ALTHEA'S POV
I woke up slowly, my body a pleasant symphony of aches and warmth. My cheek was pressed against soft, buttery leather, and the air was thick with the scent of… us. Grape wine and strawberry vanilla, mixed together in a heady, intimate perfume that lingered in Haven's office like a secret.
I blinked, stretching on the massive, undoubtedly insanely expensive designer couch where we'd… well, where Haven had thoroughly distracted me from all my thoughts earlier. A blanket I didn't remember grabbing was draped over me. I sat up, my dress a rumpled heap on the floor nearby. Right. Operation Surprise Wife had taken a very… hands-on turn.
A giddy, post…everything… smile spread across my face. The jealousy with Emara, the royal treatment in the lobby it all felt fuzzy and distant compared to the visceral memory of Haven's arms around me, the desperate way she'd held on.
I spotted my clothes, neatly folded on a low table. Next to them was a crisp, white dress shirt of Haven's. Grinning, I padded over, slipped it on, and buttoned it up. It swallowed me whole, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem hitting me mid-thigh. It smelled like her clean linen, expensive ink, and that underlying richness of her alpha scent. I felt ridiculously cozy and claimed.
I followed the low hum of a computer fan toward the open door of what I assumed was a private bathroom or closet. Peeking in, I saw Haven at a small, sleek desk inset into a wall of cabinets, staring intently at a large monitor. She'd changed into grey lounge pants and a simple black tank top, her hair down and slightly messy. She looked less like a CEO and more like a gorgeous, focused hacker in a movie.
She must have sensed me. Her eyes flicked from the screen to me, and a slow, possessive grin transformed her stern features. "Look at you. Wearing my clothes should be a crime. It's too distracting for the general public."
"Good thing we're not in public," I said, shuffling over. I saw my bra and underwear, also neatly folded, next to a new, still-packaged set of luxurious-looking ivory silk underwear on the desk. I blushed, the memories of how my clothes had ended up scattered flooding back.
"I had Liam procure a new set," she said, following my gaze. Her voice was a low rumble. "In case you were… uncomfortable."
"Liam knows?" I squeaked, mortification heating my face.
"Liam knows his employment and continued well-being depend on his profound discretion and selective blindness," she said evenly, turning back to her screen. "He procured them from the boutique downstairs without asking questions."
Of course there was a boutique downstairs. This place probably had a secret tunnel and a helipad too.
I quickly changed into the new underwear, the silk cool and whisper-soft against my skin, then pulled my clothes back on over it, feeling slightly more assembled. I left Haven's shirt on over it, rolling the sleeves up. It was my armor now.
I walked back to her, a mission in mind. She was typing something, her brow furrowed. I didn't say a word. I just carefully climbed onto her lap, sideways, and buried my face in the curve of her neck. She smelled like sweat, sex, and home. I nuzzled there, breathing her in, a contented hum vibrating in my throat. I felt her tense for a second, then a deep sigh of surrender moved through her. One arm came around my waist, anchoring me, while her other hand continued to type slowly.
I stayed like that for a long time, just listening to the click of the keyboard and the steady, strong beat of her heart. The world outside this obsidian tower, with its Janea's and Emera's, ceased to exist. There was only this warmth, this safety.
Then, a mischievous thought struck. I shifted slightly and flicked my tongue against the sensitive skin of her neck, just below her ear.
Her fingers stuttered on the keys. "Althea," she said, her voice a strained whisper. "That tickles."
I did it again, adding a tiny, playful nip.
"Althea." This time it was a warning, but it was wrapped in a laugh.
I pulled back, framing her face with my hands. Her dark eyes were sparkling with amusement and a heat that promised retribution. "How dare you focus on your work," I pouted, mock-offended. "I'm right here. Your living, breathing, very distracting wife is on your lap, and you're reading about… hotel linen acquisition costs?"
"Supply chain vulnerabilities in the Egyptian cotton market, actually," she murmured, her hands sliding up my back under the oversized shirt. "But you're right. It pales in comparison."
"Hmph," I said, and then I kissed her.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a reclaiming. A pay attention to me kiss. I poured all the giddy joy from my studio session, all the confused hurt from seeing Emara, all the overwhelming love she stirred in me, into it. Her response was immediate and total. The arm around my waist tightened, pulling me flush against her. Her other hand came up to tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. The computer was forgotten.
When we finally broke apart, panting, foreheads pressed together, I was dizzy. "See?" I whispered, breathless. "Better than Egyptian cotton."
"Infinitely," she rasped. Her eyes were black with desire. "But I really do need to finish reviewing this. It's the last thing. Then we can go home."
"And if I don't want to wait?" I challenged, wiggling on her lap for emphasis.
Her hand slid from my back to grip my thigh, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh. "Then I might be forced to take you right here on this desk," she said, her voice dropping to a sinful, low register. "And show you what happens to beautiful distractions who interrupt critical risk assessments."
A shiver of pure, wanton anticipation went through me. "Is that a challenge, Ms. Hartwell?"
"Maybe," she purred, her thumb making slow circles on my inner thigh.
"You're insatiable," I breathed, playfully punching her shoulder.
She chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Careful, Althea." Her gaze swept over me, taking in her shirt swallowing my frame, my flushed face, my kiss-swollen lips. "You're the one who walked into my office looking like a beautifully rumpled, forbidden dream. If I'm insatiable, it's only because I have exceptionally expensive taste… and I'm currently looking at my favorite investment. The ROI is… unparalleled."
I burst out laughing. "You did not just compare me to a financial investment during a seduction attempt!"
"It was a compliment!" she argued, grinning. "High-value, exclusive, requires constant and attentive management…"
I kissed her again to shut her up. It worked for about thirty seconds before her hands got ambitious and the risk assessment was very, very thoroughly interrupted.
Later, as I re-dressed (again), feeling pleasantly boneless, Haven efficiently straightened the desk, wiping it down with a cloth from a discreet drawer. She erased all physical evidence with the calm precision of a crime scene cleaner, which was both hot and slightly terrifying. My powerful, obsessive wife, tidying up after our quickie.
When we finally left her sanctum, it was past 6 PM. The executive floor was quiet, but as we walked to the elevator, a few late-working staff appeared. The reaction was the same: a brief, stunned pause, then a respectful lowering of eyes. "Ms. Hartwell. Mrs. Vale." Holding Haven's hand, I felt like a queen consort walking beside her emperor.
And then I saw her. Emara. She was standing by a water cooler near the elevator banks, pretending to take a drink. Her eyes, cold and sharp as broken glass, were fixed on our joined hands. A slow, bitter smirk touched her lips before she looked away.
My own grip on Haven's hand tightened. Take that, you leech, I thought with a surge of petty, triumphant satisfaction. She's mine. She always will be.
Haven didn't even glance Emara's way. She simply pressed the elevator button, her focus entirely on me. "Tired?" she asked softly.
"A good kind of tired," I admitted, leaning into her as the doors closed.
John was waiting with the car. The drive home was quiet, comfortable. I rested my head on Haven's shoulder, watching the city lights blur past. The domestic normalcy of it was a sweet balm after the intense, surreal drama of the day.
Home. Sushi's ecstatic, wiggling greeting in the foyer. Mrs. Li's polite smile. Haven dismissed her for the evening with a quiet thanks.
"I'll cook," Haven announced, already heading for the kitchen, shedding her blazer on the way.
"You cook? After your… strenuous afternoon of management?" I teased, following her.
"Cooking is therapeutic. And you need proper sustenance." She opened the massive stainless steel refrigerator. "No more studio snack food."
I hopped up on my favorite spot on the kitchen island counter and took pictures with my phone, watching as she transformed from ruthless CEO to domestic goddess. She moved with the same lethal efficiency, but now it was directed at shallots, garlic, and a bundle of fresh herbs. She poured a glug of olive oil into a pan, and the kitchen began to fill with the most amazing smells.
Sushi parked himself at my feet, drooling hopefully. As Haven expertly chopped some prosciutto into thin ribbons for a carbonara, I couldn't resist. I snuck a piece and dropped it for him. He inhaled it with a happy snorf.
"Althea," Haven said without turning around. "You are undermining my authority with the dog."
"I'm sharing the wealth!" I protested, sneaking a tiny cube of parmesan for him next.
"He has a precisely measured, nutritionally balanced dinner that will be served at 7:30 PM. You are creating a beggar." She did turn then, fixing me with a mock-stern look. But her eyes were soft.
"He's not begging, he's… politely observing the culinary arts," I said, scratching behind his ears. "And maybe providing moral support."
She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips, and went back to whisking eggs and cheese into a creamy sauce. In another pan, seared scallops rested beside a vibrant pea and mint puree. It was insane. She was making a fancy restaurant meal in like, twenty minutes.
Soon, we were seated at the cozy breakfast nook instead of the formal dining room. Candles were lit. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers. It was impossibly romantic.
"So," Haven said, twirling pasta onto her fork. "Tell me about your day. The musical part. Before the… surprise inspection."
I lit up, all the excitement from the studio rushing back. "It was amazing, Haven. Maya, the producer, she's so cool. She loved the songs. We're thinking of making 'My Only One' the lead single. And I sang! Like, properly, in a booth. It felt… right. Like my voice knew what to do, even if my brain doesn't remember the training." I took a bite of the carbonara. It was divine. "Oh my god, this is stupidly good."
A look of profound satisfaction crossed her face. "Good." She listened as I babbled about microphone techniques and lyrical themes, her gaze never leaving me. "And Janea?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
I paused, my fork hovering. "She… apologized. She said she was just overexcited to see me, worried about the accident. That she didn't mean anything weird by her comment yesterday." I chewed thoughtfully. "Maybe… maybe I overreacted? The memories I got were just fragments. Feelings. Maybe she was just a messy ex and not a… viper."
Haven was silent for a long moment, staring at her plate. When she looked up, her eyes were dark pools. "Do you trust me, Althea?"
"With my life," I answered instantly, without thought.
"Then trust me when I tell you that Janea Vance is a poison. Her apology is a tactic. Her concern is a hook. The woman you remembered breaking up with in the rain—you did that for a reason. A good one. Don't let her rewrite your history, or compromise your present." She reached across the table and took my hand. "Your instinct to be wary was correct. Don't let her lull you into dropping your guard."
The intensity of her warning was a cold splash of reality. But it was grounded in protectiveness, not just jealousy. "Okay," I said softly, squeezing her hand. "I trust you. I'll be careful."
"Good." She brought my hand to her lips and kissed it. "Now, tell me more about this music video. Do I have to wear something other than black?"
I laughed, the tension breaking. "We'll negotiate. Maybe a dark charcoal. As a treat."
After dinner, we migrated to the giant sectional in the living room, a tangled pile of limbs, cashmere throw blankets, and one happily snoozing golden retriever. Haven was leaning against the armrest, and I was sprawled half on top of her, my head on her chest.
"Today was weird," I mumbled into her shirt.
"Mmm," she agreed, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm.
"Your employees bow. It's creepy."
"It's respect."
"It's feudal. Do they bring you tributes of grain and sheep?"
She chuckled, the sound vibrating through me. "Quarterly reports and market analyses. It's the modern equivalent."
"And Emara?" I couldn't help but ask, tilting my head to look at her.
Her hand stilled. "Emara is irrelevant. A gnat. She came to stir trouble, because that is what she does. She left understanding her place, which is nowhere near us." Her voice was final, leaving no room for argument.
"She winked at me. It was aggressive."
"She's lucky that's all she did," Haven murmured, and there was a chilling edge to it that made me both shudder and feel protected. "Forget her. Think about your songs. 'Catch Me.' Is that about me chasing you?"
I grinned, snuggling closer. "Maybe. Or maybe it's about me daring you to keep up. 'Mysterious Ways' is maybe about you being all enigmatic and hot and confusing."
"I am not confusing."
"You're a human cryptogram wrapped in a Gucci suit. But I'm getting better at decoding you." I poked her stomach.
She caught my finger. "Oh? And what does this decode to?" She kissed the tip of my finger.
"That decodes to 'Haven is a big softie who uses dominance to hide her gooey center.'"
She snorted. "I have no 'gooey center.' I have a core of tempered steel and strategic intent."
"And a secret love for my terrible puns and pickle yogurt."
"…That is a classified vulnerability."
We talked and bantered until the candles burned low and Sushi snored loudly at our feet. The world, with its threats and complications, felt very far away. Here, in our bubble, we were just two people ridiculously in love.
Eventually, we made our way to the bedroom. The routine was familiar now, comforting. Brushing teeth side-by-side in the massive bathroom, changing into sleep clothes (one of Haven's old t-shirts for me, silk pajama pants for her).
In the dark of our bedroom, under the cool, high-thread-count sheets, she pulled me into her, my back to her front, her arm a heavy, welcome weight across my waist, her nose buried in my hair.
"Today was a good day," she whispered into the silence.
"Even with the viper and the gnat?" I whispered back.
"Because you came to me. Because you sang. Because you're here." Her arm tightened almost imperceptibly. "Every day you choose this… choose me… is a perfect day."
My heart swelled so big it ached. I laced my fingers with hers over my stomach. "Then get ready for a lifetime of perfection, you terrifying, wonderful woman."
I felt her smile against my hair. "I'll hold you to that, my love."
And as I drifted off, safe in the cage of her arms, surrounded by the scent of our intertwined lives, I thought that maybe, for me, this was what freedom truly felt like. Not the absence of walls, but the absolute certainty that the one who built them would burn the world down before letting them crumble.
The last thing I heard was her steady heartbeat, a lullaby in the dark, and her final, sleep-slurred whisper.
"Mine."