Althea's POV
"Okay, so today's agenda is: producers, editors, maybe some sound engineers, and absolutely no freaking out about being in a building full of people who knew the scary version of me. Easy peasy."
I was giving myself a pep talk in the passenger seat of Haven's sleek black car, tapping my fingers nervously on my thighs. I was wearing what I'd decided was my "Creative Professional (Amnesiac Edition)" outfit: a soft peach cashmere sweater dress that made me feel like a sophisticated marshmallow, knee-high boots, and my trusty non-prescription glasses. Armor of fluff and confusion.
Haven glanced over from the driver's seat, her expression unreadable behind dark sunglasses. "You'll be perfect. Dana will be with you the entire time. And John will be waiting outside the entire time."
I peered at her. "You're not wearing your usual 'I'm about to conquer the corporate world' suit. Is this... a casual day for the mighty Haven Hartwell?"
She was dressed in black tailored trousers and a simple but undoubtedly expensive black silk blouse, her hair pulled back in a severe knot. She looked less like a CEO and more like... a very elegant, very dangerous art thief.
"I have emergency meetings at the Vale headquarters today. Otherwise, I would be with you." The way she said it made it sound like a sentence, a punishment she was enduring. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
"Aww, you'll miss me," I teased, trying to lighten the mood that had been tense since yesterday's Janea encounter.
"Every second," she replied, and it wasn't sweet. It was a stark, factual statement that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. "The car will feel empty. The office will feel hollow. The air will lack your scent. So yes. I will miss you. Profoundly."
"Okay, wow, that was... intense," I said with a nervous laugh. "It's just a few hours! I'll be singing sappy love songs about you to strangers. Think of it as spreading the gospel of your hotness."
A muscle ticked in her jaw. "Just be careful, Althea. Stay with Dana. If you feel... anything. A headache. A memory. A sense of unease. You call me. Immediately. You don't hesitate."
"I promise, Mama Bear," I said, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. The muscle there was rock-hard, tense. "It's just a music studio, not a war zone."
"You have no idea what it is," she murmured, almost to herself, as she pulled up to the curb at Celestial Sound.
She leaned over, and instead of a quick goodbye kiss, she gripped my chin, her touch firm, and claimed my mouth in a searing, possessive kiss that left me breathless and dizzy. It was a brand. A reminder.
"John is right there," she said, nodding to where our usual driver stood by the town car parked behind us. "He will bring you straight home after. No detours. Understood?"
"Understood, Commander," I squeaked, my lips still tingling.
I practically floated into the building on a cloud of confused hormones. The lobby was less hushed today, more bustling. People nodded at me with those careful, professional smiles. "Ms. Vale." I nodded back, trying to look like I knew what I was doing.
Dana found me near the elevators. "Althea! Bright and early! We have a great day. First, a quick coffee with the A&R team to finalize the single choice, then we'll meet the lead producer, Maya, she's amazing, very vibe-y, then..."
Her voice became background noise as I saw her. Janea Vance was across the lobby, talking animatedly to a man in a suit. She looked different today softer. Her hair was in a casual ponytail, and she wore stylish jeans and a blazer. Less predator, more… colleague.
As if sensing my stare, she looked over. Her blue eyes widened, and then she offered a small, tentative smile. She excused herself from the man and started walking toward me. My heart did a weird little flip-flop of panic and… curiosity.
"Althea," she said, her voice warm, lacking yesterday's purring edge. "Good morning."
"Janea," I said, my voice neutral. Dana hovered nervously beside me.
"I just wanted to… apologize for yesterday," Janea said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. A surprisingly vulnerable gesture. "I came on way too strong. I was just… God, it was so shocking and amazing to see you again after everything. I got overexcited. I know my distance. I promise."
The earnestness in her eyes threw me. The memory flashes from yesterday the practice room, the rainy breakup were still jumbled, emotional shards without context. Maybe I'd misinterpreted. Maybe the "accident" comment was just clumsy concern from someone who'd once cared about me.
"It's… okay," I said slowly. "It was a lot. For me, especially."
"Of course," she said, her expression softening with what looked like genuine sympathy. "I can't even imagine. I've just been so worried. Since the accident. We all were." She reached out as if to touch my arm but stopped herself. "When I said that thing yesterday… about not wanting another accident… I just meant I was worried about you pushing yourself too fast. That's all. I'm sorry if it came out wrong."
The logic was so reasonable. It deflated my suspicion like a punctured balloon. Maybe Haven's obvious hatred for Janea was coloring my perception. They had history, after all. Bad history. Haven would see a villain in anyone from that part of my past.
"No, it's… thank you. For being worried," I said, feeling strangely guilty for my earlier dread.
"I have a session now, but… I'm glad you're alright, Althea. Truly. It's good to have you back." She gave me one last, small smile. "See you around."
She walked away, her scent of jasmine and amber fading. I stared after her, thoroughly confused.
"You okay?" Dana asked quietly.
"Yeah," I said, shaking my head. "Just… trying to recalibrate. Lead on!"
The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of creative energy that pushed all thoughts of Janea and Haven's intensity to the back of my mind. Maya, the producer, was a genius with a riot of curly hair and sleeves of tattoos. She didn't treat me like a fragile amnesiac or a returning diva, but like an artist.
"Okay, hit me with the vision," she said, cross-legged on a studio couch.
I took a deep breath. "I found these old lyrics. From when I was a teenager. They're… all about Haven. My 'heaven.' But they're from a place of longing, of distance. I want to re-record them from where I am now. Not longing, but… home. Found."
Maya's eyes lit up. "I love that. A conversation with your past self. What are the songs?"
I handed her my notebook. "These four. 'Catch Me.' 'Mysterious Ways.' 'Tell Me Where It Hurts.' And 'My Only One.'"
She read through them, humming snippets. "These are gorgeous. Thematically tight all about pursuit, devotion, healing. 'Catch Me' is playful, a challenge. 'Mysterious Ways' is sensual, spiritual. 'Tell Me Where It Hurts' is pure empathy, a love letter. 'My Only One' is the vow." She looked up. "This is an album, Althea. A cohesive, romantic, refreshing story. Let's start with 'My Only One' as the anchor single. It's the resolution."
Relief and excitement bubbled in my chest. "Yes! That's the one I keep humming."
We spent the next few hours in a soundproof booth with a sound engineer named Leo. I sang snippets, experimenting with my voice. The old muscle memory was there the breath control, the pitch but the emotion was new. Lighter. Full of wonder instead of ache.
When I sang the chorus of "You, turned me inside out and you showed me. What life was about. Only you, the only one that stole my heart away.…" I wasn't thinking of teenage angst. I thought of Haven's sleeping face, of Sushi's wagging tail, of sunlight in our kitchen. Maya gave me a thumbs-up from the other side of the glass, her smile wide.
"It's there," she said when I came out. "That new color in your voice. It's hope. It's beautiful."
By the time we broke for lunch, I was buzzing. This was real. I was doing it. And I wanted to share this feeling with Haven immediately. The plan to surprise her at her office crystalized. She'd been so dark and intense this morning; she needed some of this light.
I told Dana and John I was feeling tired and wanted to go home to rest. A little white lie. "John, could you take me home, please?" I asked, sliding into the back of the town car.
"Of course, Mrs. Vale," he said, ever professional.
As we pulled away, I leaned forward. "Actually, John, change of plan. Take me to Vale Hotels & Resorts headquarters. I want to surprise Haven."
I saw his eyes flicker to the rearview mirror, a hint of hesitation. "Ms. Hartwell's schedule is very"
"Please? It'll be a nice surprise. I won't stay long." I gave him my best, most convincing smile.
He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. "As you wish, Mrs. Vale."
The Vale headquarters was a monolithic tower of steel and glass my family owned this, a testament to ruthless efficiency. It screamed Vale that I barely remember. The moment I stepped into the vast, cold marble lobby, a different kind of hush fell. It wasn't the wary curiosity of Celestial Sound; it was pure, unadulterated awe… directed at me.
Every person in a suit stopped walking. Eyes widened. Phones were lowered. And then, as if choreographed, they began to bow. Not a nod. A slight, respectful dip of the head and shoulders.
"Mrs. Vale."
"Welcome, Mrs. Vale."
"An honor, Mrs. Vale."
It was a wave of deference rolling toward me. I stood frozen, my goofy surprise plan crumbling under the weight of this bizarre royal treatment. What in the actual fvck? The old me had never set foot here, I was sure of it. This was for the wife of the CEO. For Haven's possession.
A young, anxious-looking lobby assistant practically scurried over. "Mrs. Vale! Welcome! We weren't informed of your visit. Is everything alright? Does Ms. Hartwell expect you?"
"No, it's a surprise," I managed to say, my voice sounding small. "I just wanted to… see her office."
The assistant looked like I'd said I wanted to tour a nuclear reactor. "O-of course. Right this way. She's in. I'll take you up."
The elevator ride to the penthouse executive floor was silent and incredibly fast. The doors opened onto a corridor of silent, oppressive luxury. The assistant led me to a set of imposing double doors at the end. "Her private office," he whispered, as if we were entering a shrine.
He was about to knock when the door swung open from the inside.
The person who emerged wasn't Haven.
It was Emara Vale-Sinclair. My cousin. The leech. The one who had been blatantly flirting with Haven at the restaurant weeks ago or a month ago? I don't know I don't care about this woman.
She looked impeccable, as always, in a sharp cream pantsuit. Her eyes, so like mine yet so cold, landed on me. A slow, cat-like smile spread across her perfectly painted lips. There was no surprise in her gaze. Only a knowing, mocking amusement.
"Well, well," she purred. "Look what the cat dragged in. The little songbird, flying far from her gilded cage. How… unexpected."
My earlier confusion curdled into something sharp and unpleasant. "Emara. What are you doing here?"
"Oh, just discussing some family business with dear Haven," she said, her gaze flicking over my shoulder to the terrified assistant. "She's been so… attentive lately. Since my return from Singapore." She leaned in slightly, her whisper meant for my ears only. "That night at the restaurant? Just the beginning, darling. Some connections… deepen."
She pulled back and winked at me. A slow, deliberate wink that felt like a slap.
Then she was gone, clicking down the hall on her stilettos, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume and searing questions in her wake.
The lobby assistant looked like he wanted to vanish into the marble. "Sh-shall I announce you, Mrs. Vale?"
"No," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I'll do it."
I pushed the heavy door open.
Haven's office was a study in imposing power. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a terrifying, beautiful view of the city below. Everything was monochromatic shades of black, grey, and steel. A massive, raw-edged obsidian desk dominated the room. And behind it, sitting not in the chair but perched on the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other, was Haven.
She was reading a tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration. On the desk beside her, next to a half-eaten salad, lay a small, ornate box a souvenir from Singapore. Emara's souvenir.
She hadn't heard me come in. For a few seconds, I just watched her. The ruler in her kingdom. The architect of my world. The woman who had just been visited by my flirtatious cousin, who had a souvenir from her on display.
Then, as if sensing the disruption in her controlled atmosphere, she looked up.
Her eyes met mine.
Every calculation, every cold business thought, evaporated from her face. It was replaced by pure, unguarded shock. Then, something else a hunger so vast and desperate it stole the air from the room.
She was off the desk and across the room in a heartbeat. Her movements were silent, predatory. She didn't say a word. Her hands came up to frame my face, her touch reverent and terrifying in its intensity. Her dark eyes searched mine, scanning for hurt, for fear, for anything wrong.
Then she pulled me into her, crushing me against the black silk of her blouse. I was enveloped in the overwhelming scent of grape wine, now tinged with something raw and wild. Her arms were iron bands around my back, one hand fisting in the material of my dress as if to anchor me to the spot, the other cradling my head.
It wasn't a hug. It was a reclamation.
She buried her face in my hair, and I felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling my strawberry-vanilla scent as if it were oxygen after years underwater. Her whole body trembled, a fine, constant vibration against mine.
I stood there, wrapped in her silent, desperate possession, in an office that felt like a throne room of shadows, the ghost of my cousin's wink and perfume still hanging in the air, and the dizzying high of my musical morning a distant memory.
HAVEN'S POV
Fuck.
The word was a constant, rhythmic beat in my skull, syncing with the frantic pulse of my blood. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I needed to be at the office for a genuine emergency a coordinated smear campaign by a rival chain, allegations of safety violations in three Asian properties that needed my personal, brutal attention. But it felt like a cosmic joke. A cruel diversion.
My true emergency was across the city, walking into a den of serpents wearing peach cashmere.
I drove her there, my senses stretched so thin I could taste the anxiety in the air. Every red light was a personal affront. Every pedestrian was a potential threat. The grape wine scent of my own distress filled the car, a silent scream.
When she got out, the sunlight caught her hair, and the urge to lock the doors and drive her straight back to our fortress, to bury us both under the mountain of our wealth and never let the light find us again, was a physical ache.
I left John with explicit, horrifying instructions. You do not let her out of your sight. You follow her if she leaves the building. You call me if she so much as breathes differently. You are her shadow. If you fail, you will spend the rest of your life wishing you had merely ceased to exist.
He'd paled but nodded. He understood the currency of my threats. They were not bluff.
The Vale headquarters was my kingdom of cold logic. Today, it felt like a prison. I stalked into my office, the weight of the building, of my empire, doing nothing to anchor the chaos inside me.
I dealt with the emergencies. I issued commands that would ruin careers and bankrupt companies. I spoke with lawyers in Tokyo and security chiefs in Bangkok, my voice flat and lethal. All the while, a part of my brain was in a silent, white-hot panic. Althea. Althea. Althea.
Lunchtime came. I had no appetite. Instead, I opened the secure, encrypted feed on my Laptop. The one linked to the cameras in Dana's office, in the main conference rooms at Celestial Sound, in the hallway outside the studio.
There she was.
My Althea. In a room with Maya Flores. Smiling. Laughing. She looked… luminous. Happy. Without me.
A vicious, possessive pride warred with a jealousy so profound it tasted like bile. That joy was mine. I facilitated it. I allowed it. And yet, it existed in a space I did not currently occupy. It was intolerable.
I watched her sip water. I watched her tuck a curl behind her ear. I watched the pulse in her throat. My thumb stroked the cold glass of the Laptop screen, over the image of her cheek.
Then, the door to the room opened.
Janea Vance walked in.
My body went cold. A static void consumed all sound. On the screen, I saw Althea tense, saw Dana step closer. I saw Janea speak, her body language all false contrition. I saw Althea's face soften, the suspicion melting into confused acceptance.
No. No, you stupid, beautiful, perfect creature. Don't believe her. See the snake. See it!
I wanted to shatter the tablet. I wanted to call her, to roar down the phone, to tell her to get out, to run. But I couldn't. I had to watch. I had to witness the viper charming my songbird.
Janea left. Althea carried on with her meeting, seemingly lighter. The betrayal was exquisite. She had accepted an apology from that creature. The one who had whispered poison in her ear for years, who had seen my obsession and tried to mimic it with her pathetic, parasitic fixation.
The rest of the meeting was agony. I watched her sing. The sound came through tinny and distant, but I saw the shape of the words on her lips. My only one. The song was for me. It was about me. It was a claim she was making publicly. And yet, she had smiled at Janea.
The cognitive dissonance was a white-hot blade twisting in my gut.
A knock at my office door tore me from the feed. "Enter," I snapped, not looking up, assuming it was Liam with more documents.
The scent that wafted in was not Liam's bland beta neutrality. It was cloying scent and ambition.
Emara.
I looked up slowly, letting the full, glacial weight of my displeasure settle on her. She stood there, a simpering smile on her face, dressed like she was here for a board meeting or a seduction. Perhaps both.
"Haven," she breathed, slinking in without invitation. "I just got back from Singapore. I missed you so much. It's been weeks. The company just shipped me off, but thankfully there was some Sinclair business to attend to as well." She pouted, a practiced, pretty expression. "I do miss you, my Haven. That night… before you left so abruptly… it was magnificent. The date, the food you made… incredible."
I remembered that night. Condo. Her clumsy, drunken advances. My own calculated tolerance, Drugged her and made my Doppelganger do stuff to her made her confess about althea's accident, to stoke her what she knew about what happened had been completed. The tool was now obsolete.
"Emara," I said, my voice devoid of the warmth she so desperately sought. "You shouldn't be here. My schedule is not for social calls."
She flinched but pressed on, placing a small, lacquered box on the corner of my desk. "A souvenir. For you. From Singapore."
I didn't even glance at it. "Take it with you when you leave."
Her smile finally cracked, revealing the spoiled, grasping creature beneath. "You're so cold today. After everything…"
"After everything, what, Emara?" I finally looked directly at her, and I let her see it the utter emptiness, the complete lack of regard. "There is no 'everything.' There is business and that night was just a fleeting thing. And there is my wife. You are neither. The door is behind you."
The color drained from her face. She opened her mouth, closed it, left her stupid box, and fled, her scent soured with humiliation and rage.
Good. Let her tell the family. Let them all know. Althea was my only axis. Everything else was orbital debris.
The door clicked shut. Silence descended, broken only by the faint, tinny sound of Althea's voice from my tablet's speaker. She was saying goodbye to Maya. She was leaving.
I watched the feed switch to the lobby camera. She was talking to John. Getting into the car. The car pulled away. Heading… not toward home. The trajectory was wrong.
My breath hitched. I pulled up the GPS tracker on her phone, the one she didn't know was nested deep in her operating system, layered under a dozen benign apps. The blip was moving. Toward me.
it was a clip like 30 minutes ago? is she near now
A shock, electric and painful, shot through my nervous system. She was coming here? Now? After seeing Janea? After smiling at her?
Panic and a delirious, overwhelming hunger collided. She was invading my territory. Voluntarily. She was seeking me out. The need to see her, to touch her, to verify she was real and whole and mine after the psychological warfare of watching her on screen, became a biological imperative.
I tried to compose myself. I picked up my tablet, pretending to read, a pathetic pantomime of normalcy. My heart was a wild animal slamming against my ribs. Every nerve ending was exposed.
The door opened again.
I knew it was her before I looked up. The air changed, sweetened, warmed. The strawberry-vanilla scent hit me like a narcotic.
I looked up.
There she stood, in the doorway, backlit by the sterile hallway lights, a vision in soft peach amidst my world of hard edges and darkness. Her expression was a turbulent sea of confusion, hurt, and lingering joy from her creative morning. And she was here. In my lair.
The tablet fell from my numb fingers, clattering on the obsidian desk.
I was moving before I thought, crossing the room in strides that felt both too fast and an eternity. My hands rose, drawn to her face like planets to a sun. The feel of her skin under my palms warm, alive, here was a sacrament.
I saw the questions in her eyes. About Emara. About the bowing employees. About my world. But in that moment, none of it mattered. Only this. Only her.
I pulled her into me, crushing her against my body. I inhaled the scent of her hair, her skin, letting it scour the vileness of Janea, the annoyance of Emara, the sterile cold of my empire from my lungs. I trembled, a violent, uncontrollable reaction. The relief was so acute it was agony.
I held her, this miraculous, fragile, confusing creature who held my sanity in her small hands. I held her in the heart of the machine I had built, a machine designed to control everything. And I knew, with a certainty that was both my salvation and my curse, that I would burn it all down the empire, the city, the world if it meant keeping her safe in my arms for one more second.
The cage was of my making. The silk threads of my obsession, the steel bars of my protection. And she had just walked, of her own free will, right into the center of it.
My lips were against her hair, my whisper a raw, broken vow only she could hear.
"Mine."