The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress novel Chapter 213

That night, Raymond’s phone rang unexpectedly.

On the other end, a woman and child were sobbing, their cries punctuated by a man’s hoarse, desperate pleas. His voice was raw with terror, cutting straight through the static.

“Mr. Carmichael, I’m begging you. I know I was wrong. Please—let my family go.”

The man’s despair bled through the line. Raymond frowned slightly, the tone tickling something familiar in his memory, but he couldn’t quite place it.

A moment later, another voice came on, businesslike but edged with menace. “Mr. Carmichael, Easton got drunk tonight and started ranting about you outside our club. Our guys are at his place right now. Should we… send a message?”

The implication was clear, the threat cold and precise.

Easton?

As soon as he heard the name, Raymond remembered. Just a traitor. He gave a soft, dismissive laugh.

“Toss him out of Havencrest. Break his legs,” Raymond ordered, his voice light and almost bored, as if he were discussing the weather.

But as soon as the words left his mouth, Easton’s curses echoed in his mind—

“Raymond, you’re a monster! You’ll get what’s coming to you. Your own children will pay for your sins!”

Raymond’s brow tightened. For a moment, his heart seized. He abruptly changed his mind. “Forget it. He’s just a dog who bit the hand that fed him. Not worth the trouble.”

He’d never cared about curses before. He’d always believed he’d never have a child. But now, with Citrine in his life—even if Easton’s words were nothing more than drunken spite—he couldn’t quite shake them off.

On the other end, the man hesitated, then ventured cautiously, “Mr. Carmichael… is that really you?”

She was seething. In the past, at events like these, Weston would only take her; now, he had the nerve to bring Citrine along, too. To make matters worse, that wretched Citrine had shown up in a dress almost identical to hers—same color, eerily similar cut. And while both wore white, Citrine looked elegant and willowy, the very picture of a wealthy heiress. On Regina, the dress made her look stocky and awkward, the fabric highlighting every flaw.

Citrine had always had that sly, seductive look—tonight, just her face would be enough to steal the spotlight. The thought made Regina burn with envy.

She was certain Citrine had done it on purpose, just to upstage her.

Still, Regina forced herself to play the gracious hostess. She turned to Citrine with a syrupy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sister, I heard you used to be the Iversons’ foster daughter. They even sent you overseas, didn’t they? Must have been tough, never having any pocket money. I suppose you hardly ever attended events like this—probably treated worse than the maids in their house.”

It was a tired routine, borrowed from Jeanette Iverson and already out of style.

Citrine listened with polite interest, then let out a sharp, amused laugh. She fired back without hesitation, “You’re right—I haven’t been to many. After all, I’m not like you, the adopted daughter of the Carmichaels, always shamelessly vying with your own cousin for attention and family resources.”