The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress novel Chapter 291

The sun in Crestwood was far more relentless than back in Havencrest.

On a sweltering hundred-degree day, four girls pushed through a round of push-ups under the blazing sun.

Although all four were struggling through the same drill, only Citrine’s form was flawless—her movements precise, her breathing steady, as if the exercise cost her nothing at all.

Meanwhile, after barely reaching their fiftieth push-up, Ingrid and the other two girls had collapsed, sprawled on the ground, gasping for air and utterly spent.

“Don’t play dead. Up. If you don’t finish on time, I’ll add another hundred,” barked Sergeant Hastings, a flash of scorn in his eyes as he walked over and nudged the trio with the toe of his boot.

The threat of extra reps was all the motivation they needed. Groaning, the three girls dragged themselves upright and forced themselves to continue.

Soon after, Citrine finished her set. She stood, snapped to attention, and called out, “Sir, I’m done.”

Hastings blinked, incredulous. He shot a glance at the assistant instructor beside him. “She’s finished?”

The assistant gave a small nod.

Three hundred push-ups in five minutes—most of the boys wouldn’t manage that. Hastings fought to hide his astonishment. “Back in line,” he said.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Ingrid and her friends finally finished, staggering back to the group, still gasping for breath.

But before they could even reach for their water bottles, Hastings lifted the whistle dangling from his neck and blew a sharp blast, his voice cutting through the air, “Fall in!”

The girls snapped to attention, wiping sweat from their brows.

They thought, surely, that the sergeant would ease up now. But no sooner had they caught their breath than Hastings announced, “Military training means no cosmetics—no exceptions. Each of you, take a pack of makeup wipes and remove everything from your face. Now.”

Ingrid, Jane, and Lisa all blanched.

“Damn, this girl’s got guts—going head-to-head with Mr. Cooper? She must have a death wish.”

“Yeah, you know Mr. Cooper’s got connections. She’s messing with the wrong guy, that’s for sure.”

Others took the sergeant’s side.

“It’s not his fault—she’s just being difficult. Everyone else wiped their faces; why can’t she?”

“Exactly. She’s the only one whose face is practically shining. Who’s she trying to fool? Does she think we’re all blind?”

The murmurs grew louder and louder. Hastings’ face darkened, rage barely contained. He leveled another warning, his voice cold and clipped. “Last chance. Follow orders and wipe your face. Or it’s three hundred push-ups.”

Citrine’s voice was quiet but clear. “I’m not wearing any makeup.” She didn’t have to raise her voice—everyone heard her. And for a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence.