The Second Life of a Discarded Heiress novel Chapter 620

Citrine curled her lips, then rephrased her question. “Or maybe, is there something I have that you want?”

Jeanette scoffed, her tone shameless. “Citrine, I really didn’t expect this from you. This past year, you’ve been flaunting your ties to the Iverson and Glenwood families, launching one company after another. In just a year, you’ve already gone public. Impressive—leeching off the Iversons and Glenwoods, feeding off their name. Do you have no shame?”

Leeching off the Iversons and Glenwoods? Feeding off their name?

Citrine almost laughed. Was this supposed to be a joke?

She couldn’t help it—a laugh broke out of her. “Don’t flatter yourselves. You think my companies needed your pathetic family names to make it big? Feeding off you? I’d say it’s the other way around—who’s really living off of whom here?”

She didn’t have the patience to argue with Jeanette any longer. Citrine’s voice grew cold. “Let Sawyer go, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Jeanette’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Fine. You have two choices: jump, or sign over every company and asset you own to me.”

Suddenly, Citrine felt exhausted. She stared, hollow-eyed, at the bound and helpless Sawyer. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe this is how it all ends.”

From the sidelines, Raymond could see her body trembling uncontrollably—her composure was slipping fast.

Then he heard his daughter force a brittle smile as she turned to Sawyer. “If this is what you want, then you can have it all.”

“Sawyer, whatever I owed you, consider it repaid. In my next life, I hope I never have a father like you.”

With those final words, she didn’t hesitate. Citrine hurled herself from the rooftop.

Raymond shouted her name. “Citrine!”

His vision narrowed, panic overtaking him. Desperately, in his mind, he willed himself to follow her, to be by her side.

He found her sprawled, limbs twisted, on the cold floor below. Blood pooled beneath her, seeping steadily into the cracks of the tiles.

Their gloating laughter was like gasoline on a fire—Raymond’s rage threatened to consume him. He screamed at them, his voice raw and desperate. “You monsters—I’ll kill you! You don’t deserve to live!”

He was shaking, wild with fury, a single thought pulsing in his mind: Destroy the Iversons.

“Damn you! Die! I’ll make you pay!” His screams reached a fever pitch—and then, suddenly, he jolted awake.

A white ceiling loomed overhead. The sharp scent of antiseptic. A clear IV bag suspended beside him.

He was back in his hospital room. Back in reality.

The memory of his daughter hit him like a blow. Raymond’s face hardened; he ripped the IV from his hand, tossed aside the blanket, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Just then, someone walked in. Without thinking, Raymond grabbed the person by the collar, desperation in his voice. “Citrine—where is she? How is she?”