The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress novel Chapter 273

The next day, the two teams faced off. Citrine’s team swept the match in under ten minutes.

Throughout the game, Travis had his sights locked on Clifford, relentlessly targeting him with every move. It was obvious—he had it out for him.

Their victory secured first place, which also meant they’d earned a ticket to the national championship. Travis, at last, received Weston’s formal approval.

The national competition would take place after the SATs, so Citrine threw herself entirely into studying.

By mid-December, Havencrest Primus Academy held its first round of mock exams. Unsurprisingly, Citrine once again scored just shy of perfect, maintaining her top spot in the senior science class.

The school made a point of praising Citrine’s achievement, awarding her a three-hundred-dollar scholarship as encouragement.

After the assessments were over, the school board decided the annual Christmas Gala would go ahead as usual, hoping the festivities would help students relax before the final SAT push.

It was the last Christmas Gala of high school, and this year, parents were invited to attend. Other Havencrest schools without their own celebrations were also welcome to join in the fun.

Since it was their last chance, students eagerly signed up for performances—including Citrine.

She played it safe and volunteered to give a speech.

That evening, while eating dinner with Raymond, Citrine hesitated, turning over her words in her mind, ready to speak up. But before she could, Raymond’s phone rang.

She caught only his end of the conversation: “Next Friday? I’m available. I’ll be there.”

Whatever she’d meant to say was quietly swallowed back.

On Sunday, when Citrine visited Carmichael Mansion, she casually mentioned the gala. Weston immediately said he wanted to attend, so she handed him an invitation.

The butler thought the ordeal was finally over, but it had only just begun.

Next, Weston fussed with his hair.

He spent a good while styling it, still unsatisfied. “Maybe I should call in the styling team to fix me up properly,” he mused, half to himself.

It wasn’t long before he was scrutinizing his face in the mirror. “Are these wrinkles getting worse? Do I look old? Maybe I should have something done—tighten things up a bit, look younger for the big day?”

The butler stood by, at a loss between laughter and despair. This isn’t a blind date, he thought. Why all this fuss about a facelift? That’s a bit much.

In the end, Weston called in a stylist to tidy up his hair, but after the butler’s gentle insistence, he gave up on the face-lift idea.