The deafening ring of the 3:30 PM dismissal bell echoed through the halls of Maplewood High. Students flooded out of the classrooms, eager to escape.

Seventeen-year-old Clayton Sloan didn't move. He sat frozen at his desk in the back row.

He stared down at the black diary hidden inside his open textbook. The words that girl is your future wife burned into his retinas.

Clayton lifted his head. His dark eyes scanned the emptying room, trying to figure out which of these girls was supposedly his destiny.

A moment later, Haven Guerrero walked into the classroom. She was wearing a faded, oversized school hoodie. She carried a heavy mop and a plastic bucket. She was the scholarship kid who cleaned classrooms after school to pay for her lunch before heading to her second job downtown.

Clayton's brow furrowed. He watched her struggle to push the heavy wooden desks out of the way. A strange, uncomfortable tightness gripped his chest.

Suddenly, Leo Kowalski, the varsity running back, strutted into the room. He hopped up and sat right on the desk Haven had just wiped down.

"Hey, poverty," Leo sneered, his eyes raking over Haven's body with disgusting entitlement. "Come to my party this weekend. I'll buy you a real drink."

Haven gripped the wooden handle of the mop until her knuckles turned white. She kept her eyes glued to the floor. "Move, Leo. I have to clean."

Leo laughed. He reached out and grabbed Haven's wrist, his grip bruising and forceful. "Come on, don't be a bitch."

A violent surge of anger erupted in Clayton's blood. He slammed his heavy history textbook shut.

The loud BANG echoed like a gunshot in the empty room. Leo jumped, releasing Haven's wrist. He whipped his head around and glared at the back row.

Clayton met Leo's eyes. His face was a mask of terrifying, cold authority. "Get out."

Leo swallowed hard. Everyone knew the Sloan family practically owned the town. Leo cursed under his breath, grabbed his backpack, and practically ran out the door.

Haven looked up at Clayton. Her eyes were wide with shock. "Thank you," she whispered.

Clayton didn't say a word. To cover up his bizarre behavior, he grabbed his backpack, stood up, and walked out the back door into the hallway.

Once he was out of sight, Clayton checked his silver wristwatch. He had fifteen minutes until the theft at the boutique. He waited until the hallway was dead silent, then slipped out the side exit of the school and sprinted toward the downtown district.

He arrived at the Silver Linings Jewelry Boutique just in time, sneaking through the alleyway entrance and silently opening the door to the dark storage closet at the back of the shop.

The closet was pitch black. It smelled like industrial polish and old velvet. Clayton grimaced in disgust and pulled the door shut behind him.

He crouched down between two stacks of cardboard inventory boxes. He peered through the narrow slits of the wooden louvers on the closet door. He had a perfect view of the manager's desk and the locked glass display case containing the shop's most expensive pieces.

In the present timeline, twenty-seven-year-old Haven sat on her sofa. She stared at the diary on her coffee table. Her palms were sweating. Changing the past was a massive risk, but she was out of options.

Back in 2014, the back room door handle rattled. Clayton stopped breathing. His muscles locked up.

Mr. Sterling, the elderly boutique owner, shuffled into the room. He walked to the desk and started sorting through tomorrow's inventory ledgers.

Then, Sterling turned and walked straight toward the storage closet. He reached out and grabbed the brass doorknob.

Clayton's heart slammed against his ribs. If Sterling opened this door, Clayton had no excuse for hiding in the dark.

Right as the knob began to turn, a voice echoed from the hallway. "Alistair! Telephone out at the front register!"

Sterling let go of the knob. He turned around and shuffled out of the back room.

Clayton exhaled a long, shaky breath. A layer of cold sweat coated his forehead.

He pulled his smartphone out of his pocket. He switched it to video mode and aimed the camera lens right through the louver slits, focusing on the display case.

Soft, creeping footsteps echoed from the hallway. A dark figure slinked into the back room, hugging the wall.

Ten minutes earlier.

Clayton walked down the crowded hallway, his backpack slung over one shoulder. His mind was entirely consumed by the diary's insane mission.

Suddenly, a suffocating cloud of sweet floral perfume hit his face. Kendall Cohen, the school's undisputed queen bee, stepped out from a corner and blocked his path.

Kendall wore a pristine cashmere sweater. A flawless, practiced smile stretched across her lips. She reached out and seamlessly looped her arm through Clayton's.

"Clayton," Kendall pouted, pressing her body against his arm. "Why are you walking so fast?"

Clayton's body went rigid. He stared over her shoulder, looking at the clock on the wall. The minutes were ticking down.

Kendall didn't notice his tension. "You have to come watch my piano audition in the auditorium. Now."

Normally, Clayton would have just nodded. Their families were close business partners. It was easier to tolerate her demands than to deal with the fallout of rejecting her.

But right now, the diary's warning screamed in his head. That girl is your future wife.

Clayton smoothly but firmly pulled his arm out of Kendall's grasp. The rejection was physical and absolute.

Kendall's hand hovered in the empty air. Her perfect smile cracked, revealing a flash of genuine shock.

"I have somewhere to be," Clayton said. His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

Kendall bit her lower lip. Tears instantly pooled in her large eyes. It was a weapon she used constantly. "You never say no to me, Clayton. Please." Her voice trembled perfectly.

Clayton looked down at her fake tears. For the first time in his life, he felt a surge of pure, unadulterated disgust. He checked his watch again.

"Not today, Kendall." Clayton stepped around her and walked away without a single backward glance.

Kendall stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. The tears vanished instantly. Her face twisted into an ugly mask of jealousy and rage. She dug her manicured acrylic nails into her palms until they left deep red half-moons.

In the present, Haven sat in her apartment. The black ink bled onto the page.

"I just ditched Kendall to do your insane mission," Clayton wrote. "She looked like she wanted to murder me."

Haven stared at the sentence. A massive, overwhelming wave of vindication crashed through her. Her lips curled into a massive, genuine smile.

For ten years, Kendall had been the untouchable ghost in her marriage. The perfect childhood sweetheart.

And now, because of Haven, seventeen-year-old Clayton had left her standing like an idiot in the hallway.

Haven pressed her pen to the paper, practically buzzing with joy. Good job, Dad. That girl isn't worth your time.

Back in the dark storage closet, Clayton read the diary's response. He raised an eyebrow, but he didn't write back. He shoved the diary into his bag.

He focused his eyes through the wooden slits. The dark figure stepped up to the manager's desk.

The late afternoon sun hit the side of the thief's face. Clayton's eyes narrowed. It was Bettye Le. The manipulative, spiteful stepsister of the girl he had just saved.

Bettye looked over her shoulder. She pulled a flathead screwdriver out of her pocket.

Clayton raised his phone. His thumb hit the red record button.

Bettye jammed the screwdriver into the lock of the glass display case. She twisted it violently. The screech of grinding metal echoed in the quiet room.

SNAP. The lock broke. Bettye yanked the case open. She stared down at the velvet jewelry boxes inside.

Bettye's hands shook violently as she grabbed the velvet box. She shoved the glittering diamond necklace into her designer purse. Her eyes were wide with greedy panic.

Inside the closet, Clayton adjusted the focus on his phone screen. He captured Bettye's face and the broken lock in crystal-clear high definition.

Just as Bettye zipped her purse shut, the jingle of keys echoed from the alleyway door.

Teenage Haven pushed the back door open, panting heavily. She had just arrived for her afternoon cleaning shift at the boutique.

Haven froze. She stared across the room at Bettye, who was standing in front of the busted display case.

Bettye's face drained of all color. She took a step back, her purse clutched tightly to her chest.

"What are you doing?" Haven asked, her voice shaking as she looked at the broken metal lock.

Bettye's eyes darted around the room. The sheer terror in her face instantly morphed into malicious, calculated cruelty.

She pointed a shaking finger at Haven and screamed, "You thief! You're stealing the jewelry! I'm getting Mr. Sterling!"

Haven's entire body trembled with rage. "You're lying! The necklace is literally in your hands!"

Bettye sneered. She took a step toward her, using her status to intimidate her. "Who do you think they're going to believe? Me, the beloved customer, or the charity case stepsister who scrubs floors for minimum wage?"

The crushing weight of her reality slammed into Haven. Tears welled up in her eyes. She took a step back, completely defenseless against the accusation.

CRASH.

The storage closet door was kicked open with explosive force. A cloud of dust billowed out into the sunlight.

Clayton stepped out of the shadows. His tall frame dominated the room.

Bettye shrieked in terror. She stumbled backward and fell hard onto her ass, her back hitting the inventory shelves.

Haven stared at Clayton as if he were a god descending from the sky. Her tears stopped falling. She forgot how to breathe.

Clayton's face was carved from ice. He walked slowly toward Bettye, his heavy footsteps echoing like a death march. He stopped and looked down at the pathetic girl cowering on the floor.

Clayton didn't say a single word. He simply turned his phone screen around.

The video of Bettye prying the lock open and stuffing the necklace into her bag played on a continuous loop.

Bettye stared at the screen. All the fight left her body. She slumped against the wall, shaking uncontrollably.

Clayton slowly turned his head. His dark, intense eyes locked onto Haven's shocked face. "Go get Mr. Sterling," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.

Haven snapped out of her trance. She gave him a look of profound, desperate gratitude, turned, and sprinted down the hallway.

The second Haven crossed the threshold of the back room, the reality of 2024 violently fractured.

Twenty-seven-year-old Haven, sitting on her sofa, gasped. A brutal, spinning vertigo slammed into her brain.

It felt like an invisible hand was physically rewiring her neurons. Thousands of new memories crashed into her skull.

She remembered Clayton standing in the manager's office, showing the video. She remembered Bettye being led out of the boutique in handcuffs. She remembered walking the halls without the label of a thief.

The vertigo faded. Haven gasped for air. Her clothes were soaked in cold sweat, but her eyes burned with a fierce, triumphant light.

PING.

Her phone lit up on the coffee table. An email notification popped up. The sender was Arthur Penhaligon from the Maplewood Chronicle.

Haven's hands shook as she opened the email.

Ms. Guerrero, after a thorough secondary review, we discovered the background check provided by your former employer was maliciously falsified. We apologize for the confusion. We would like to formally offer you the position of Senior Investigative Reporter.

Haven pulled the phone to her chest. Hot tears streamed down her face. She had done it. She had rewritten her destiny.