Chapter 3

The choice was made. In the quiet restaurant, with the scent of porridge and betrayal in the air, Keegan had chosen. He chose the past. He chose the girl with the locket.

Haven watched them, a spectator at her own execution. She felt nothing. The part of her that could feel pain from him had been carved out, leaving a clean, numb void.

She wanted to leave, to walk away from the sight of them together, so perfectly matched in their shared history.

"I' m tired," she said, pushing her bowl away. "I want to go home."

Keegan looked up, pulled from his reverie. "I' ll take you."

"I' ll come too!" Cora chirped. "I want to see Haven' s room. I bet it' s beautiful."

As they were leaving, a waiter carrying a tray of sizzling fajitas rushed past. Cora, in a theatrical gesture of surprise, stumbled directly into his path. The hot platter tilted.

Keegan moved with lightning speed. He shoved Cora out of the way, shielding her body with his own. The cast-iron skillet clattered to the floor, missing Cora completely.

But it didn't miss Haven.

Sizzling oil and hot peppers splashed across her arm, the same one that was already bandaged. A searing, white-hot pain shot up from her wrist to her shoulder. She cried out, stumbling backward, her legs giving way.

She fell to the floor, her vision blurring. The last thing she saw before the pain consumed her was Keegan, his arms wrapped around a perfectly unharmed Cora, whispering reassurances into her hair as he led her away from the mess. He didn't look back.

The burn was severe. Second-degree, the emergency room doctor told her. Her own personal driver, summoned by a sympathetic restaurant manager, had rushed her there.

As she sat waiting for a nurse to dress the wound, she saw them. Keegan and Cora were in a cubicle across the hall. A doctor was examining Cora' s ankle, the one she' d "twisted" at the gala. Keegan hovered over her, his face etched with worry, holding a cup of water to her lips. He was treating her sprained ankle like a mortal wound.

Haven' s arm was blistering, the pain a constant, throbbing fire. But the sight across the hall was what truly scorched her.

She turned away, the image burned into her mind.

Keegan didn' t call for three days. When he finally showed up at the mansion, Haven was in the living room, surrounded by boxes. A pristine white wedding gown was draped over a chair, and a velvet box on the coffee table sat open, revealing a stunning diamond ring.

Edwin' s ring.

Keegan stopped in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene. A frown creased his forehead.

"What' s all this?" he asked.

"I' m getting married," Haven said, her voice devoid of emotion.

He laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Don' t be ridiculous, Haven. If you' re angry, we can talk about it. There' s no need for this kind of drama."

He didn't believe her. He thought it was a game, a desperate ploy for his attention. The arrogance of it was breathtaking.

He tried to placate her, as one would a child. He bought her a gift, an expensive bracelet she didn' t want. She left it on the table, untouched.

He thought she was just in a mood. To cheer her up, he said, he was taking her to a new art exhibition.

"You' ll love it," he promised.

The gallery was stark and modern. For a moment, Haven did feel a bit of her old self return. She loved art. It was a language she understood.

Then she saw the sign at the entrance: "CORA SHORT: A RETROSPECTIVE."

Her heart sank. He hadn' t brought her here for her. He' d brought her here for Cora.

Cora herself appeared, beaming, and linked her arm through Keegan' s. "I knew you' d come!"

Keegan smiled at her, a proud, indulgent smile. "Of course. I wouldn' t miss it."

Haven was a third wheel, a ghost haunting their perfect picture. She followed them through the gallery, a silent observer of their love story, immortalized in photographs. Cora in high school, laughing. Cora and Keegan on a beach, silhouetted against a sunset. Each photo was a testament to a life Haven had no part in.

The centerpiece of the exhibition was a large-scale photograph hanging on the far wall. It was a portrait of Keegan.

He was asleep, his face relaxed in a way Haven had never seen. The morning light streamed in through a window, illuminating the curve of his eyelashes, the gentle slope of his lips. He looked peaceful, vulnerable, and so deeply, profoundly loved. The photo was taken from the perspective of someone lying in bed next to him, an intimate, stolen moment.

Cora walked up to it, her voice soft. "I took this the morning after he proposed to me, right before he left for MIT. He was so tired, he fell asleep holding my hand."

She turned to Haven, her eyes glittering with triumph. "He' s never looked at anyone else that way, has he?"