Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Devil Who Owes Me A Kiss : Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

Monday morning felt strange—like putting on clothes that no longer fit quite right. Lavinia went through the motions she’d done a thousand times before: hot shower that she let run longer than necessary, coffee that tasted bitter despite the same two sugars, the ritual of pinning her hair into its customary bun. Each movement felt deliberate now, chosen rather than automatic.The charcoal suit she pulled from her closet was newer, sharper than what she usually wore to Wynthorne Enterprises. She’d bought it months ago but never found the right occasion. Today felt right—all clean lines and no-nonsense tailoring. The woman looking back at her from the mirror wore confidence like armor, even if underneath she felt like she was playing dress-up.Twelve minutes to work. Same route she’d walked for two years, past the coffee cart where Miguel always waved, around the corner where Mrs. Patterson walked her ancient terrier every morning at precisely eight-fifteen. Routine had once comforted h

The first winter frost had claimed the night, leaving behind crystalline signatures across the office windows like nature’s own calligraphy. Lavinia Hartwell traced one delicate pattern with her fingertip, watching her breath fog the glass as she waited for her computer to emerge from its electronic slumber. Eight fifty-eight in the morning—not a heartbeat sooner, not a whisper later. This punctuality had become her armor these past three weeks, each precisely timed arrival a small declaration of independence.The familiar percussion of Henry Wynthorne’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, their rhythm as recognizable to her as her own heartbeat. She pivoted toward her screen with practiced grace, fingers dancing across keys in a performance of productivity while her peripheral vision caught his shadow darkening her doorway.“Good morning, Lavinia.” His voice carried an uncertainty that would have been foreign to her ears mere weeks ago—Henry Wynthorne, heir to Wynt

“There’s nothing seamless about abandonment, Ms. Hartwell,” he replied, finally meeting her gaze with eyes that had turned cold as winter stone.The use of her surname felt like a slap. “I’m not abandoning anyone. I’m making a career decision based on my own professional goals and aspirations.”“Goals and aspirations that conveniently remove you from my life entirely.”“This isn’t about you,” she insisted, though the lie burned her throat like acid.Henry stood slowly, his movements controlled but radiating tension. “Everything about this is about me, and we both know it. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, becoming more distant by the day. The question is why.”“People change,” she said simply. “Priorities evolve.”“Not yours,” he countered with certainty that made her want to scream. “Not like this.”Something in his presumption, his absolute conviction that he knew her better than she knew herself, sparked the anger s

Dawn crept through the venetian blinds, casting geometric shadows across Lavinia Hartwell’s mahogany desk where her resignation letter lay—the same document Henry Wynthorne had categorically refused to acknowledge a week prior. The whispered rumors regarding their dissolved engagement had proliferated throughout Wynthorne Enterprises like spilled ink on parchment, transforming her daily interactions into exercises in dignified endurance. Colleagues averted their gazes when she approached, their conversations dissolving into uncomfortable silence whenever she entered a room.Yet now she possessed renewed determination. Yesterday’s news of Verity Langford’s imminent return to the city had crystallized something within her—a recognition that this moment represented the culmination Henry had unconsciously awaited for years. The realization fortified her conviction that departure was not merely appropriate, but necessary.She could no longer bear witness from the periph

The familiar corridors of Morrison & Associates felt smaller than Lavinia remembered, their beige walls pressing inward like a reproach. The corner office she had once coveted now seemed cramped compared to the expansive workspace she had cultivated at Wynthorne Enterprises. Her new title—Senior Project Coordinator—carried less authority than promised, a consequence of her hasty application and the firm’s shrewd recognition of her desperation. “We’re delighted to have you back, Miss Hartwell,” Director Malcolm Morrison had said during her first morning briefing, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Though I must confess surprise at your sudden availability. We understood you were quite established at Wynthorne Enterprises.” Lavinia had maintained her professional composure, offering only that she sought new challenges and growth opportunities. The half-truth tasted bitter, but preserving her dignity demanded such small deceptions.