Althea's POV :3
The thought hit me with the force of a revelation as I stumbled into the sunlit kitchen, drawn by the heavenly aroma of coffee and something savory. Another day, another yay.
Haven was already a vision of sleek, corporate readiness at the marble island, sipping espresso from a tiny porcelain cup, her tablet propped beside a plate of artistically arranged fruit and avocado toast. She was dressed in a crisp white turtleneck and a tailored black blazer and pants that seemed painted onto her form. She looked like a GQ cover model who'd come to repossess my soul. In the very best way.
I, on the other hand, was a sleepy gremlin in an oversized t-shirt that said "I Paused My Game To Be Here"a recent gift from Cassara that Haven had eyed with deep suspicion.
"Hmph," I grunted, shuffling over to press my forehead against her shoulder. "You didn't wake me. I wanted to witness the majestic process of Haven Hartwell transforming into a corporate siren."
She set her cup down with a soft click, a slow, private smile spreading across her face. It was the smile that still made my knees feel like over-cooked spaghetti. "But you were sleeping so peacefully, my love. I couldn't bear to interrupt the masterpiece of your drool on the pillow." She nudged a second plate toward me. "Eat. Then you can begin your own metamorphosis into the comeback queen."
I stuck my tongue out at her but obeyed, demolishing the perfectly crisp bacon with gusto. The nervous flutters from yesterday from my whispered confession and our negotiated dealwere still there, a persistent hum beneath my ribs. But they were now harmonized with a buzzing, electric excitement. Today was the day. I was doing this.
After breakfast, I took my time in the deep soaking tub, letting the steam and lavender-scented bubbles calm the last frayed edges of my nerves. What does one wear to formally re-enter one's own life? I settled on simple, intentional armor: a soft black cashmere turtleneck, a flowing, high-waisted skirt in charcoal gray that swished dramatically when I walked, my hair left down in its natural cascade of curls, and the final touch a pair of non-prescription glasses with thin gold frames. I peered at myself in the foggy mirror.
"Oh my god," I whispered to my reflection. "I look like a hot, slightly confused librarian who writes feminist folk ballads. I love it."
When I emerged, Haven was waiting by the grand front door, checking something on her phone. Sushi sat loyally at her feet, his tail thumping a slow rhythm on the polished floor. Haven's eyes swept over me, and for one breathtaking second, the cool CEO mask slipped, revealing pure, unadulterated heat. It was gone in a blink, replaced by a look of intense approval. "You look... formidable. Ready."
"You look like you're about to audit someone's dreams and find them deficient," I countered, eyeing her impeccable pantsuit. "Ugh, the corporate uniform. We bought you that gorgeous black dress last week. I want to see you in hotty woman stuff. In softness."
"The dress," she said, holding the door open for me, her scent of aged grape wine wrapping around me in the doorway, "as with many beautiful things, is for your eyes only." A faint, possessive smirk played on her lips. "And perhaps Sushi's. He seemed appreciative of the fabric when you were twirling."
I giggled, following her out into the crisp morning. "Fine. Keep your corporate armor. But look at us. We look like we're coupling. Intentionally. Black and white. Yin and yang. Chaos and... slightly less chaotic order."
"An eternally apt description," she murmured, ushering me into the back of the sleek town car her driver, John, had waiting.
As we pulled away from the curb, my excitement mingled with the familiar, low-grade tension that always accompanied car rides. My fingers found Haven's on the buttery leather seat between us. She didn't say anything, just turned her hand over to interlace our fingers, her grip firm and steady. My anchor. With her beside me, the phantom smell of gasoline and the echo of crunching metal stayed in the past where they belonged. I focused on the warmth of her hand, on the bright city passing by outside, on the mission.
Celestial Entertainment. One of the Hartwell family's crown jewels, run by Haven's half-sister, Angel. My pre-signing deep dive on my phone had given me the CliffsNotes: a rocky sibling history overshadowed by their father's legacy, Angel's beta status versus Haven's dominant alpha power, a whole inheritance drama that sounded like a particularly intense season of a corporate soap opera. The internet whispers said Angel had dated my late older brother, Theo, back in high school. A pang, distant and muffled, hit my chest at the thought of a brother I couldn't remember. I quickly shoved the thought aside. Slow, I reminded myself, hearing the doctor's warning echo. Trauma shaped the old you. Don't rush the ghosts. Today was about building a future, not excavating a grave.
The car slid to a smooth, silent stop in front of a glittering downtown skyscraper, its glass façade reflecting the sky. My stomach executed a perfect, tiny flip. Showtime.
The moment we stepped into the soaring, coolly air-conditioned lobby, the atmosphere shifted. A visible hush fell over the bustling space, followed by a wave of whispers that rippled out from our epicenter. Eyes. So many eyes. They flicked to me with sharp, unabashed curiosity, but they lingered on Haven with a complex mixture of awe, professional fear, and intense interest. She was a legend here, the prodigal daughter who'd walked away from a promised directorship to build her own empire, only to return today in a new, enigmatic role shadowing her wife. I squeezed her hand tighter. She squeezed back, a silent pulse: I'm here.
My manager, Dana, materialized from near the security desk like a beacon of cheerful, efficient energy in a bright cobalt blue dress. "Althea! Haven! So good to see you both!" She air-kissed my cheeks, her perfume a light citrus, and gave Haven a respectful, slightly more guarded nod. "Angel is waiting upstairs. The executive floor is all set. Shall we?"
As we crossed the vast marble floor toward the bank of private elevators, it was like parting the Red Sea of corporate ambition. "Ms. Hartwell." "Good morning, Ms. Hartwell." "A pleasure to see you, Ms. Hartwell." Each deferential greeting was met with nothing more than a slight, regal inclination of Haven's head, her expression impassive. The smiles they then hurriedly shot my way were... careful. Wary. Like they were trying to remember the protocol for smiling at a formerly venomous snake who might have had her fangs removed or might not have.
Once the elevator doors shushed closed, sealing us in a quiet, mirrored box with Dana, I couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Okay, real talk," I said, looking between Dana's professionally pleasant face and Haven's reflective, stoic one in the door. "Dana. Haven. Am I... was I really that scary? The old me? People out there look like they're waiting for me to critique their soul's aesthetic and find it lacking."
Dana's smile became diplomatic, polished smooth by years in the industry. "You were... a consummate professional. A perfectionist. Very focused on your craft. It commanded a great deal of respect!"
Haven, however, didn't look away from my reflection. "You were terrifying," she said bluntly, and a ghost of a proud, rueful smile touched her lips. "A magnificent, cruel tyrant in stilettos." Then she reached over and pinched my cheek, the gesture so at odds with the surroundings it made me jump. "Now you're just a magnificent tyrant who makes me eat pickle yogurt and wears silly socks."
"Hey!" I swatted her hand away, but a laugh bubbled out of me. The stark honesty, even about the painful past, felt infinitely better than vague, soothing platitudes. It was ours. Our shared, messy truth.
The executive floor was a realm of silent, moneyed calm. Plush carpet absorbed all sound. The walls were lined with expensive, abstract modern art. At the end of a long hallway, a woman stood waiting outside a set of double doors, her posture composed. Angel Hartwell.
She was beautiful in a sharp, calculated way shorter than Haven, with sleek, dark hair cut in a severe, chic bob that framed a face of weary intelligence. Her scent, as we got closer, was subtle and clean, a beta's neutral signature of ozone and sandalwood.
Her eyes, a lighter, warmer brown than Haven's fathomless eyes, found me first. A complicated flash of emotion recognition, a flicker of what looked like sadness, then swift professional appraisal crossed her features before settling into a polished, media-ready smile. "Althea. My God." Her voice was smooth, warmer than I'd anticipated from Haven's descriptions. "You look... you look so much like Theo. Just the feminine version. It's... remarkable." She reached out and gave my arm a brief, genuine squeeze, her gaze searching mine for a beat too long. "I'm so glad you're alright. When I heard about the accident... well, as the steward of one of my label's most valuable artists, I was worried for many, many reasons." She released me, the professional mask firmly back in place, though her eyes retained a glimmer of something personal. "I'm really, truly glad you're coming back to us."
Then her gaze shifted over my shoulder to Haven, who had moved to stand just behind me, a silent, imposing shadow. The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop by several degrees. "Hello, half-sister. Slumming it back on the family turf? Or are you just here to be your wife's... what was it? 'Second manager'?" Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "Leashing her career that closely? Some habits die hard, I see."
A masterclass in sibling shade, delivered with a razor-sharp smile. I held my breath.
Haven didn't flinch. She met Angel's gaze head-on, her own expression an unreadable mask of polished stone. "I'm here to ensure Althea's creative vision and personal well-being are aligned and protected at every step. The leash, as you so poetically call it, is mutual. And it's made of titanium." Her voice was calm, absolute, devoid of anger but brimming with an immovable finality. She'd parried the jab without breaking a sweat, stating a simple, unassailable fact.
Angel's smirk didn't fade, but it lost some of its cutting edge. She'd gotten her dig in, and Haven had acknowledged it only to render it meaningless. "Right. Well, welcome back to the madhouse. Come on in. Let's get the boring part over with so we can talk about the art."
Angel's office was a study in minimalist luxury and breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling city views. The contract, a formidable stack of paper, sat waiting on a low glass table between sleek sofas. Dana launched into a cheerful, practiced overview of the key points: a two-album commitment, generous royalty splits, robust marketing budgets, extensive creative control. It was a blur of percentages and legalese that made my eyes want to cross.
"Haven," I whispered, nudging her knee with mine under the table. "You read it. My brain sees that many consecutive words and suggests a strategic nap might be a better use of our time."
Without a word, Haven picked up the contract. She scanned each page with a speed that was almost inhuman, her sharp eyes missing nothing, her fingers occasionally tracing a line of text. Angel watched her from across the table, a look of reluctant professional respect on her face. After about ten minutes of intense silence broken only by the rustle of pages, Haven set the stack down with a definitive tap.
"The terms are more than fair," she announced, looking directly at me. "Substantially better than your previous deal in several key areas. The creative control clauses are particularly strong you have final say on producers, collaborators, artwork, and single selection." She then turned her head, her gaze locking onto Angel. "Dana and your legal team have done excellent work. It's a forward-thinking contract."
A flicker of surprise, then a wash of professional satisfaction, passed over Angel's features. The compliment, however grudgingly given, clearly meant something. "We want Althea's return to be a cultural triumph. For her, for her fans, and yes, for the label." She shifted her focus to me, steepling her fingers. "So, let's talk vision. Dana mentioned you're thinking of re-recording the archival material first. A 'Phoenix' project. What about the visuals? A lead single in this day and age needs a statement video. What's in that brilliant, newly-formatted mind of yours?"
This was it. My moment. I sat up straighter, smoothing my skirt. "I've been thinking about that a lot. I don't want a big, dramatic, plot-heavy video. Nothing with actors pretending to be us. I was thinking something more... intimate. Lyrical. Almost like a visual poem set to music."
I took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of Haven's intense focus on me like a physical warmth. "My concept is about a 'change of phase.' From the darker, more complex sonic landscapes of before to something... lighter. Truer. So, the video would be composed entirely of found footage and new shots. Polaroids coming to life. Super 8 film clips. Just... pieces of my new life. Sunlight through the kitchen window making patterns on the floor. Sushi being a glorious doofus in the garden. My blanket forts in the library. The steam rising from a teacup."
I turned then, my eyes finding Haven's. She was staring at me, utterly still, her dark eyes wide. "And... my muse. The center of this new life. You." I gave her a small, shy smile, my heart hammering. "It would be pictures of you. You working late, lit by the blue glow of your laptop. You smiling that tiny, real smile you think I don't see. You trying, and failing, to hide your grimace at my experimental cooking. You, patiently tuning my old guitar. Our quiet, domestic life. It's the truth of my second chance. It's the story I want to tell."
The room fell into a deep, profound silence. Dana looked utterly delighted, her hands clasped. Angel looked thoughtfully intrigued, her head tilted. Haven... Haven looked as though I'd just gently reached inside her chest and rearranged the architecture of her heart.
"Is that..." she began, her voice unusually quiet, rough at the edges, "...why you've been taking all those Polaroids of me? Of... us? For a week now?"
I nodded, my cheeks warming under her gaze. "Yeah. I've been building the video without even knowing it on my phone even before. You're my favorite subject. The light loves you."
Angel let out a low, appreciative chuckle, breaking the spell. "Well, well. Haven Hartwell, the ruthless hotelier and shadow mogul, as the muse for an indie-folk visual poem. The internet's collective head might just explode. I love it. It's fresh, it's authentic, it's got a built-in narrative the fans and the media will devour. 'The cold Songbird Finds Love, Art, and Herself in the Simple, Sunlit Moments.' It's perfect PR, but it also happens to be genuinely beautiful."
Haven was still looking at me, a storm of vulnerable, naked emotions swirling in her dark eyes wonder, a hint of fear, and a fierce, blazing pride. "You want to put... us? Our home? Our private life... out there? For everyone to see?"
"I want to put the beauty of us out there," I corrected softly, reaching for her hand on the sofa between us. "The quiet truth that makes me want to sing again. The safety that lets me create. Is that... is that okay with you?"
She was silent for a long moment, her fingers tightening around mine. Then she gave a single, slow, deliberate nod. "If it's what you truly want... if that is the story your heart needs to tell... then it's more than okay. It's an honor."
The rest of the meeting dissolved into a blur of excited logistics and planning. I signed the contract with a flourish that felt both silly and profoundly significant, the pen heavy in my hand. Althea Vale, recording artist. It was official. Althea Vale 2.0: Now With More Goofiness, a Titanium Leash, and a Devastatingly Hot Wife/Muse.
As we were finally leaving, the formalities complete, Angel walked us back to the elevator. "The paperwork will be processed by end of day. Dana will set up introductory sessions with a shortlist of producers we think would vibe with this new direction. Ethereal, but grounded. Think... atmospheric folk with modern electronic textures."
"That sounds amazing," I said, feeling a genuine spark of creative excitement.
Angel pressed the elevator button. "And Haven," she said, her tone shifting back to that familiar, needling edge, though it was softer now. "Try not to micromanage the cinematographer into an early retirement. Some of us in the industry still value creative freedom."
Haven's lip quirked. "I'll confine my management to budget, schedule, and security, Angel. The creative freedom is, as the contract states, entirely Althea's. I'm just here to ensure the environment for that freedom is... perfectly secure."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. As the doors closed, cutting off Angel's wry smile, I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The weight of the corporate atmosphere lifted from my shoulders. In the mirrored interior, I saw my own face flushed, bright-eyed, alive. I bounced on the balls of my feet, buzzing with kinetic energy.
"Haven!" I declared, grabbing her arm as we exited into the now-familiar lobby.
"Yes, my newly re-contracted, visionary love?"
"Take me on a date. Right now. To celebrate. A real, normal-people date."
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, transforming her stern beauty into something radiant. "Anywhere in particular, Commander?"
"The mall again but the regular one this time!" I announced, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space, drawing a few more glances. "The big, obnoxious, glittery one with the indoor fountain and the overpriced smoothie place. I want to be normal people who just signed a life-changing deal and now go celebrate by buying useless scented candles and trying on ridiculous hats."
She blinked, once. "The... mall."
"Yes! You, me, the great unwashed masses. It'll be an adventure in cultural immersion. You can practice your 'blending in with civilians' face. I believe it involves slightly glazed eyes and a relaxed jaw."
She sighed, the long-suffering, put-upon sigh I loved because it was always full of affection, and her eyes were sparkling with amusement. "As my principal client commands. To the temple of consumerism." She nodded to John, who was holding the car door open. "Change of plan, John. The Galleria, please."
The driver, a man of impeccable professionalism, coughed once, neatly disguising a laugh. "Of course, Mrs. Hartwell."
The Galleria was a sprawling, multi-level temple of controlled chaos a symphony of bright, artificial lights, pounding pop music, and the conglomerate smell of pretzels, perfume, and greasy food. Haven moved through the teeming crowd like a panther navigating a petting zoo, her body subtly positioned between me and the flow of traffic, her eyes constantly scanning, assessing, cataloging exits and potential threats. But she held my hand firmly in hers, and she didn't utter a single word of complaint.
We did it all. We got giant, neon-green smoothies that tasted vaguely of kiwi and confusion. I dragged her into a novelty gift shop and made her try on a pair of socks covered in tiny, embroidered sushi rolls. ("For Sushi's spiritually aware owner!" I insisted). I bought a large, overly packaged candle that claimed to smell of "Midnight Rainforest & Existential Clarity." The height of the adventure was when I convinced her to try on a ridiculously wide-brimmed, floppy sunhat in the middle of a department store's accessory section. She did it with such solemn, grave dignity, peering at herself in the mirror as if evaluating a hostile takeover target, that I had to lean against a rack of paisley blouses, wheezing with laughter.
"See?" I gasped, tears in my eyes as I adjusted the hat, which was comically large on her. "This is fun! You're having fun! Admit it!"
"I am experiencing a novel series of sensory and social inputs," she deadpanned, but the corners of her eyes were crinkling, and she was fighting a losing battle against a smile.
"That's mall-fun! Come on, I'm hungry again. Live dangerously. Food court."
We settled at a small, sticky table with a heaping, suspiciously generic plate of nachos drowned in neon-orange cheese. Watching Haven Hartwell, in her immaculate, thousand-dollar blazer, delicately pick up a single cheese-slathered chip with careful fingers, examining it briefly before taking a precise bite, was a spiritual experience I would treasure forever.
"Today was good," I said, licking salt from my thumb. "Really, really good."
"It was," she agreed, setting the chip down and wiping her fingers fastidiously with a paper napkin. Her gaze on me was soft, focused, the look she reserved only for our most private moments. "You were... radiant in that boardroom. You knew exactly what you wanted, and you articulated it with clarity and power. You weren't the old Althea, and you weren't a scared newcomer. You were something entirely new. And entirely compelling."
"I have a good muse," I said, kicking her foot playfully under the table. "And a surprisingly supportive, if snippy, sister-in-law/CEO."
"Angel respects success, artistic vision, and good business. And you presented a brilliant, emotionally resonant, and highly marketable concept. She'd support you if you proposed a double album exploring the existential angst of sentient houseplants."
I giggled, spinning my smoothie cup on the table. "Don't give me ideas." I grew quieter, the noise of the food court fading to a background hum. "Thank you. For reading the contract. For being my... titanium leash. For not freaking out about being my Polaroid boyfriend. For the nachos."
She reached across the sticky table and took my hand, ignoring the potential cheese contamination. Her grip was warm, sure. "Althea, the day you looked at me and asked me to be in your world your real, messy, beautiful, Polaroid-filled world was the day I stopped merely surviving and began living. Appearing in a music video is a trivial, insignificant price to pay for that gift." She brought my hand to her lips and kissed my knuckles, right there in the middle of the chaotic food court, amid the shrieking children and the beeping cash registers. "Now, can we please commence extraction from this sensory-overload zone before I develop a neurological event?"
I laughed, a bright, clear sound, and stood up, pulling her to her feet. "Yes. Extraction protocol activated. But I'm keeping the sushi socks for you. It's in my rider now."
"I would expect nothing less from my demanding star."
The drive home was peaceful, the city lights beginning to sparkle against the indigo dusk. I leaned my head against Haven's shoulder, breathing in her familiar, anchoring scent of grape wine and home. The ghost of the old Althea the sharp, feared, wounded songbird felt very far away. In her place was a woman with a signed contract in her bag, a pocketful of captured light on film, a shopping bag holding a regrettably-scented candle, and a heart so full of a goofy, glorious, consciously chosen future it felt like it might glow right through my cashmere turtleneck.
Another day, another yay. And this one, I thought with a deep, contented sigh, had been an absolute slay.
The following Tuesday morning found us back in the sleek town car, heading once more to the Celestial Sound tower. This time, it was for the official "welcome back" meetings and to begin producer discussions. The novelty had worn off slightly, replaced by a steadier, more professional anticipation. I was dressed in soft, wide-leg trousers and a silky camisole, my "artist in productive meetings" uniform. Haven was, of course, in another impeccable pantsuit, this one a deep charcoal gray.
The lobby experience was slightly different this time. The stares were still there, but they were quicker, more discreet. The greetings for Haven were still deferential, but the smiles aimed at me held a fraction less wariness, and a fraction more... curiosity? Perhaps news of the music video concept had trickled down. The "love story" narrative was evidently more palatable than the "terrifying diva" one.
Dana met us again, this time leading us not to the executive floor, but to a chic, creatively-decorated conference room on the artist development level. "We've got a few people from marketing and A&R joining to say a quick hello, and then I've lined up three producer calls for you this afternoon," she explained brightly. "Just to get a feel."
The meetings were a blur of friendly, eager faces young, stylish people who talked about "brand synergy" and "organic rollout" and "leveraging the narrative." I smiled and nodded, letting Haven and Dana handle most of the specifics. My job, I'd decided, was to be the vision. Theirs was to build the ship to carry it.
During a brief lull while Dana stepped out to fetch some updated schedule printouts, Haven and I were left alone in the conference room. I was sipping water, looking out at the view, when the door opened again. I expected Dana. It wasn't.
A woman stood in the doorway isn't she the one on that restaurant that I research in a few days? She still stunning, in a way that was aggressively polished long, hair cascading over one shoulder, a face of perfect, symmetrical beauty, dressed in a designer outfit that hugged every curve. Her scent hit me a second later: a cloying, expensive mix of jasmine and amber, an omega's scent, but one that felt... performed. Calculated.
My eyes flicked to Haven. Her entire body had gone preternaturally still. The relaxed posture she'd settled into was gone, replaced by a coiled tension so potent it charged the air. Her hand, which had been resting on the table near my notepad, slowly clenched into a fist, the knuckles bleaching white. The rich scent of grape wine from her spiked, sharp and protective, filling the space around me like a shield.
And then, something else happened. Something inside me shifted.
As I looked at that perfect, hateful smile, a flash of memory, bright and painful as a camera's burst, exploded behind my eyes.
The smell of rosin and old wood. A practice room at Juilliard. Laughter. My fingers, ink-stained, laced with hers long, elegant, manicured fingers. A shared sheet of music. A whispered nickname. "Thea."
It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving me dizzy.
"Well," the woman breathed, her voice a smooth, melodic purr that now sent a shiver of visceral recognition down my spine. A smile spread across her perfectly glossed lips, but it didn't reach her large, blue eyes. "Look what the cat dragged back in. Or should I say, what the leash dragged in."
She glided into the room, her gaze sliding over me with an appraisal that felt like being priced for auction. I felt a cold trickle of unease that was now laced with a terrible, dawning familiarity. My body, my instincts, knew. A phantom chord of dissonance vibrated in my chest, tuning itself to a forgotten key.
"Janea," Haven said. Her voice was low, flat, devoid of all inflection. A warning in a single word that vibrated with a history I was just beginning to taste.
"Haven," the woman Janea replied, the name dripping with a false sweetness that curdled in the air. "Guarding your treasure, I see. Some things never change." She finally turned the full force of her attention to me. The smile remained, plastic and fixed. "And Althea. Or should I call you Thea? It's been an age. How have you been, darling? We've all been so worried."
Thea. The old nickname, thudded into my stomach like a stone. This woman didn't just know the old me. She had held me.
Another flash, sharper this time: A rainy street in New York, neon signs blurring through tears. Her face, beautiful and twisted with anger. My voice, raw, saying, "It's over, Janea. It has to be." Her hand letting go of mine, the connection snapping with a finality that hurt my bones. It was just a summer thing I said coldly.
I never really worried about it when I researched her before but now the memories I'm confused
I gasped, a small, involuntary sound. Haven's head whipped toward me, her eyes wide with alarm. Janea's smile deepened, satisfied.
I felt Haven's rigid stillness beside me, the storm of silent fury rolling off her. My own instincts, the dominant omega core of me that had been sleeping beneath the amnesia, didn't just stir it woke up, bristling with a defensive hostility that was ancient and personal. I hated this woman. I hated her scent, her smile, the possessive glint in her eye as she looked at what was mine.
I straightened up in my chair, the movement automatic, a posture from another life. I met her eye gaze levelly, and this time, the calm in my voice wasn't manufactured. It was cold. "I'm well, thank you," I said, each word precise. "Recovering. Rebuilding. It's... interesting to see the agency signing such a diverse range of talent." I deliberately did not use her name, did not return the false familiarity. I dismissed her.
Janea's polished smile flickered. The barb about her being mere "talent" landed. "Rebuilding. How... quaint. And so brave." She took another step closer, the cloud of jasmine and amber intensifying, making my stomach turn. "I heard a rumor you were re-signing. Signing your life away again. I just had to come see for myself. And to offer my... congratulations. We're label-mates again, it seems. I signed an exclusive deal with Celestial just last month. Angel is simply thrilled to have us both under one roof. Like old times."
The air grew thinner. Haven hadn't moved, but her scent was now a veritable wall, a fortress of aged wine and dark promise aimed directly at Janea. I could see the muscle in her jaw working.
"Old times," I repeated, my voice hollow. The words triggered another cascade: My phone buzzing incessantly on a nightstand. Dozens of texts lighting up the screen. Pleading, angry, desperate messages from a number labeled with a Janea heart emoji. The feeling of being hunted, smothered. Ignoring, archiving the text, my hands shaking.
I blinked, pushing the memory back. They were just fragments, but they painted a clear, ugly picture.
"Mmm," Janea hummed, her eyes glinting with a malice she couldn't fully hide. "Though I suppose things are different now. You have your... full-time guardian. And I hear your new material is so... domestic. How charming. The Songbird of a generation, now singing lullabies about laundry and gardening. The fans will be fascinated by the... shift in priorities."
It was a direct, elegant attack on my artistry, on my choices, on the life Haven and I were building. Delivered with a sympathetic tilt of the head that made me want to scream.
Before I could formulate a response, before the hot, defensive anger could fully form on my tongue an anger that felt old and deeply personal Haven moved.
It was just a shift a subtle leaning forward, a placing of her splayed hand flat on the table between me and Janea. It was a barrier, a claim, a wordless declaration of territory. Her voice, when it came, was so quiet it was almost more terrifying than a shout.
"Janea." Just the name again, but this time it was a command. A final one. "You've seen. You've... congratulated. Your presence is no longer required."
Janea finally looked at Haven, and for the first time, a crack appeared in her polished veneer. A flicker of genuine fear in her eyes, quickly masked by a sneer. "Still so possessive, Haven. Some might call it pathological. But fine. I have a session anyway. Far more demanding material to work on." She turned her saccharine smile back to me, and her gaze dropped to my left hand, to the platinum band on my finger. Her smile turned icy. "Ta-ta, Thea. Do take care of yourself. We wouldn't want any more... accidents, would we?"
The word hung in the air, laced with a new, horrifying ambiguity. Was it a threat? A reminder? A sick joke?
She turned on her heel and sauntered out, leaving behind a cloud of cloying jasmine and the chilling echo of her words.
The door hadn't fully clicked shut before I turned to Haven. My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My palms were slick with cold sweat. The flashes of memory were receding, but the emotional residue the fear, the guilt, the revulsion remained, thick and choking.
"Haven," I whispered, my voice trembling. I reached for her hand on the table. It was ice-cold, still clenched in a fist. "Who... who is she? Really?"
She opened her eyes. They were black with a rage so deep it stole my breath. But when they focused on me, the rage banked, replaced by a searing, protective anguish. "Janea Vance," she gritted out, the name like poison. "An actress and a musician. A socialite. A mediocre singer with excellent connections." She swallowed hard, the truth fighting its way out. "She was at Juilliard with you. A classmate."
The confirmation made my head spin. "And?"
Haven's gaze dropped to our hands. She looked torn, haunted. She didn't want to tell me. She wanted to spare me this. "Althea..."
"Tell me," I insisted, the command in my voice surprising both of us. "I remembered. Fragments. A practice room. The rain. Tell me."
A harsh, pained sound escaped her. She nodded, once, a gesture of surrender to the truth. "She was more than a classmate. You were... involved. For a while. Before me. It ended before we got together, but she never accepted it. She became... obsessive I think but that was the rumors said. You ended it because you said she was... draining. A black hole wrapped in pretty packaging."
My breath hitched. The memories, though patchy, aligned perfectly with her words. The feeling of being suffocated. The relief of breaking free.
The cold feeling in my stomach solidified into a block of ice. 'We wouldn't want any more accidents, would we?'
The door opened again. Dana bustled in, a sheaf of papers in her hand, her cheerful expression faltering as she sensed the frigid, traumatized tension in the room. "Oh! Everything alright? I just passed Janea Vance in the hall. She wasn't bothering you, was she? Angel specifically asked her to keep her distance during your onboarding weeks..."
Haven slowly withdrew her hand from under mine, the movement stiff. She was pulling her CEO mask back on, brick by brick, but the cracks of fury and fear were still visible beneath the surface. "It's handled," she said, her voice once more neutral, though it was strained to its breaking point.
Dana looked nervously between my pale face and Haven's controlled fury. "Right. Well, good. Um, Angel is ready to see you both now in her office. To finalize the producer shortlist and discuss the video treatment in more detail."
I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of water. The triumphant glow from the signing, from the mall, was gone, extinguished by a cloud of jasmine perfume, predatory smiles, and recovered memories that felt like shards of glass in my mind. I looked at Haven. The protective fury was a tangible force around her, but beneath it, I saw a new fear the fear of this ghost I'd just remembered, the fear of a past that was now reaching its cold fingers into our present.
But as her eyes met mine, I also saw the unwavering promise. The titanium-leash promise, now facing its first real test.
Nothing gets through me. Not even your past.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to anchor myself in the scent of grape wine, in the solid reality of her. I had a music video to plan. A comeback to build. A life to live. And I had a beautiful, terrible monster who had fought this particular ghost once before, standing between me and the venom of my own history.
I reached for her hand again. This time, her grip was crushing, a silent vow etched in pressure, a tether to the present. "Okay," I said, my voice small but firm. "Let's go see Angel."
But as we walked down the hall, the ghost of Janea Vance walked with us, her perfume lingering in my nose, her threat echoing in my ears, and the shattered pieces of a forgotten relationship I'd once fled now scattered at my feet, sharp and dangerous.