The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress

Quentin had never been able to let go of the humiliation he'd suffered at

Havencrest. For a man as proud as he was, the memory festered—a bruise to his ego that just wouldn't fade. If Citrine ever learned about it, who knew how her opinion of him might change? She might even start to despise him.noveldrama

And if that happened, well—at least no one would be competing with him anymore.

Theo admitted to himself that his tactics were underhanded, but he had his reasons. He needed to do this.

After scrolling through Theo's photo gallery for a while, Quentin finally found the video he'd been searching for.

There, clear as day, was the girl: fists and feet flying, every blow landing with merciless intent. When she finished, she even shot the camera a triumphant little grin.

It was undeniable. Quentin had no choice but to believe it now.

He was furious, grinding his teeth so hard it was a wonder he didn't crack a molar. "That brat. What a little monster. If beating me up wasn't enough, she went and dumped me half-naked into someone's private party. I'll never live down the shame I suffered at Havencrest."

Since that night, Quentin hadn't set foot near Havencrest again-not even for work trips. He'd always found someone else to go in his place.

"That brat. All I did was kidnap her once I never even laid a finger on her. And she repays me by roughing me up and humiliating me in public." Quentin was practically shaking with rage.

Theo watched Quentin's expression carefully. He noticed, with some relief, that beneath Quentin's outrage there was no real hatred or disgust for Citrine. Telling him the truth hadn't made him despise her after all.

Theo dropped his gaze, saying nothing more.

The next day, Quentin went straight to Citrine's school.

As luck would have it, Citrine had just finished class. She was making her way down the front steps when she spotted Quentin, leaning casually beneath an old oak tree.

She tried to pretend she hadn't seen him, but Quentin strode directly toward her.

"Citrine Carmichael! Stop right there!" His voice rang out loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

A handful of heads turned in their direction. Citrine had no choice but to halt.

Crossing her arms, she shot him a frosty look. "What do you want?"

Seeing her so cool and collected almost made Quentin laugh-almost. Who could have guessed that someone who looked so innocent could be the same girl who'd beaten him senseless and stripped him in front of half the town?

But as absurd as it sounded, it was the truth.

Citrine bristled under his stare. "What's your problem? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I have to admit, Citrine Carmichael, you

delicate act so well-but scenes,

"I have to admit, Citrino de Est

me fooled. You play the

the

you're anything but Soft."

Quentin circled her, giving her a slow, deliberate once-over.

"You're insane," Citrine muttered, not following his train of thought. She turned as if to leave.

The moment she moved, Quentin reached out and caught her wrist. "Don't go."

She yanked her hand away with a look of pure disgust. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands."

Something about her revulsion unsettled Quentin more than he cared to admit. He forced the feeling down.

Still fuming, he glared at her. “Listen, Citrine Carmichael. I might've kidnapped you that once, but I never actually did anything to you. And yet you beat me up and humiliated me in front of everyone."

Citrine smiled slyly, remembering exactly what she'd done. "You had it coming."

"You owe me an apology," Quentin spat through gritted teeth, blocking her path with both arms.

Citrine barked out a laugh, as if he'd told the best joke she'd heard all week. "An apology? In your dreams."

She glanced at his outstretched arms, then swiftly grabbed one, twisted it behind his back, and shoved down hard.