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.

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.