace, the papery rustle of the flowers pressed between us. "I love them, Althea," I murmured into her hair, my voice thick. "I… I never received any flowers from anyone. Even with the past Althea. Even when we were young… I mean, she did make me flower crowns, but still… this is a first for me."
I pulled back, cradling her face in my hands. "You keep getting my firsts, Althea." The truth of it was terrifying and wonderful. My first genuine kiss, my first trusting confession, my first shared vulnerability, my first flowers. She was rewriting my entire history, painting over the gray years with bursts of her impossible color. I kissed her forehead, a seal of gratitude.
Taking the humble bouquet from her, I went to the kitchen and found a simple glass vase. I filled it with water and arranged the blossoms with a care I usually reserved for million-dollar contracts. They were perfect. She was perfect.
"You should prepare now," I said, turning to see her watching me with a soft smile. "Since we are, as you said, going on a date."
She gave a little squeal and "skedaddled" to her room, as she put it. The word, so silly and full of life, echoed in the quiet house. Cute.
I changed out of my armor-like suit. A simple black t-shirt, dark jeans, a worn-in black leather bomber jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low. Disguises. Necessary, because she was a popstar, even if the world thought she was hibernating. When she emerged, she'd chosen black skinny pants, chunky boots, and an oversized grey sweater. Her hair was in a messy bun, and she'd put on a pair of non-prescription glasses with clear frames. She looked like a grad student, a beautiful, quirky nerd lost in her own world. The fact that she was technically older than me only added to the adorable illusion.
We said quick goodbyes to Sushi (who received a promise of leftover treats) and Mrs. Li (who gave a knowing, almost imperceptible nod), and slipped out into the evening.
The drive to the upscale mall was short. Our first stop: the gleaming, minimalist cavern of the Apple Store. Althea marched in with purpose, heading straight for the latest iPads.
"Matching," she declared, holding up two identical sleek silver tablets. "For optimal viewing."
I pulled out my wallet, but her hand shot out, covering mine. "I'm paying," she insisted, her brow furrowed in adorable determination. "It was my suggestion. My scheme. I should fund the tools of my espionage!"
I had to fight a smile. "Your espionage, is it?"
"Wife-ionage," she corrected with a solemn nod. "It's a legitimate field of study."
I gently pried her fingers from my hand. "Consider it a corporate sponsorship, then. Hartwell Industries is pleased to invest in the groundbreaking field of Wife-ionage." I handed my black card to the stunned sales associate before she could protest further.
She pouted, crossing her arms. "You're no fun. I have my own money, you know. From my tyrant days." She whispered the last part dramatically.
"I know," I said, taking the loaded bags. "And you can use it to buy me more flowers."
That earned me a small, reluctant smile. As we turned to leave, I saw her fumbling with her new tablet. She pointed it at me, her tongue poked out in concentration. There was a sudden, bright flash. She'd forgotten to disable the flash. She froze, her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, a furious blush spreading across her cheeks.
I raised an eyebrow. "Evidence collection already, Agent Vale?"
She sputtered, clutching the tablet to her chest. "I… I just… I wanted to have you as a wallpaper! I didn't mean to! The flash… it betrayed me!" Her flustered explanation, her utter lack of guile, was the most endearing thing I'd ever witnessed. My heart didn't just burst; it performed a full, symphonic explosion.
I closed the distance between us in the bustling store, people flowing around us like water around a stone. "How about this," I murmured, leaning close. "We can take a selfie. Whenever you want. No subterfuge required."
Her face lit up. "Really?"
"Really."
The idea seemed to spark something else in her. Her eyes went dreamy. "Makes me wanna buy a Polaroid," she sighed. "Let's buy a Polaroid, Haven!! I wanna capture the moment. Like, a physical thing. Not just pixels!"
And so, our date detoured to a high-end camera boutique. The air smelled of old leather and precision optics. A keen-eyed sales clerk, a young Beta woman, descended on Althea.
"Looking for something special today?" she asked.
"Yes! A Polaroid! The best one you have!" Althea announced, her enthusiasm turning heads.
The clerk led us to a display. "Excellent choice. The instant gratification is wonderful. May I ask what you'll be using it for? Travel? Parties?"
Althea leaned in, as if sharing a state secret. "It's for me," she confessed, her voice a theatrical whisper, "to take a lot of stolen pictures of my wife. Real time!" She giggled, a sound of pure, mischievous joy, and pointed at me where I stood a few feet away, watching the exchange with rapt fascination.
The clerk blinked, then broke into a genuine smile, giggling along with her. "A worthy cause."
When it came time to pay, Althea was already pulling out her own sleek card holder. I smoothly intercepted, placing my hand over the reader and handing my card to the clerk instead. Althea whipped her head towards me, her pout in full force. Cute.
"Corporate sponsorship extends to all Wife-ionage equipment," I said blandly.
"You're a spoilsport, Hartwell," she grumbled, but she was already tearing into the camera box, loading the film with frantic excitement.
The rest of the evening became a photoshoot. She took pictures of me examining a ludicrously expensive lens: "Look serious and rich, Haven!" She made us take selfies in front of a vintage camera display, her cheek smooshed against mine. The first Polaroid whirred out, and she shook it with reverence before peeking, her face a canvas of delight. "It's perfect!"
In a cafe corner, she carefully arranged the small, square photos. She slipped one of me, looking bemused but (she insisted) "devastatingly beautiful," into the clear back of her new iPad case. She did the same for mine, inserting a photo of her making a silly face, her glasses slightly askew. Then, she began building a collage on the back of both tablets with more shots—our hands intertwined, a close-up of her eye, a blurry shot of Sushi's nose. She was curating our shared reality, building a visible, tactile testament to us. The obsessive part of me preened. She was marking her territory as visibly as I did with my scent. She was claiming me, in her own bright, chaotic way.
Then, a low, unmistakable grumble cut through the quiet focus. Her stomach. We'd skipped dinner at home on her insistence, wanting to "eat out."
"Food court," she announced, as if presenting the next great adventure.
I felt a jolt of pure Alpha distaste. Oh, hell no. The grease, the questionable hygiene, the nutritional void. "Althea, the culinary options there are… suboptimal."
She turned the full force of her puppy-dog eyes on me, clutching the Polaroid to her chest. "Please? It's research! For my… my cultural relearning! I need to experience the full spectrum of gustatory offerings!"
I was helpless. "Fine. But we're stopping at the pharmacy first."
A quick detour secured a packet of high-strength digestive enzymes. Armed with biochemical defense, I followed my wife into the neon-lit, cacophonous belly of the food court.
It was a spectacle. Althea approached it like a culinary anthropologist discovering a new civilization. She ordered a "Bulgogi Bibimbap" from the Korean stall (pronouncing it "Bool-gogie Bibim-bap"), a portion of "Poutine" from the Canadian booth ("Pooh-teen?"), a "Churro" from the Mexican kiosk, and a suspiciously vibrant pink bubble tea.
She took a ceremonial first bite of each, her expressions a masterclass in reactive comedy. The bibimbap made her eyes water (too spicy). The poutine earned a thoughtful frown ("It's just gravy and cheese curds on fries… it's kind of genius?"). The churro got a delighted smile. The bubble tea resulted in a comical struggle with a tapioca pearl, which she eventually shot across the table, hitting my jacket. "They're hostile!" she declared.
She took two bites of each and pushed the rest towards me. "You finish it. I'm exploring, not committing."
"You're wasting food," I observed, not really minding. Her reactions were worth the price of a dozen uneaten meals.
"I'm conducting qualitative analysis," she corrected primly, wiping a spot of gravy from her chin. "It's for science. Your sacrifice is noted."
I ate the cold poutine and the rest of the bibimbap, my gaze never leaving her face. Her delighted disgust, her spicy panic, her thoughtful nods—it was a better show than any theater. Cute.
Afterwards, we took a long, slow walk through the mall's expansive indoor gardens to, as she put it, "aid our digestive system." That's when she saw it: a sprawling, flashing, beeping arcade.
"Haven!" She grabbed my arm, her eyes reflecting the rainbow lights. "We have to."
Inside, the noise was overwhelming. She headed straight for a zombie shooter game, handing me a plastic rifle. "Protect me, Alpha!"
I played. And for the first time in my life, I aimed to lose. I missed obvious shots. I "fumbled" reloading. I let pixelated zombies get uncomfortably close, just to hear her shriek and clutch my jacket. When the game ended with our virtual deaths, she spun to me, her face alight with smug victory.
"I got way more headshots than you!" she crowed. "All those boardroom skills, and you can't even handle a virtual apocalypse!"
I shrugged, fighting a smile. "I was distracted. The damsel in distress was very… distracting." As much as I want to tease her, I want to see her smile and her smug face whenever she wins. I adore her.
We tried a racing game, where she crashed us into every barrier, laughing maniacally. Then, she found a karaoke booth. She dragged me inside, fed it coins, and selected a power ballad. When the music swelled, she closed her eyes and sang. Not the careful, practiced perfection of L'Astre, but full-throated, joyous, off-key abandon in the tiny, soundproofed box. It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
A small crowd gathered outside the glass, drawn by the familiar, powerful timbre of her voice bleeding through. I saw phones come up. I saw whispers: "Is that…?" "Sounds like Althea Vale…"
The song ended. She opened her eyes, saw the gathering crowd, and her face paled. "Oops."
I didn't hesitate. I took her hand, pulled the cap lower over her eyes, and we melted into the crowd, slipping down a service corridor I'd instinctively mapped upon entry. We emerged near a different exit, her breath coming in quick, excited pants.
"That was close!" she gasped, but she was grinning. "Thrill of the chase!"
We walked the quieter, upper levels of the mall, admiring the abstract art installations, looking out over the artificial gardens below. The frantic energy of the arcade settled into a deep, intimate calm.
"You know," she said, swinging our clasped hands, "I used to hate places like this. The noise. The people. The… fakeness of it all. I think I wrote a song about it. 'Plastic Paradise' or something equally scathing."
"And now?" I asked, my thumb stroking the back of her hand.
She leaned her head against my shoulder as we walked. "Now… it's just colors and sounds. And you're here. So it's not overwhelming. It's… fun. It's like experiencing it for the first time. Through your eyes, too. You look at everything like you're assessing its structural integrity and profit margins, even the stuffed animal claw machines."
I chuckled. "The claw machine is a notorious scam. The grip strength is programmed to fail a statistically precise percentage of time to maximize revenue while maintaining the illusion of winnability."
She stopped walking and stared up at me, her eyes sparkling. "See? That's what I mean. You make the scam sound beautiful. In a terrifying, robot-overlord kind of way."
We continued, talking about everything and nothing. She told me about a documentary on octopuses she'd watched, and how she was convinced Sushi and an octopus would be best friends. I told her about the absurd internal politics of the Swiss watch consortium we were acquiring. We flirted. She'd poke my side and call me a "nerd in a cool jacket." I'd lean down and whisper that her glasses made her look like a very tempting librarian, which made her blush and swat my arm.
It was slow. It was goofy. It was a thousand tiny, ordinary moments strung together into the most extraordinary night of my life. With every shared laugh, every stolen glance captured in a whirring Polaroid, every pointless, greasy bite of "research," the fortress walls didn't just strengthen. They transformed. They were no longer just my grim, solitary construction. They were being decorated with her polaroids, lined with her laughter, their purpose reforged from sheer protection into the creation of a shared, joyful world.
And I, Haven Hartwell, obsessive monster and devoted wife, was happier than I had ever dreamed possible. Because for this one, perfect night, the cage was gone. We were just two women, in love, lost in a plastic paradise that had somehow become real.