The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress novel Chapter 579

Theo clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. His voice was low and tense. “Citrine Carmichael, what did you just say?”

Citrine, utterly unimpressed, repeated herself as if Theo were hard of hearing. “I said, keep her far away from here. I don’t want her dying in our research center. She’s filthy.”

Furious as he was, Theo held his tongue. Citrine was the most brilliant doctor in the research center—he needed her help.

After a long, heavy silence, Theo tried a different approach. “Citrine Carmichael, I’m not asking you to save her for nothing. If you can bring her back, I’ll pay you eight million dollars. What do you say?”

Eight million was a massive sum. Theo hoped that would be enough for Citrine to relent.

Citrine snorted. “Eight million. How generous of you, Mr. Glenwood.”

Thinking she was dissatisfied, Theo upped the ante. “Ten million, then.”

Citrine said nothing, just stared at him with a look that was almost amused, though a hint of mockery lingered in her eyes.

Theo gritted his teeth. “Twenty million.”

Still, Citrine remained silent.

“Fifty million,” he pressed.

Citrine’s expression never changed. Her indifference was maddening, and Theo’s patience began to fray. “Just tell me. How much do you want?”

To Theo, there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be solved with enough money. Citrine was a pragmatist—she’d fold eventually. He fixed his gaze on her, waiting for her to name her price.

But Citrine didn’t even blink. The look she gave him was one you’d give an idiot.

“You could hand me the entire Glenwood fortune, and I still wouldn’t save Jeanette,” she said coldly. “She’s the daughter of a rapist. Disgusting.”

She glanced at Jeanette with open contempt.

Listening to the growing wave of criticism from patients and their families, Citrine almost laughed out loud from sheer exasperation.

“Idiots,” she muttered, sweeping a cold gaze over the crowd, disappointment darkening her eyes.

She picked out the ones who’d spoken up and addressed them, enunciating every word. “Tell me, what exactly has the Medical Research Center done wrong? Was it a mistake to develop the new flu treatment? Was it wrong to set up a fund for patients in need? Or was it wrong to open our doors to flu patients on such a large scale?”

The people who’d just been so vocal suddenly fell silent, unable to come up with a reply. One by one, their voices faded away.

Citrine’s smile was icy as she continued, “Let’s get something straight: we’re a research center. We do medical research—not a hospital that exists solely to treat patients. We took in flu patients because nobody here could stand to watch people die by the dozens. That was out of compassion, not obligation.”

“During the outbreak, our team has worked twelve-hour days, no breaks, grabbing quick bites of food just so we could save a few more lives. Who here even realizes what we’ve sacrificed?”

“To speed up the end of the outbreak and get patients the care they need, we’ve partnered with hospitals across the city. We’ve given everything we can, never asking for thanks. But now, just because of a few words from a stranger, you turn on us—pointing fingers, hurling accusations. Do you not see you’re cutting off your own lifeline?”