Chapter 8
The morning air in Maplewood was biting cold. Haven stepped out of her apartment building wearing a brand-new trench coat. Her spine was straight, and her chest felt lighter than it had in ten years.
She stopped at a corner coffee cart to buy an Americano. As she waited, her eyes drifted to a sanitation worker emptying a trash can near the curb.
The woman wore a filthy, stained uniform. Her shoulders were hunched. Haven squinted.
It was Bettye Le.
The timeline change had worked perfectly. With a felony theft conviction on her record, Bettye had been permanently blacklisted from high society and any decent job. She was exactly where she belonged.
Bettye looked up. Her dull, defeated eyes met Haven's sharp gaze. Her face flushed with deep shame. She quickly looked down and pushed her trash bin away, fleeing down the street.
Haven took her coffee. She felt absolutely zero pity. It was pure, unadulterated karma.
Thirty minutes later, Haven stepped out of the elevator into the lavish, marble-floored lobby of Clayton's corporate law firm in downtown Maplewood.
She held a manila envelope containing the final signed separation agreement. She walked toward the reception desk to drop it off.
A high-pitched, overly sweet laugh echoed across the lobby.
Haven turned her head. Clayton was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly.
Standing entirely too close to him was a young, heavily made-up intern. Her name badge read Kylie Reed. Haven's stomach dropped. Kylie had the exact same facial structure and mannerisms as Kendall Cohen. She was a carbon copy of Clayton's childhood white swan.
Kylie giggled. She stepped up onto her tiptoes and reached her hand out, her red fingernails aiming to brush a nonexistent piece of lint off Clayton's shoulder.
A violent spike of jealousy and acid burned in Haven's throat. She thought she was over him, but seeing a Kendall-clone touching him felt like a knife to the ribs.
Just as Kylie's fingers were about to touch his suit, Clayton's jaw clenched. He took a sharp step back, dodging her hand completely.
"Maintain professional boundaries, Ms. Reed," Clayton said. His voice was loud, cold, and utterly merciless.
Kylie's face burned a humiliating, blotchy red. Her hand hung awkwardly in the air.
Haven blinked, stunned by his brutal rejection. She turned to leave, but Clayton's predatory gaze had already swept across the lobby and locked onto her.
He abandoned the humiliated intern and strode directly toward Haven. His presence commanded the entire room.
Haven took a deep breath, forcing her face into a mask of bored indifference. She held out the manila envelope as he approached.
"This is the last document. Once you sign it, we're done," Haven said, her voice flat.
Clayton didn't look at the envelope. He stepped into her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. His gaze was heavy, searching, and dangerously intense.
Haven's heart skipped a beat. She instinctively took a half-step back.
"Have you been going through my old things at the apartment?" Clayton asked. His voice was a low, gravelly whisper that only she could hear.
Haven's fingers tightened around the envelope. The paper crinkled.
Clayton narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "I've been feeling... off lately. Like something has changed. And I noticed my old black leather diary is missing from the storage closet."
Haven's blood ran cold. She forced herself to hold his gaze without blinking.
"I threw out a box of old junk last week," Haven lied, her voice dripping with disdain. "I have zero interest in your high school scribbles."
Clayton stared at her for ten agonizing seconds. He was analyzing her micro-expressions, searching for a lie. The air between them crackled with dangerous, suffocating tension.
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