Chapter 3

The Morrison Textiles building stood tall against Portland's skyline, its glass facade reflecting the morning sun. I smoothed my blazer and took a deep breath before pushing through the revolving doors. After two weeks of interviews and temporary housing, this was my chance at a fresh start—away from Seattle, away from Travis, away from being someone's "old crow."

The receptionist directed me to the fourth floor, where Marcus Chen waited outside the conference room. His handshake was firm, his smile genuine.

"Ms. Marshall," he said, gesturing toward the room. "We've reviewed your application with interest. Your experience with technical specifications is exactly what we're looking for."

Inside, two people sat at the table—a woman with a sleek bob and a man with creative facial hair and kind eyes. Marcus introduced them as Penny Cruz and Donovan Garza.

"Haven has eight years of experience managing technical specifications for manufacturing plants," Marcus explained. "Including the Westlake merger project."

Penny's eyes widened slightly. "The Westlake project? That's the one Travis O'Brien's been pushing for months."

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral. "Yes, I was part of the team until recently."

"Until you decided to join the winning team," Donovan added with a wink, sliding a folder across the table. "We've been following Westlake's technical issues with interest."

I opened the folder to find detailed analyses of Westlake's recent quality control reports—the same falsified ones Marleigh had sent to investors. My stomach tightened.

"You've been tracking their progress?"

"Competitive research," Penny said with a shrug. "Their numbers don't add up. Someone's cooking the books."

For the first time in weeks, I felt a spark of professional validation. These people saw what I'd seen—they recognized the incompetence I'd been forced to work around.

"Well," Marcus said, leaning forward, "what would you do differently?"

I took a deep breath and began to speak. As I outlined my approach to the technical specifications, I noticed something remarkable—they were listening. Really listening. Penny nodded thoughtfully, Donovan sketched notes on a tablet, and Marcus's expression shifted from interest to genuine respect.

When I finished, the room fell silent for a moment.

"That," Marcus said finally, "is exactly why we need you on our team."

---

Meanwhile, in Seattle, Travis was facing his own reality check.

"This is unacceptable," he snapped, slamming the investor report onto his desk. "The numbers don't match what we sent last week."

Marleigh leaned against his doorframe, her skirt shorter than regulation. "Maybe we should adjust the projections? Make them more... aspirational?"

"Aspirational?" Travis ran his hand through his hair—a nervous habit I'd once found endearing. "These are technical specifications, Marleigh. They need to be accurate."

She pouted, moving closer to his desk. "I'm just trying to help. Haven never had a problem with my reports."

"Because Haven actually understood the data," Travis muttered, too low for her to hear.

His phone buzzed with a text from his mother: "Have you talked to Haven? This situation is getting serious."

Travis ignored it, turning back to Marleigh. "Get out. I need to verify these numbers myself."

As she left, he pulled up the technical specifications—work that should have been completed weeks ago. Without Haven's meticulous organization, everything was scattered across different files and drives. What would have taken her hours would now take him days.

---

At Morrison Textiles, my first week flew by in a blur of orientation meetings and project briefings. On Friday afternoon, Marcus stopped by my new office—a real office with a door and windows, not the cramped corner I'd been relegated to at the plant.

"We've assigned you to the Harrington technology acquisition," he said, placing a thick folder on my desk. "The supplier contract is... problematic."

I opened the folder and froze. There, in bold letters, was the name of the equipment supplier Travis's company had been courting—the same one I'd warned him about months ago.

"This is Westlake's supplier," I said quietly.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You're familiar with them?"

I nodded slowly, a plan forming in my mind. "Very familiar. And I know exactly where to look for their weaknesses."

As Marcus left, I spread the documents across my desk, my finger tracing the supplier's logo. For the first time since leaving Seattle, I felt a surge of something beyond relief or vindication.

It felt dangerously like power.

I pulled out my phone and opened my email, typing quickly:

"Rebecca—I need copies of the Westlake quality control logs from the past six months. Can you help?"

Her reply came almost instantly: "Already sent to your personal email. Good luck, Haven. They're going to need it more than you will."

I smiled as I closed my eyes, imagining Travis's face when he realized who was handling the very contract he'd been chasing—and what I knew about its fatal flaws.

The old crow was about to teach everyone exactly why you shouldn't underestimate her.